#college of Winterhold is probably one of the worse ones when it comes to the speed at which you go up the ranks

[littledragondork]

The companions questline is so funny

I show up, get paid to beat up some guy on the street, go into one (1) dungeon for them and next thing I know I am promoted to one of their top guys and am turned into a werewolf

[skyrim-forever]

A Solstheim RomCom

Here is Part 1 of my Neloth/OC Fake Marriage Fic! Originally this was supposed to be one part but seeing as it's over 4500 words (with a bit more to go) I'm going to split it into 2 parts (part two will probably be double the size haha). This is cross-posted on ao3 :)

Summary: When Dragonborn and mage Rochelle's plan to get her family off her back about marriage backfires; she is left with constructing a ploy to have a fake husband to prove to her sister she is married and fine. And if things can't get worse, her fake Husband is Master Neloth.

Warnings: None!

Words: 2k

Tagging: @thana-topsy @thequeenofthewinter @ladytanithia thank you all for your nice comments on the snippet <3

To see the Dragonborn in Raven Rock had become a common occurrence. Rochelle of Evermore, or Rochelle of Tel Mithryn, as she became known to the citizens of Solstheim, was in town today to mail a letter to her sister. Colette had sent her a letter the following week, inquiring about her life. 

As the older sister she was deeply worried for her younger sibling, especially ever since Rochelle left the College of Winterhold the previous year, due to what she had described as “creative differences”. Rochelle had not felt the need to worry her sister with what she had actually been doing, seeking the Black Books of Hermaeus Mora. Her work under Master Neloth had proved to worry her sister more than enough, causing her to write that “there were many suitors from home and the Imperial City” who would apparently be interested in meeting her and that she should “come visit immediately!”. Her sister, likely pressured by their father, was deeply concerned with seeing her married; despite her disinterest in the subject. 

In order to put everyone’s mind at ease, Rochelle had come up with a genius idea, one of her best. In the response to Colette, Rochelle had written:

Dear Sister, 

As much as I would love to meet these fine gentlemen 

I’m afraid I am already married! I’ve married a fine and wealthy 

Gentleman who supports my research. 

Please tell Father I am well. 

Regards, 

Rochelle

It was fool-proof, Colette would see she has done what they asked for and will leave her be. Perhaps they will even shift their questions to ask her about her work, or what Solstheim is like. Anything other than her dating, or rather lack thereof, life. 

Rochelle hands the letter off to Captain Gjalund, who has always made good on getting her letters to and from the courier. It should reach her sister in Cyrodiil in a few weeks, then finally, she will be at peace to do her work. 

The journey back to Tel Mithryn is typical, if not with less ashspawn than usual, but it is the ash in the air that still gets to her. I suppose I’ll get used to it, as the years go by. Arriving back took the better part of the day, making it evening when she finally returned. Though on the way back she found a hearthstone deposit in the ashlands perfect for Master Neloth. Just as her pack touches the ground, Master Neloth is shouting for her. 

“Rochelle! Rochelle! Where is that blasted girl?” Talvas can be heard coming to her defense 

“She left earlier for Raven Rock Master Neloth.”

“Find then, Talvas, go make me some canis root tea” Neloth orders. 

“Isn’t that Drovas’s job and besides-” before poor Talvas can remind him that he actually already ordered him to practice a new conjuration spell, Rochelle makes her way up the tower.  

“Ah there you are! Drovas quit while you were away and I’ve been without tea all day!” 

“I’m so sorry Master Neloth, I’ll get started on it right away” she reaches into her waist satchel and pulls out two heartstones “I found these on the way back.” Neloth raises an eyebrow at her. 

“This likely delayed your trip causing me to be without tea even longer” yet he still reaches for the stones “but these will be most useful.” 

To many, particularly those in his employment, Neloth was rude, self-absorbed and had no regard for the feelings of others. However true this may be did not matter to Rochelle, as she found him refreshing. She recalled her childhood, her mother in the Reach often spoke in riddles to which she could never figure out what was meant; and her father in High Rock had the habit of talking around an issue, never actually voicing his thoughts as to not upset anyone in any direction. But Neloth was always incredibly clear and direct, there was no way to misunderstand his orders.  

Pleased that they will be of use, Rochelle goes to grab the canis root and begin making tea. She can hear Talvas attempting to inform Master Neloth of something, exactly what she is not focused on, only for Neloth to disregard him by walking into his enchantment room. It feels good to be back. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks had passed and Rochelle was back in Raven Rock, picking up some food for the residents of Tel Mithryn. Unable to find a replacement for Drovas, himself a last ditch effort, the Dragonborn took it upon herself to act not only as a member of House Telvanni; but as steward as well. She stood on the dock, gazing out to the sea, watching the Northern Maiden approach the island. After a few minutes the ship docks and the workers begin unloading the supplies. One of these must have the order of apples and cabbages. 

As she walks closer to the unloading, Captain Gjalund calls out to her:

“Rochelle!” He walks closer to her, grabbing a crate on his way. “Here is your order” placing the crate down, he pulls an envelope from his chest pocket “nearly forgot this, here is a letter, right from Cyrodiil.” 

“Ah, my sister” It has been several weeks. The feeling of relief washes over her, finally she would be free from the familial pressure to marry. She understood they meant well, but the talk of marriage always came at the expense of her passions. They never asked about her research, her experiences, or even what she wanted from life. And besides mother and father never married, so why does it even matter anyways? Though, she supposed her parents' relationship was nothing to emulate. 

Thanking Captain Gjalund, she moves the crate to the side, stopping to read the letter before the journey back. The envelope is sealed with the crest of her brother-in-law's family, the Redwort Flower in matching red wax. Rochelle reads the letter:

Dearest Sister, 

Congratulations on your nuptials! I had no idea

you married, how I do wish you invited the family!

Nevertheless, Father will be quite pleased to have 

both his daughters being taken care of. 

As I am so curious as to who could capture your heart, 

I shall be coming to visit! I’ll be leaving shortly after 

this letter is sent, see you soon!

Love, 

Your darling sister

Oh no Rochelle thought, her mind scrambling no no no no. Her plan had backfired, her plan could not have backfired anymore. Rather than get Colette off her back, she has enticed her even more. I need to leave, I need to run, I need to fake my death! No, no, Colette is already on her way, it’s too late for that. Tucking the letter into her waist satchel, Rochelle begins to head back to Tel Mithryn at a speed of which Solstheim had never seen. 

Floating up the Tower, Rochelle immediately runs towards Talvas, who is currently in his bedroll, having a rare nap. 

“Talvas!” She whispers, as to not let Neloth hear. “Talvas! Wake up!” 

“Rochelle? What’s going on? Is everything okay? Are we being attacked?” He goes to prepare a spell when she speaks. 

“Oh no, it’s far worse than that, far far worse.”

“Huh?” A groggy Talvas says “What are you on about?”

“My sister is coming to visit” Confused as to why this is a bad thing, Talvas asks, 

“And that’s terrible because?”

“Because” Rochelle answers, adding emphasis on because “I wrote to her I’m married and now she wants to meet my husband” 

“But you don’t have a husband?”

“Yes Talvas, that is precisely the problem. I need to find someone to pretend to be my husband long enough to convince my sister I’m taken care of. Someone wealthy and impressive.” Talvas starts to wake up a bit and with a cheeky smile, he brings forth a suggestion. 

“What about me? I could pretend to be your husband.” 

“You’re like a son to me Talvas”

“But I’m older than you”

“And yet you fail to be responsible, Master Neloth and I always need to remind you how to cast correctly.” Talvas huffs a bit, Rochelle may be kinder than Master Neloth; but he seems to be rubbing off on her, in more ways than expected. “Besides you are neither wealthy nor that impressive.”

“Alright, tell me how you really feel” He says, before his face forms a pondering look, signaling he is formulating an idea. 

“So your letter said you married a wealthy man?”

“Correct” Rochelle answers, unsure as to why he is repeating information she knows back to her. 

“And you’re looking for someone to impress your sister but also someone who supports your research?”

“Correct again” She pauses for a moment “Talvas, I’m not sure what you think you’re accomplishing here?” He laughs, although she is not sure she said anything funny. 

“I’m just thinking out loud Rochelle” He looks to his left, to which she follows, casting her gaze to where Master Neloth is reading. “But what about Master Neloth?” 

“What about Master Neloth?”

“I know he’s not exactly ‘marriage material’ but he is impressive and wealthy.” Rochelle stares at Neloth, his back turned to them, poured over another tome. He is wealthy and one of the most powerful wizards in Morrowind Rochelle stops for a moment. 

Master Neloth really was everything she was looking for, having long abandoned the idea of love; she supposed that if she ever did settle down she’d like it to be someone like him, someone who was direct and could show her a wealth of knowledge. “I doubt he’d agree, he would likely consider the whole thing foolish and beneath him; which it is, of course.”

“Maybe you’d two would be a better match than I thought” Talvas laughs. “It can’t hurt to ask, well I guess it can but what other options do you have?” He’s right the only other men who could potentially fit the bill would be someone like Captain Veleth, the head of the Redoran Guard, but Rochelle did not think she could pretend to be married to him. No Master Neloth is the best choice; he and Talvas were those who she saw the most, and  therefore she could act easiest with them. 

Talvas advises Rochelle to be strategic, bring him some canis root tea and then ask for a favour. 

“Explain the situation to him, agree that it’s silly but that you don’t have much time and it would be most efficient if he plays along.”

“You’re right, it is silly and if I can get him to see I also think so maybe he’ll help me out.”

I doubt he’s ever helped anyone Talvas thinks, decided to not tell her as his role is to be a supportive friend. Plus she's already stressed enough.

A cup of canis root tea in hand, Rochelle approaches Neloth, by now he’s moved into the enchantment room, looking over his latest staff. 

“I brought you tea Master Neloth”

“Hmm” If he had been annoyed at being disturbed he didn’t let on. Thankful to catch him in a decent mood, Rochelle places the cup down on the desk. 

“Master Neloth, I have a favour to ask. You see, well, I, the thing is that-”

“Yes, yes spit it out already! You of all people should know how valuable my time is!”

“Sorry Master Neloth” she takes a deep breath here goes nothing “I’ve received familial pressure to marry and despite my efforts to explain to my father and sister how I do not desire to marry; they have been insistent, citing fears of me going through this world alone. Therefore to get them off my back, I stated that I married a wealthy man and am taken care of. I admit this was thoroughly stupid of me, as it has enticed my sister to come visit and meet my non-existent husband. I would like to ask you to pretend to be that husband for a few days until she leaves.” Before Rochelle can explain that it would require nothing more than referring to her as his wife and a dinner with her sister, Neloth speaks. 

“You forgot the apples and cabbages didn’t you?”

“What?” 

“You weren’t carrying the crate when you came into the tower.” Rochelle is silent, she was never good with social cues but even she found it perplexing that this is what he chose to focus on. “Return to Raven Rock tomorrow and retrieve the supplies” the woman nods “and I shall do as you requested, even if it is asinine.” 

“Thank you Master Neloth.”

“Hmmmmm.”

[kayr0ss]

Elder Scrolls Academia: A Series of Stories

Book One: The Dragonborn’s Fire and the Lady of Ice

[Diakko, SkyrimAU LMAO, action, adventure, cute goofy fluff, and romance, and dorkiness]

Summary: Diana was unprecedented in her talent for magic, even from her home town of Daggerfall among Breton nobility. But to sharpen her skill to its most lethal, she'd have to train where the cold bit the hardest--Skyrim. Now, the College of Winterhold's foremost student is crossing the threshold from apprentice to full-fledged mage, but her arch-mage mentor had tasked her with one last act to prove herself: Guiding the Dragonborn.

Except, the Dragonborn was hardly what she expected them to be.

[A gift to PyroTato]

---

“Hey, you.”

She blinked through her bleary vision. The first thing she felt was the harsh bite of the cold. Next was the sound of horseshoes clicking against what must have been mud and stone, followed by a view of she could only describe as… white.

“You’re finally awake.”

It wasn’t just white. There were hues of gray and blue, but it was all just merged back into an endless expanse of… white.

She was jolted upwards by a bump in the road—ah, I’m on a carriage—and she tried to right herself but seems she’s been restrained by the wrists. She should have been more panicked, but it wasn’t like this was anything new. Something about her foreign features and red eyes made her an easy target for picking; what’s worse than a foreigner is Skyrim? A foreigner whose origin was a mystery. But she supposed others still had it worse, she was at the very least, as far as she could tell, from the blood of man.

She looked over to the space beside the carriage driver (an Imperial solider, looking still wet behind the ears) to find a locked chest of what must have been their belongings. It looked standard—nothing too hard to pick—made of wood like all the others, and hinges that would give if she pulled hard enough. It was secured onto the cart with two straps of thick leather. Her red eyes scanned the perimeter of the cart of for a sharp object she could use, but her observation was cut short by the thick voice of the Nord who had woken her.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” He said. His eyes were deep-set, and the dirty blonde of his hair and beard was styled in the proud norther tradition. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us and that thief over there.”

She mulled over the words quietly, still a bit too disoriented to engage. She was hungry, and much too focused on trying to flee. The rest of the men had fallen into conversation, with the thief bemoaning his luck while the Nords seemed to take captivity with dignity. She blinked up at the mention of Ulfric Stormclock—apparently he was the sulking large fellow to her right.

And—oh—they were going to be executed?

No thank you, she tested the strength of her bindings. She’d like to live to eat another sweetroll.

The solider called out that they were arriving soon, and that this was a small town called Helgen. Their reception was less than spectacular and a little mixed—some came out to watch like bored spectators, others screamed, “murder!”, and a handful of parents rushed to drag their children back home; hopefully sparing them the trauma of heads casually lopped off in the name of the Emperor. It was a pity. It seemed like a quiet town with people who weren’t nearly as aggressive as farther up north. There weren’t too many buildings, although all of them were imposing with their stone walls and high beams. Not to mention the Imperial fort at the center, which didn’t look tolerant of any kind of trouble.

And she was trouble in every way that counted.

But also so, so hungry!

They were ushered out of the cart with no small amount of roughhousing, thrown into the ground and yelled-at to fall in line and present themselves to a young officer holding a list. There were several soliders on standby, with a woman donning the helmet of a senior Imperial officer barking out orders for the block to be readied. There rattling of chains mixed in with some commotion—the thief had tried to escape.

Mistake.

He fell limp on the ground, not given a second thought after the arrow sniped him square in the back, through where the heart must have been. She gave a low whistle and looked over at the archer, thoroughly impressed.

“You.” The young soldier called, and suddenly she was shoved forward—closer to that damned execution block—and asked to present herself. “Who are… you?”

She stared back at him, red eyes determined and stomach grumbling persistently.

“You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen on the continent.”

That was probably because as far as the stories have said, she wasn’t. She had to live through a rough life of never belonging with anyone for it—and so she sized him up and for the first time, spoke her name:

“Atsuko Kagari. Who is seriously very hungry.”

 ---

The mage took a deep, chilling breath. Her blues eyes were fixated on the flute glass of water that sat at the center of her desk. She was tucked away in her study, happy to wait out the winter storm with some semblance of warmth within the tower. But it was always cold in Winterhold, and by now it didn’t bother her one bit.

Slowly, the water began frosting over, solidifying under the sheer force of her will and the careful turning of her hands and fingers.

Gentle movements—no fancy gestures. The water froze and slowly crystalized upwards and towards the center into a haphazard cylinder, but then it twisted into itself, the ice moving in shards forming a frozen whirlpool that began to splinter along the top—branching out it as though it were alive, taking the shape of the dead tree in the middle of Whiterun that she had seen while coming to visit Farengar for advice.

It was a near-perfect replica.

She sat back, satisfied with her work. Shooting out a crass bolt of ice was easy. But this? This was control—and with the way the branches had curved in all the right places, the control was absolute.

Back in High Rock, among the Bretons of high society, she was Lady Diana Cavendish of Daggerfall, whose noble house held property in the Duchy of Cumberland where they grew the most potent plants for medicine.

Her person was synonymous with her name and where she had come from. Even on the years of her life spent travelling between Wayrest and Daggerfall for study, she had been measured by the weight of her name and not her magic.

But she excelled quite handsomely at both. It served her well—Bretons were made of diplomacy and trade in one hand, and magic in the other.

But it wasn’t real enough for her.

Not anymore—not in a country where the most a mage could be was the advisor of a king in court, or a glorified cannon on the battlefield.

She left the warm rolling hills of High Rock for the unforgiving cold in the far, far North.

---

Atsuko was just contemplating the effectivity of rolling out of the way of the very big sword meant to take her head when a giant dragon had swooped in and rudely interrupted her untimely demise.

Alright. Perhaps it wasn’t all that rude.

She knew to take an opportunity when it was handed to her, and she bolted straight for the fort where all the soldiers were taking cover.

It was chaos. Utter chaos. There was a roaring overhead that her blood seemed to recognize, but Shor’s bones, she wasn’t going to take the chance and look. The young officer was yelling instructions to protect the citizenry. The ground was shaking! Stone toppled over as the buildings gave in to the monstrous black claws that swatted them away like brittle clay pots.

But the worst of it all was the fire.

The air was scalding even when a few feet away from the plumes of hellish flame raining down from the dragon’s maw. She cursed her luck, wondering if she really escaped death a moment ago only to die as pile of ashes in the next.

“These goddamned bindings!” She hissed, her breath shaky while she pressed her back against the wall. A shadow shaped like wings blocked out the dreary sunlight and she closed her eyes—praying to every single one of the nine, Azura, and anyone who would listen in between.

There was a guttural rumbling coming up from above and—no. She still wasn’t going to look.

Staying close to the wall was a good idea. The dragon shot down a pillar of fire hotter than anything she’d ever felt burning down the buildings opposite her hiding spot. Just because she was expecting it doesn’t mean she was prepared—her hands shot up to cover her face, and though the heat was overbearing; her skin didn’t burn.

It was over, and the dragon flew back up to douse another part of town in an inferno.

“Foreigner!” A loud, clear voice called out. It was—it was the young officer? He held a dagger, beckoning her to hold out her arms. She thought he’d finish the job that the executioner and the dragon seemed to have left undone, but to her surprise he cut the bindings off and dragged her into the fort though a small entrance at the back.

“Follow me if you want live.” He commanded.

They barged into the relative safety of the fort—Atsuko saw the chest of their belongings from the corner of her eyes. She scrambled towards it, eager to retrieve the only belonging she had carried through the years, but the young officer held out his arm in front of it before she could reach it.

“I’ll unlock it.” He reassured. “Take what’s yours—there should also be some armor along the racks.”

“Why are you helping me?” Atsuko looked over warily, helping herself to the now-opened chest. The axes and shields didn’t interest her, neither did the potions, but—ah. There it is.

“Two can survive the dungeons and the caverns down below better than one.” He looked over towards her. “My name’s Hadvar. I think I—” His eyes widened at the sight of the old, worn sword that she held near her.

This reaction was nothing new, and she’s had her fair share of fending off thugs who thought it was theirs for the taking. They had another thing coming. She knew how to use this, at the very least. The blade was curved and slender, a stark contrast to the heavy, wide swords of Skyrim. The grip was wrapped in dark leather, crisscrossed with finely-embroidered cloth of a deep red, making a pattern of diamonds. The guard was simple, and so was the pommel, and the worn blade itself was dotted with seven, in-laid stars. It seemed the sheath was missing—Atsuko would later scavenge for cloth to wrap it with.

“That’s an Akaviri blade.” Hadvar looked in poorly-concealed surprise. “Where did you truly come from?”

Atsuko rolled her eyes—feeling annoyed despite the threat of a rampaging dragon outside. “I’ve asked myself that question more times that you can ever imagine.”

--

Atsuko had woken up in the house of a blacksmith in Riverwood. With a bit of a headache, she sat down with her head in her palms trying to remember it all. She was hungry. Oh, and about to get executed. The—dragon? Hadvar was leading her through the caverns.

He brought her to his uncle and aunt, and they were kind enough to open their home to her and feed her. They only favor they asked in return was for her to ask Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun for help.

Of course she’d help! She crossed her arms at how tentatively they asked. Did these wonderful people really think she’d turn them down after feeding her the best venison stew her taste buds had ever been graced with?

And so she found herself hiking to the capital of Whiterun Hold. Addvar fashioned her a scabbard out of wood and leather, and her sword hung snugly across her back. The travel was easy, save for the pestering of some wolves, and soon she found herself past Honningbrew Meadery, just about to cross the bridge that led to the slope coming up towards Whiterun Stables.

For the second time in a few days—the world around her was suddenly shaking.

There were… voices. Wailing. Calling. Pounding into her eardrums and her head so strongly that she had lost her balance and nearly fell over. She caught herself on the wooden railing of the bridge that ran over a small stream. Her breathing became erratic, and she clawed at her chest, feeling her knees give in.

Dohvakiin!

Her eyes snapped up, looking around for its source. Her soul felt like it knew that voice but—how?

And why did it sound like a call into battle?

---

She was summed for a meeting by no less than her mentor, the arch-mage, herself.

"Did you hear it?"

Holbrooke looked out from atop the bannisters of the College of Winterhold. Her hands were folded neatly at her back, holding her staff across it, while the wind whipped at their cloaks; cold and merciless from the Sea of Ghosts. The view was always white. One could barely see through the thickness of snow and slat, which would have cut deep into Diana's bones if she hadn't learned the art of befriending the cold from the moment she could cast a spell.

"Somehow." She replied curtly. It was an honest answer; she didn't so much as hear than she felt it.

"The Greybeards call." The arch-mage looked towards her. "The Dragonborn has been summoned."

Diana nodded silently. She looked out into the Horizon, across the dying town at the base of their castle, towards the peaks which she knew was the Throat of the World. It was barely visible on most days, but it seemed the howling winds and frost would reign themselves in to make way for a pronouncement which struck fear as much as it did hope: there is a god amongst men in Skyrim.

It was no longer a legend.

"Did you hear?" Holbrooke began. "Or did you feel?"

Diana turned sharply towards her mentor.

"Because the rest of us could hear, but I reckon you're a little bit different."

"I'm not quite sure I understand—"

"Lady Cavendish of Daggerfall," Holbrooke looked up to her with a burning intensity. "Within the bounds of Skyrim, you will be Diana of the Frost—A proper mage. A proper master. But first—"

The smaller woman stomped the base of her staff into the cold, icy stone of the castle. The action was weak in its physicality, but the waves of magic it had sent cackled like lightning.

Diana's foot inched back a little to keep herself steady against the pulse.

"—you will seek out the Dragonborn and guide them."

---

The arch-mage had sent out word of their search for the Dragonborn of legend, and many responded with cynicism or outright disinterest. Thankfully, there was still brotherhood amongst the College’s alumna and they had agreed to keep their search a secret.

Farengar was the first to respond with any promise. The magical letter he sent was a rather enthusiastic one—of no surprise to Diana. He always spoke… so much.

She rode gracefully on her steed, intent to make up for the few days she spent fixing her affairs with the College before riding out towards Winterhold. It would take more than a half-a-day on horseback, and she had started early, hoping to arrive in the afternoon for some rest before presenting herself to the Jarl, and in turn, her colleague. The icy crags of Winterhold slowly melted away the closer she got to the Pale, and the sight of mud and greenery was more welcome than she thought it would be.

Wolves stalked the roads, but they were a nuisance at best. It was the frost trolls she had to watch out for—her area of expertise in magic was painfully ineffective against them, but she could hold her own if push came to shove. Ice wasn’t the only thing she knew how to weaponize.

She pulled on her hood, her breathing coming out in puffs of thick, misty vapor while she took a moment of respite. She’d been going at it for a few hours now. The land was beginning to turn into an expanse of green and yellow—she was at the border of Whiterun Hold. She could see spires at the top of a walled city on a mountain. Dragonsreach was clearly within view. It reminded her a little bit of High Rock, and riding through Rivenspire and Glenumbra when her mother visited for political affairs.

She bit at her lip, pulling on the reins of her horse as it began to whinny and buck. She didn’t actually know what guiding the Dragonborn meant. How did one guide a human with the soul of a dragon? What wisdom could you impart the mortal incarnation of no less than Akatosh himself?

She had studied many things in the world—more than just magic. She’s seen statue upon statue and endless sketches of Tiber Septim. The conqueror—always standing coldly in stone, uncompromising in his just crusade to unify all nations of Tamriel.

Diana was never one to doubt herself but—what guidance can a mage possibly impart on someone with such power?

She surveyed the land ahead of her, noting there wasn’t much left to cover. Something caught her eye.

It was smoke. And… fire?

She prodded her horse forward and into an urgent gallop, riding straight into the fray of what looked a small skirmish happening on the outskirts of the city walls, near the watch towers.

She was a little bit closer now but then—she gasped. It took everything in her power not to choke up and pull her horse into a full stop as a large, reptilian figure shot upwards from the ground with the beating of wide, leathery wings.

It was horrifying.

Her throat had constricted into tightness—but she grit her teeth and rode on. The closer she came, the more horrible the scene had become. Nameless guards had been gobbled into the drake’s hungry mouth, their helmets falling off and into the dirt, disappearing in a cloud of dust where once a whole man was standing. It looked like the fighting had been going on for some time. She whipped her rains, pressing her feet into the sides of her horse to push him onwards—faster. She could hear their voices now. Screams. There was a dark-elf woman who seemed to be in-command, along with a handful of what must have been the Jarl’s elite guard.

There was also a… a woman with brown hair, whipping around ferociously in tattered imperial leather armor. It looked like it was too large for her, but she wore it masterfully. She was brandishing a curved sword that looked vaguely familiar—but the dragon’s claw was coming down onto her fast and Diana was too far away to stop it and—

“Look out!”

She yelled, the exertion making her lungs burn. The woman was cued in by her shout and had rolled to the side, taking the opportunity of the dragon sinking its claw into the ground to land a clean slice at the underside of its arm.

It roared. That made it angry.

She hopped off her horse now—throwing self-preservation away with reckless abandon. She vaulted into a run, her hands growing cold, ice at her fingertips buzzing with power and anticipation. A cold shot of death waiting to be unleashed.

When the dragon pulled itself upwards to fly back into the air, Diana sent a sharp bolt of ice towards the exposed underside of its torso. Reptiles tended to have soft hides on the underside—and if memory served, dragons were reptiles all the same, albeit overpowered.

All it managed was a small gash, but the creature staggered, losing the momentum it needed to take to the skies. An arrow from the dark-elf general got it straight in the eye. There was hack from a solider at one of its hindlegs. It reared, smoke billowing from its nostrils, and Diana eyes widened—the next thing that would come was fire!

And it was going straight for the brown-haired woman.

On instinct, she reached out, a wall of ice encasing the stranger protectively. It would give her enough time dodge out of harm’s way but—

“By the eight divines, what are you doing?!” Diana yelled. She wasn’t moving at all! She was standing there, biding her time behind the wall of ice while flames engulfed her at every other direction. The dragon was getting frustrated, inching by nearer, and by the gods Diana was good but she wasn’t that good—not yet. That wall was going to melt very soon—it was already starting—but the woman kept steady while the it began to give way. Her left hand was splayed between herself and the dragon and—she had flames.

Flames of her own.

There was a pause where Diana caught a glimpse of red eyes.

Who is she?

The woman made the slightest opening with what she recognized as the gesture for the fireball spell, but how could it—? Against a dragon?

It seemed like it was more of a distraction than it was a hit for damage—it soared through the plume and straight into the dragon’s mouth. In the split second that the fire sputtered out, she lunged forward with her sword, stabbing it straight through the dragon’s throat, gruesomely forcing the sword down, and down, and down to cut an incision all the way through.

The strangled yelping didn’t last very long—the creature soon after collapsed on top of the woman.

Diana’s instinct was to hold the dragon’s body upright with pillars of ice lest it crush the woman completely. She was already falling unconscious. Diana strode forward, noticing that the armor was singed, but she was otherwise unburnt. She was covered in sweat, her breathing was ragged and uneven.

Her hand glowed in the warm light of restoration, holding it flush against the woman’s forehead.

She pulled her gently away from the giant carcass as the soldiers began to gather around them.

“I don’t believe it.” One of them muttered.

She couldn’t either, to be honest. That was a dragon. A full, proper dragon.

And she was alive.

Then the woman began to… glow.

“What’s going on?” Diana muttered to herself, eyebrows knit in confusion at the sight she was seeing. The dragon—it was also glowing. There was something similar to a link in-between them and—

“She’s…”

Diana’s stared in utter disbelief.

“…the Dragonborn.”

---

She’s the Dragonborn.

Diana told herself for the tenth time that evening, watching the woman (Atsuko with remarkable recovery) gouge herself with her third platter of sweetrolls within fifteen minutes of waking up from unconsciousness.

“You’re going to give yourself a stomachache.” The mage carefully offered.

She had frosted butter at the edge of her lip, and those red eyes were round and… charming.

There was no sign of authority.

Not even of ferocity.

She wouldn’t believe this was the same woman from that fight if she hadn’t brought her back into Dragonsreach herself.

“Nah!” Atsuko mumbled through a mouthful of food. A servant came by with a platter of roasted deer—Atsuko’s eyes glazed over. “I can like… eat. A lot. I love food.”

“I’ve noticed.” Diana said evenly.

“So who’re you supposed to be?” Atsuko said absent-mindedly, reaching for the platter which was next-in-line for devouring.

“I’m Diana Cavendish, from the College of Winterhold.”

“Oh.” Atusko blinked. “Okay, awesome.”

Awesome? Diana blinked. She shook her head, clearing her throat and speaking with every ounce of professionalism the life of diplomacy and schooling offered: “Dragonborn—”

“Akko.” She waved her hand.

“—you and I are… going to be stuck together, for a little while.”

--

fin

--

A/N: Pyro - we did it buddy. We did it. This is for you. And all your memes.

Hey guys - no one asked, but I'm writing it anyway, if only because of how much fun and joy this AU has given me. This first chapter is as serious as it gets, unfortunately, because this is gonna be a one-shot dump of SkyrimAU Diakko where they kind of goof around like dorks, except they're overpowered, and sometimes Akko sneezes but shouts 'FUS!' by accident and Diana has to clean it up. The format I'm looking for is each chapter is a separate story about their adventures, much like the books scattered around in Skyrim (because I have no commitment and will focus on Appointments I'm sorry huhuuuhu). You could probably read them on their own - save for chapter 1 which is for context of the rest of the tales of the Dragonborn and her Ice Lady girlfriend.

But if you read it anyway - I hope y'all enjoy and if you wanna share headcanons, by all means, let's make it happen!

[irlmicolash]

tysm for sending the prompt in, anon! [prompts are here]

name. being so exhausted that they faintly whisper the name of someone they trust as they are carried to bed. misfit. getting out of bed too soon, insisting they feel much better, and collapsing / passing out.

also i wanna point out that i’m basing the layout of the college of winterhold on this mod

trigger warnings: blood, someone being burned alive (it’s not explicit at all but still), mentions of death

The halls of the College were deathly silent, save for a single scholar creeping through the dimly lit living quarters. Since the death of the previous arch-mage, as well as the induction of a new one,what seemed like the entire college had been on edge. Only Tolfdir had been present in the room when Ko’azita had defeated Ancano, but everyone had seen the khajiit storm out of the Hall of Elements, dragging the struggling Altmer behind her. While any decent individual would hate the Thalmor, Ko’azita had never truly made it clear just how deeply that hatred had rooted itself within her. She’d tossed Ancano to the ground and smirked as his blood made a mess of the cobblestone. With her foot on his throat, she said something before fire burst from her chest and left behind nothing but a black stain. No one dared step towards her, not even as she crumpled to the ground nor as sobs shook her frame. Only when she seemingly ran herself dry of her magika reserves did the others feel they could approach Ko’azita.

Enthir had spent little time at the college afterward, unable to stomach the talk of possibly losing a second arch-mage to Ancano’s actions. Colette had said that Ko’azita had put a strain on not only her physical body, but whatever she’d done with her magic had ‘reopened old wounds.’ Everything else about the condition of the new arch-mage was only spoke of in whispers from those who managed to press an ear to the arch-mage’s door.  The clear scent of blood tainting the air immediately made Enthir regret returning to the college. With the overwhelming violence Ko’azita had displayed in killing Ancano, the smell of blood inside the school walls was something to be wary of. Not that the man hadn’t deserved it, but seeing the usually soft and sweet khajiit finally break had been admittedly terrifying. Through the glow of the focal point in the middle of the room, a figure could be seen sitting just on the edge. A khajiit if the ears atop their head were anything to go by. This person had been the one to make a mess of the floor.

“Y’know, I know Colette can be annoying, but I think she knows what she’s talking about when it comes to healing,” Enthir kept his voice low, as not to startle Ko’azita. She looked at him for only a brief second before she looked back to whatever it was she held in her hand. Furrowing his brow, he took a hesitant step forward, just enough to take a quick glance at her palm. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who the amulet she gripped so tightly belonged to. Karliah, although a bit more angry, had worn a similar expression when Gallus had been murdered.

“She is resting,” Ko’azita rasped, “This one could not stay in the arch-mage’s room, so she was going to sleep here for tonight. But she could not rest, so she decided to...reflect on these past few weeks.” “It’s great you’re taking time to process all of this, but you’re getting blood on the floor,” Enthir said as he pointed to the thin line of crimson that trailed after the khajiit, “It’s probably a good idea to go back to your room so you don’t bleed out.”

“It is just fine, Ko’azita has suffered far worse than a bit of magical backlash,” As if to prove herself, Ko’azita shakily got to her feet. After clasping the amulet back around her neck, she placed a hand atop where she’d been sitting on the focal point and began to slowly head towards one of the unoccupied rooms. She hardly managed to push herself away from the focal point before her legs gave out from underneath her. She tried to force herself to stay upwards by using her claws to grip onto something, but only managed to scrape her claws down the closest door. There was a swear from the mage inside the room and the creak of their bed as they stormed to the door. Enthir had hardly made it to the arch-mage’s side before the mage inside the room readied themselves to set fire to whatever had awoke them. It took a moment for them to collect themselves, but soon the still-sleepy mage figured out what was going on, “I’m going to go get Colette!”

“What did I tell you?” Enthir mumbled after the mage had disappeared down the stairs. A restoration spell would have normally easily healed the opened wound on Ko’azita’s leg, but it could prove to be too much with what she’d already been exposed to. So he took her leg and placed it on his lap, giving it at least some leverage to stop the bleeding. “You can’t just decide you feel better after nearly dying, that’s not how it works. Damn it, I should have st-” The Bosmer immediately tensed when Ko’azita’s fingers were suddenly gently  moving back and forth across his throat. Before he could tell her to keep her hands to herself, she let her hand to fall back to her side.  “What happened to your scar?”

“...What are you talking about, Arch-Mage?” “The scar! The one that was given to you when you were younger. Did you and your sister find a way to get rid of it?” Clearly out of it, Ko’azita offered Enthir a small smile, “Is this why you can speak clearly now? You told me it did not cause you any trouble.” “I’m...What? Ko’azita, I’ve never had a scar there in the entire time you’ve known me. Look, here comes Colette, maybe you can talk to her about this. I don’t have any idea what you’re saying.”

Colette and the mage Ko’azita had woken up were soon at the arch-mage’s side. The former scolded her for leaving the room when she clearly wasn’t well enough to even leave her bed. A quick press of her fingers to Ko’azita’s forehead, and Colette had relaxed the khajiit enough for her to fall asleep. When she seemed to approve of Ko’azita’s state, Colette looked up to Enthir, “What happened?” “I came here to pick up some of my things, but then I saw the arch mage sitting on that focal point. I told her she should go back to you and then she said she was fine right before getting up and falling over. She fell into that person’s doorway and woke them up.” “Hm...I guess I’ll just have to stay on top of the arch mage’s healing so she won’t feel so trapped in that room. I get why she wouldn’t want to stay there, but it’s really the only place we can put her without it interrupting the rest of the college,” Colette paused and put a hand on Ko’azita’s cheek, “I can’t really imagine how she feels right now, she has been through a lot. But...I can guess. Help me carry her back to her room.” Enthir nodded and took the arch-mage’s leg off his lap.

“Mmm...” Ko’azita stirred slightly as Enthir brought his hands underneath her arms, “Sidra....” Both mages paused for just a second at the unfamiliar name. Supposedly only two individuals knew of the arch-mage’s past and both of them had died in the incident with the Eye, “Sidra, your brother has gotten rid of his scar...What spell did he use?” Again with the scar, now paired with a name Enthir didn’t recognize. It was definitely an Elven name, but one single person didn’t come to mind. He exchanged a glance with Colette before the two slowly began to walk the arch-mage back to her room. She was not thinking clearly, so perhaps this Sidra was just someone she’d come up with in her stupor. But it would be no surprise if Ko’azita denied even knowing someone of that name when she was more aware. After all, it was obvious she wanted her past to be kept under wraps. No innocent person would have made that much of an effort to draw out a person’s death, no matter how badly they deserved it.

[aaami]

Literally tell me anything and everything about your oc’s (especially Kajo because GURL) ahem I would very much enjoy hearing about them - SigrénSigurdsdottir

Here’s some stuff about each of them!!

Kajo

30 years old.

A gremlin who refuses to eat her vegetables. Doesn’t follow the Green Pact outside of Valenwood anymore, but it’s A Task to get her to try something other than potatoes. Cicero has somewhat succeeded in this, but he is about to give up as well.

Sometimes eats bugs and everyone else is like “cAN YOU NOT?”

That’s a nice big tree you got there, mind if I climb it? She will get stuck.

Biromantic asexual. Moronsexual.

Her mother taught her how to use bows. Her father taught her how to take naps anywhere.

Has two younger sisters, Kuisma and Kuura! Fun fact, all of their names mean something in finnish; Kajo means shimmer or gleam, Kuisma is the finnish name for the hypericum plant, and Kuura means frost. (Not sure how lore-friendly names for bosmer these are, but eh.)

She’s a whole damn circus and it’s even worse when she's adventuring with Cicero. Somehow manages to keep the Dark Brotherhood running (it’s actually Nazir who keeps it all together, shush).

She might be being a total fool and playing around a lot of the time, but does take her position as the Listener very seriously. 

Cailon

Kajo’s cousin! Their mothers are sisters and come from an altmer-bosmer family. 

55 years old.

Archmage of Winterhold. Also kind of sort of but not really a member of the DB. Doesn’t really do assassin stuff, but uses his connections to give the DB information and resources when needed.

A master of acting serious and professional by day, a funky dude by night. Has a weird sense of humor.

Gay.

Doesn’t like being called a Thalmor just because he’s an altmer and will snap someone’s fingers one day.

Neyon

She’s almost as tiny as Kajo and Rali.

31 years old.

Like Cailon, not really a member of the DB. Can’t resist when Kajo asks for help, tho. They’re close friends.

Bi.

Also a mage at the College, becomes Cailon’s right hand or smth. 

A brilliant scholar, likes to study and write a lot. 

Has some nasty scars on her face, says that she fought a bear. It’s just a joke, tho, she doesn’t know how she got them since she’s had them as long as she can remember.

Rali

Somehow functional lesbian.

A mysterious assassin never reveals her age (she’s like 22 years old, a fuckin toddler).

Always internally screaming. Even her neutral expression looks like she’s angry. Secretly a big softie.

Loves Halla, her big beefy girlfriend.

Likes to argue about everything with Kajo. It’s kind of a hobby at this point. Respects the Listener regardless.

Probably the most capable assassin in the DB at the moment. Can get any contract done nice and easy, sometimes gets bored when they’re not challenging enough.

Actually distantly related to Nerevarine Urtielle. No one believes her.

Her real name is Uleya. She thinks no one knows it, but actually everyone knows it.

Halla

Rali’s big girlfriend. Love her tiny, angry gf. Also a lesbian.’

Youngest one of the bunch, 20 years old.

Will and can fight a bear with her bare fists. Probably has. Claims that she has fought a giant and won, too. Everyone believes her.

Cailon has basically adopted Halla. 

Halla’s family greatly disapproves her life choices, but she really couldn’t care less.

Ran away from home, started doing mercenary work, accidentally messed with a DB contract and Kajo invited her to join the fam. (They met pretty much the same way Kajo met Astrid.)

[whispersafterdusk]

The Master’s Apprentice - ch 17

Kestrel didn't seem especially bothered by the falling rocks but Varea turned toward them each time as though she expected an attack, and each time she fell for it Kestrel punished her with a spell.  Onmund made certain each target was off to Varea's side or at her back, trying to give Kestrel enough openings so those spells could connect but also with a mind to keep Varea from seeing the rocks falling free seemingly on their own.  He knew that this couldn't last forever but with each one he yanked loose he hoped it would spur a new idea, or something.

...or at least, a different idea.  He'd already had an idea but it was an even worse idea than rushing out onto a stormy sea. ((Continued below cut))

Onmund had a clear view of the mountain and cliffs around him and he could easily track the aerial movements of Kestrel and Varea as they battled overhead.  It wasn't hard to see that Varea used the same wards Onmund had been taught at the College -- they were much more powerful than what a typical mage could summon because she was empowered but they were the same wards with the same weaknesses that Kestrel had so bluntly demonstrated to him over a year ago.  The wards were strong enough to mostly hold up under Kestrel's assault providing she attacked from the front and Varea was making sure Kestrel could not easily flank her (when she wasn't turning herself toward the noise of clattering rocks, anyway).

What that meant was Onmund could try and position himself at her back and attack her where she had no visible protections, and if she turned to attack him then that left her open to Kestrel's considerably more punishing spells.

The problem was he doubted he could survive long, even with his knowledge of Kestrel's wards - the crown was clearly empowering Varea and, if she was an actual Thalmor to begin with, then she was likely a skilled mage even on her own. It would probably take only one spell from Varea to destroy him and then there was no telling at this distance if Varea had other protective measures on her person.  He wasn't confident enough to believe the wards were all she had, not while she wore that damned crown; he would have to take a risk, wait for the moment where Varea would have her back to him and then he could strike, and then come what may afterward...assuming he could hit her.  

 She's likely to kill me...but maybe she won't - maybe Kestrel can get her in time.  And I won't have much longer before someone notices me here anyway.  I would rather have the opening blow and upper hand, even if it's barely more than a breath's worth of time.

It was crazy.  It was suicidal.

But then, so was running out onto a stormy sea on a narrow ice bridge with a monster on his heels.  And he'd already survived a fall that would have killed him if he hadn't been as quick and as clever as he'd been in that moment.

Quick.  Clever.  He didn't have to kill Varea - he only needed to survive.  This wasn't a question of strength or skill level, it was a question of who could outsmart who. He had to survive just long enough for Kestrel to win -- it was a comforting thought, in a way.

He dropped down onto his haunches and took a deep, steadying breath, then filled himself with some of the absurd amounts of ambient magicka in the air; still holding his breath he stood and clambered onto the statue's arm.  Neither mage had noticed him yet and, with an exhale that hissed through now-gritted teeth Onmund threw a bolt of lightning into the sky.

Varea was a quick-moving target, difficult to track and even harder to look at with the crown's influence clawing at him and he only managed to clip her; she arched her back as the lightning skimmed across her shoulders, then spun and Onmund locked gazes with her - in the split instant that he could stand to look at her he could see a parade of emotions flit across the beastly woman's face: pain, shock, confusion, and then sheer rage.

"YOU."

Onmund looked away, reeling from her gaze -- he'd hoped the distance would help with the crown's pull but even here it was strong and he knew he couldn't risk looking at her for too long; it wasn't that he feared she could take control of him as she had the others but he worried that fighting the crown's influence would fatally distract him at the wrong moment.  Of course, being restricted to quick glances could prove equally as deadly but--

At a wordless shriek from above he forced himself to look up again; Varea was diving toward him with her hands outstretched and Onmund hesitated as the crown's pull momentarily scattered his thoughts and muffled his instinct - should he shield and try to take the hit or should he move?  It was answered for him by Kestrel as she launched a firebolt into Varea's side that sent the woman into a spin to crash into the ground in front of the statue's arm below and about fifteen feet away from where Onmund perched.

Kestrel's voice was unmistakable. "What are you doing?!"

"Helping.  ...I think," Onmund answered, glancing up to where Kestrel stared at him in a mix of surprise and fear.  

Suddenly Varea was clawing up the stone toward him; his small lapse in attention led to her managing to impale one of her talon-like fingers through the fabric of his pantsleg.  Onmund kicked his leg back to free it before she could grab his ankle and immediately lost his footing, falling backward to land mostly upside down in the snow where he'd been crouched only moments earlier.  He let his legs slip to the side and righted himself as Varea came over the arm; in a panic (she'd moved much quicker than he could have anticipated) he scrabbled in the snow and haphazardly sent some of the nearby loose rocks flying into her face.   They bounced harmlessly off her ward but it slowed her down and gave him a few precious seconds to get his feet back under him.  This close the crown's magic was like standing inside a massive fire; it pulled at his mind and left a searing feeling across his face and hands as he lifted them up to defend himself.

He was rocked back on his heels and his ward torn to shreds under the purple-white lightning Varea lobbed at him -- in the same breath Kestrel dropped down to slam boots-first into the woman's back and Onmund was fairly certain if she hadn't he would be dead right now.   Varea's shriek of pain cut through his head like a knife and he still felt the crown's influence quite clearly.

Damned thing...

Before he realized he was moving he was suddenly on Varea too, struggling to find a handhold on the crown on her head.  The obsidian cut his fingers and burned his fingertips; before he could get a grip and tear it free he was abruptly flying backwards as Varea erupted upward.

"I've had enough!"

The air became thick and simultaneously too hot and too cold to inhale and as Onmund struggled to sit up and draw breath he was slammed back into the ground hard enough to feel several pops in his chest; there was a flash of white-blue and a deafening blast, and then he could feel the ground beneath him rumbling.  A pair of hands seized him - one to his robes and the other a handful of his hood - and the world went dark blue for so brief an instant he thought he'd imagined it through the hazy afterimages of Varea's spell, but...no, Kestrel held him and he wasn't on the ground by the statue's arm anymore.  They'd somehow moved far to the south and were standing - well, Kestrel was standing and he was awkwardly dangling from her grasp - on a narrow peak jutting from the mountain.  

His chest and his ears were in pure agony and to his horror he realized he couldn't hear a damn thing.  Kestrel hefted him up and set his boots on the ground then held him a moment longer for him to catch his balance; her attention was not on him however, and when Onmund looked to the north where they'd just been his eyes widened at the sight of the cliffs cracking and crumbling apart.  It was incredibly unnerving to watch the mountain come apart in total silence; Onmund hugged his arms to himself and wrapped himself in restorative magics -- he swayed in place as his ribs snapped back to where they belonged and with a pair of pops his hearing came back.

"How...how do we kill her?"  He could barely hear himself now over the roar of the mountain falling to pieces; a sizeable landslide was rushing toward them and growing in size.  It was a very small comfort that there wasn't a village or otherwise any other sort of settled area in its path that he could think of but even then--

"Have you gone insane?" Kestrel shouted at him.  "Why are you here?"

"I came to help-"

"You CAN'T help!" she roared into his face.  "I can't protect myself AND you!  Do you truly want to die here?"

"I-"  Any response he had (and he wasn't sure he had one because he definitely agreed that he was likely going to get himself killed here) was blasted out of him as Kestrel slapped him across the face then seized him by the neck of his robes and lifted him up to the tips of his toes, nose to nose with her.

"Get back there and STAY there until I say otherwise."

Between the roaring earth, the ground shaking, and the actual fear he felt at seeing Kestrel this angry at him all Onmund could do was nod.   Kestrel let him drop to the ground and then, to his surprise, shoved him backward; a chill of alarm raced up his spine as he fell and then kept falling -- in a fraction of a breath he watched the sky above him disappear into a ring-shaped hole in...well, the sky, and then he slammed into the ground hard enough to blast the air out of him.

Gone was the roar of the landslide, the whistling of the wind, and the innate sense he'd had of the ambient magicka that had been in that pass; his ears were met with the sound of shouting men, the ringing of steel and the shriek of something...unnatural.

"Hey- YOU!"

Onmund rolled to his side and then up onto his knees right as a man clad in the armor of a Winterhold guard grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him to his feet.

"YOU, mage!  Didn't you-"

It took Onmund a moment to recognize the voice -- this was the guard who had tried to stop them before.  Blearily he peered between the slits of the guard's helm.  "-yes, that was us.  My master is taking care of the one responsible for this mess."

"-then what can you do about THIS mess?" the guard went on, roughly hauling Onmund around to face him toward the College.

In the sky around the College were winged dots - some sort of...flying humanoids.  He swore he'd seen pictures of those things before but couldn't name them at the moment: winged, vaguely female, taloned feet and arms fused with the wing membranes.  There had to be at least two dozen circling and either diving at the gathered guards below or hurling lightning to try and scatter them.  The ground was littered with dead imps, dead flyers, and of course...dead guards.  There were only so many protectors of such a small town and whatever was going on in the College was quickly whittling them down.

I never should have left... he found himself thinking.  No wonder Kestrel had been so...so mad at him.  If he'd been here rather than-

But, Quaranir had said...

Wait.  Why should he care what Quaranir said?  Why would he think Kestrel would need Onmund's help?  A mere apprentice?  Well, probably more than a mere apprentice at this point, but even then - what had Quaranir thought Onmund could do that Kestrel couldn't?

Kestrel was his master, not Quaranir.  Onmund had no idea what Quaranir thought he was capable of but if he really, truly meant that Onmund needed to go help Kestrel then he'd just have to come tell him, directly, himself.  No guess work, no subtle hints.

Onmund shook himself out of that train of thought and again looked up toward the winged creatures.  They weren't flying so close together that he could arc a bolt of lightning between several of them at once but they moved much slower than Varea did -- they made for much easier targets.  With a grunt the mage got his feet back under him and shrugged off the guard's arm; his first spell made the guard beside him flinch but it sent one of the flying creatures careening to the ground where two guards quickly fell upon it with their swords.

"More of that, mage!"

"We'll see how long I last," Onmund muttered under his breath.   Without the ambient magicka to draw on his exhaustion was heavy and his reserves fairly limited -- he would need a way to get back inside the College to put a stop to whatever was summoning these things as he could only stand and fight for so long.

"Stay with me," he told the guard at his side.  "I will cover us as best as I can but I need to get back over into the College itself."

Onmund didn't need to see the guard's face to imagine the man's expression.  "In there?  With the bridge destroyed?"

"I'll...figure it out," he replied after a pause.  

Rather than elaborate further (as he didn't have much of a plan yet) Onmund sent another bolt of lightning into the sky, blasting a hole through the wing of one of the creatures.

[frankensteined]

Pec: 9 10 12 13 16 39; Jules: 5 7 24 25 41 44.

PEC: 

9. Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?

oh my god yes. now, he’s the thane of multiple cities across skyrim and he owns like five houses currently and he’s the arch-mage of the college o winterhold and he’s a member of the thieves guild and and and…!! 

when he was growing up he had very little that was just his, and now he’s got all of that and a family to boot. he’s doing very well for himself :’) 

10. Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

i’ve been keeping him in light armor/thieves guild armor, and before that i had him in robes for the early parts of his journey, so i think i’d say that he feels comfortable in less clothing in terms of armor, but he does like to be fully clothed as often as possible. he’s shy. 

12. In what situation was your character the most calm they’ve ever been?

after he got married (he’s married now! to sylgja!) and adopted his son (he’s got a son now! named blaise!), and he was able to come to his home at winstad manor, after dealing with all the quests in solstheim. he was away from home for a very, very long time while he was over there, and he worried a lot about leaving his daughter, lucia, home alone, even if she had the dog, meeko, and the house steward, valdimar, there to keep her company. he decided that that meant that it was a good time to actually get married, and the first person who came to mind, as i slogged through all these quests, was sylgja, so i reasoned that that meant that she was the one he was really in love with. SO! i went to talk to her, and after being gone from skyrim for aaaaaages, the first thing she said to him was the standard “it’s a fine day with you around” greeting, but that was just the amount of kindness needed to make that choice the right one! and then, pec ended up upon the farm that blaise was working at one night, and saw the kid sleeping on the floor of the stables, and went “NOPE” and woke him up to adopt him right there.  

so, coming home to a full house after being away for so long, was a really nice, very peaceful feeling, especially after feeling out of place during pretty much the entire time away. 

if he could give valdimar a raise for taking care of lucia while he was away, pec would have done that already. but he’s gonna hire a pretty bard to play at the house and keep val company instead.

13. Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

nah, he’s an orc. blood doesn’t bother him unless it’s his and he’s seeing too much of it all at once. 

16. Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

happiness, in his heart. the success that he’s accumulating as he goes is consequential to this duty that he has to save the world….and once he does that, he gets to just settle and relax with his family. so he’s idealizing his future happiness for sure.

all the other orcs shake their heads at him for being a big dumb squishbaby   

39. Has your character ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (or unaffected)?

YES HE GETS BITTEN BY ANIMALS ALL THE TIME. he’ll just be walking along and then get absolutely mauled by skeevers/wolves/bears/giant spiders/sabrecats/fucking DRAGONS etc etc. 

at first it was really jarring and upsetting to him (and me, cuz i used to get startled by them), but by now he’s just gotten so used to it that it’s like this “*SIGH* okay, here we go again…” kind of reaction on his end. though, even with his “been there, done that” attitude, he still occasionally contracts diseases like ataxia and rockjoint, so he can never really shrug off the attacks, cuz he’ll need to pop by a shrine to get rid of them before everyone he talks to worries about him looking sick.   

JULES:

5. On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

her phone, her keys, her ID, a few folded up bills (all under $20), some loose change in her jean pockets (probably under $3), 3-5 forgotten hair elastics, and several receipts in the back pockets of her jeans that she meant to throw out but keeps forgetting about

and, if she’s lucky, a few hard candies or sticks of gum

it’s noteworthy that she doesn’t keep weapons in her pockets!  

7. Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

mhm mhm she still has bad dreams about her sister dying, or, more generally, being in hospitals with no way of getting out (jules was ten when her sister got sick, and she literally got lost in the hospital a few times and it was all very traumatic and scary for her). hospitals are her big no-go zone and make her uncomfortable even when she’s awake, so in nightmares they become ten times worse. 

24. How quick is your character to trust someone else?

superficially, she’s pretty quick to trust, if only in the sense that she doesn’t just assume that anybody and everybody is out to get her, or that they even gaf about her. if someone isn’t acting shady, she’ll be fairly pleasant towards them. but in terms of Getting To Know Her, she’s a fair bit more guarded and rarely gives more than she needs to, so there’s definitely walls up as well. she keeps her personal life very separated from her professional life, so if someone tries to dip into one from the other she’ll hustle them back to where she thinks they belong pretty quickly. and once someone’s proven to be shady or unreliable she’ll close up on them almost immediately. i’ve compared her compartmentalizing to “stacking boxes on top of boxes” before, and that’s still really true. 

but, on the other hand, if someone does prove to be trustworthy, she kinda opens up really suddenly and eagerly, because she does want to have close bonds with people, it’s just that People Are Tough. this tends to happen accidentally, though. like, one day when she’s not paying attention, someone scurries into her heart and she’s like “crap. well. guess i care about you now! *protects with life*”  

sometimes those boxes fall over and the contents spills out and it’s hard to sort back to where they originally belonged, y’know? 

25. How quick is your character to suspect someone else? Does this change if they are close with that person?

this is definitely a follow up to that last part of my previous answer: it definitely changes if she’s close to someone acting shady. jules will absolutely not believe that someone she trusts has betrayed her until they have literally shot at her, and even then…y’know…sometimes that’s just what happens, y’know? no hard feelings when it’s for a good reason, right? 

for example: if, and this is not a scenario that’s ever happened, but, if it was revealed that there was a mole who was feeding information to the enemy, and someone suggested that it was newt because of a huge pile of pretty convincing looking evidence? she would still be like “nope. nope. it’s not him, you’re wrong.” and get very defensive, in part because her trust in someone really does just turn into deep faith in them as a person, but also because if someone she’s close to could break her trust, then anyone and everyone could (!!!) and she…doesn’t want to have to think about that. she isn’t equipped to handle that kind of thing. 

but, if it’s someone she doesn’t like, she’s almost gleeful if they get revealed to be suspicious. she feels vindicated and kind of smugly wants to go deal with them just for the satisfaction of feeling right not to trust them. she’d be a fun rival or nemesis just for that reason alone. 

41. Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first?

honestly, she doesn’t really know what she wants for herself. she devotes so much of her energy to just doing her job that if you were to ask her “what do you actually want, though?” she wouldn’t have an answer for you. and that’d make her feel really bad and uncomfortable and she’d get grumpy and leave.

BUT. she would definitely feel like she would need to earn anything good that was coming her way, regardless, lol. she’s very “oh, you don’t deserve bad things/you deserve better” to everyone else, but “not me tho lol” about herself. not even in a self-loathing way, either, she’s just bad at applying the things she says to herself, for better or worse.  

44. How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

i don’t think she’d say it if she didn’t mean it, unless it was a case where the person she was saying it to knew that it wasn’t for real (ie: if they were undercover or something). but she says it very easily to the people that she does love!! it isn’t easy for her to really reach that point with people, but jules is very all-in once she does care about others, so she has no hang ups about telling people that she loves them! she’s a tootsie-roll pop: hard outside shell, mushy sweet inside.  

character development questions meme!

[soulstealer1987]

Arc 3, Chapter 4

Ziist Grozein

Gallus might not be spending too much longer with the Companions for a while, but while he won't be in as much danger of becoming a werewolf... well, he might just have gone out of the frying pan and into the fire. Eh, he'll be fine... probably.

Crossposted from AO3. Masterpost is here.

Arc 3: Live by the Sword

Arc 3, Chapter 3 ~ Arc 3, Chapter 5

“Hey, Gallus,” Ria says a few days later, and just when Gallus has stopped feeling on edge around the Companions he knows to be werewolves, too. Gods damn it. “You should come with me on a job in Darkwater Crossing.”

“Sure,” Gallus says, and shrugs. “Any particular reason, or-?”

“Because we need to talk,” she says. The confusion must have been quite evident across Gallus’ features, because Ria quickly adds, in a much lower voice, “About what happened in Dustman’s Cairn. And I don’t want to risk anyone overhearing us.”

By anyone, Gallus is pretty sure she meant Aela and Skjor. Skjor was out on a mission near Windhelm with Athis and Njada - and considering how much those two visibly despised each other, he couldn’t say he envied Skjor having to deal with both of them at once - but Aela was around here somewhere. He’d guess sleeping, except that werewolves, apparently, don’t sleep.

“Sounds good to me,” Gallus says. “I guess… I haven’t exactly been down in the Rift really at all. Maybe I was from there, who knows?”

Ria grins cheerfully.

“That’s the spirit!”

Despite Ria insisting that the entire reason she wanted him to come with her was to talk about what went down in Dustman’s Cairn, she doesn’t actually bring it up for a while, not until they are almost to Darkwater Crossing.

Then, right as they’re coming up to the town, she says, “I’m pretty sure Aela knows that I know they’re all werewolves. I’m… not a good liar.”

“And I am?” Gallus asks.

“Yes, actually, but that’s not the point. I might as well just tell her, and… I don’t know, I think I might give the beast blood a try. What about you?”

Gallus stops in his tracks. Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover how he feels at this point, but then again, while he’d interpreted her silence back when he was asking Farkas about basically every single aspect of lycanthropy he could as being uninterested… maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she was seriously considering it, and thought he was seriously considering it, too.

“I mean, it’s your choice,” Gallus says. “Tell Aela I wasn’t there when Farkas transformed if she asks. I’d really rather not deal with that.”

“Wait, what?” Now it’s Ria’s turn to look surprised. “I thought-”

“I’m interested in how it works,” Gallus says, “but that doesn’t mean I want to become a werewolf. Besides, I’m not even an actual Companion.”

“Why not?”

Gallus shrugs, and says, “I’m not really sure. I just don’t want to.”

(In truth, there’s a nagging feeling in his gut that becoming a werewolf would be an extremely bad idea for him specifically, and he doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s a vampire, and becoming a werewolf would trigger something bad.)

(Well, he’s pretty sure he’s not a vampire, but his point still stands.)

“That’s fair,” Ria says, “but I was talking about being a Companion. I mean, why not become one? I know it’s not that you’re not strong enough, you are, and-”

“Because I don’t want to be tied down to Jorrvaskr forever,” Gallus says, and takes a deep breath. This next part might not necessarily be a good idea to say, but to Oblivion with it, he needs to say it to someone and out of all the Companions, Ria’s probably one of the least likely to eternally shun him for it. “That, and I’m a mage.”

Ria doesn’t speak again for some time, and in that time Gallus decides to continue walking. He can hear her footsteps behind him after a few moments, which is honestly unsurprising. Most of the Companions aren’t much for stealth, and Ria herself is no exception. On the other hand, Gallus… has always been naturally quiet, for some reason or another.

He suspects that whoever he was, before his amnesia, had spent quite a lot of time practicing being stealthy, because being quiet shouldn’t come this easy in light armor or mage robes. That, combined with his knack for lockpicking and influencing people… well. He’s not sure he wants to know the truth, but he has a bad feeling he might already know.

“Being a mage isn’t that bad,” Ria says after a moment. Gallus sighs.

“My point exactly,” Gallus says. “Listen to yourself. ‘Being a mage isn’t that bad.’ It’s almost funny when you consider that one of my friends back up in Winterhold, when I said I was going to go find the Companions, said almost the same thing: ‘Being a warrior isn’t that bad.’ There’s something called moderation, and nobody in Skyrim seems to use it. Not the Companions, not the College of Winterhold, nobody.”

Ria doesn’t speak again, not until they reach Darkwater Crossing. The job is an animal extermination because, apparently, a bear had gotten into someone’s house. Gallus still isn’t sure how that happened, and he’s not sure he wants to know, but it doesn’t take long to bring down the bear.

However, it could have gone a lot worse. The bear focused on Ria, for whatever reason, and was prepared to maul her to pieces, or try to, anyway. Considering that she was and is wearing decent armor, it probably wouldn’t have done a terribly good job, but Gallus reacted fast with a Calm spell from his off hand.

The bear turned around, looked him in the eyes with that confused-but-happy look that Calm spells always resulted in. Gallus met the bear’s gaze, and cut its head off with one clean slice. Clearly, his practice had been paying off.

He probably was never going to be able to forget how he’d met its eyes before killing it, and the fact that he was able to do that was concerning in itself. At least he’s pretty sure he couldn’t do that if he had to kill a person. Illusion magic is… not fun, when you consider its effects.

Either way, Ria could have died there. They both could have died there. And Gallus wasn’t about to let her forget it.

“This is why I need to become one of them,” Ria explains over a freshly-purchased mead in the local tavern. “I need to be strong enough to not depend on others. I need to be strong enough that others can depend on me.”

“Fair enough,” Gallus says. For whatever reason, he doesn’t feel like drinking, so he doesn’t buy one today. Maybe the fact that it’s the middle of the afternoon has something to do with it. “Are you sure you can keep me out of this?”

Ria gulps down her mead, and that’s answer enough. Even so, she says, in a small voice, “No.”

“Maybe… I can make myself scarce for a few weeks,” Gallus offers. “There’s a fairly big city in this Hold, isn’t there? Riften? Maybe I was from there.”

“I hope not,” Ria says. “That’s where the Thieves Guild is.”

Gallus frowns, but doesn’t voice his suspicions. Instead, he says, “It’s at least worth a shot.” He offers Ria a smile, stands, and pushes his chair in.

“I’ll see you around,” Gallus says.

“See you,” Ria nods, and Gallus heads out, past the hooded figure by the door.

One of the locals is more than happy to give him directions to Riften, along with a warning to not take anything he doesn’t want to lose there with him. That’s more than a little concerning, but probably nothing to be too worried about. The city can’t be that bad, can it?

Unfortunately for Gallus, he never makes it to Riften. Maybe if he’d stuck to the roads, he would have been alright, but Gallus very quickly got very, very lost. Just being lost would have been fine, if he hadn’t stumbled into the middle of a skirmish between the Stormcloaks and the Imperials.

Gallus would have been fine if he’d sneaked away immediately, but he was just a little too curious. There’s an old saying (that may or may not have been made up by J’zargo on the spot a while back) that goes, curiosity killed the Khajiit. Gallus might not have been a Khajiit, but he stuck around just a little too long.

When he turned to leave, something or someone hit him on the back of the head, hard, and it all went black.

[gamerdamemedia]

Rise of the Banshee: Request

Despite the cold and lingering uncertainty, Syn slept better than she ever remembered.  In the past, she normally just... passed out.  No real conscious effort needed.  But lying under a pile of pelt blankets, with a fire slowly crackling down and the sounds of the sea gently crashing along the hull of the ship, making the wood groan, Syn had her first taste of true peace.  Not the empty quiet she used to feel in her mind, but gentle satisfaction.  It was nice.  So when morning dawned, and she'd broke her fast with some dried salted meat the bandits had stored, she decided to travel north along the shore.  Part of her mind told her to remain in the area where her Master could find her, but that urge was slowly dissipating as surely as the last day's headache.  Still, having had very little interaction with people outside her Master and the necromancers, who typically viewed her as little more than a living statue, the thought of visiting one of the local villages caused a well of anxiety to build in her gut.

A thought occurred to Syn as she trailing north along the coast-- that in itself a slowly increasing occurrence.  Could she speak?  Syn wracked her brain to recall if she'd ever spoken before, but she couldn't remember ever having done so.  She knew she was at least capable of making noise.  She wasn't mute, she didn't think.  She had been known to produce involuntary vocalizations in the past, like when a necromancer's raised dog jumped on her stomach.  But her Master seemed to prefer her silence.  Tools didn't speak.  Even their first meeting, when Syn had crawled from beneath a pile of corpses, had consisted of her Master asking questions and Syn merely staring back.  Speaking wasn't necessary.  Syn knew how to read and could follow instructions competently.  That had been all that mattered.

But normal people spoke to each other.  Even Syn knew that.  And most people got uncomfortable with Syn's staring.  Syn shrugged to herself, another new but not unpleasant occurrence.  For now, she'd avoid people and stick to the wilderness.  Syn was eager to continue honing her skills.  What all was she capable of?

Speaking wasn't much of an issue as she meandered up the coastline.  Wolves weren't exactly interested in conversation.  Though Syn did wonder why there were so many black wolves along the icecaps.  Weren't snowy predators normally white?  At least they made for good target practice.

Reaching the northernmost edge of Skyrim, Syn spied a large castle nestled atop a cliff.  The angular stone structure sat atop a glacier, as if resting in the palm of some ice giant's hand.  A stone bridge connected the main structure to a small but similarly styled one on the mainland.  The bridge had to be the sketchiest thing Syn had ever seen, as it lacked any supports.  Just a stone slab suspended in midair between two points.  It honestly looked like the slightest shift in the earth would send it crumbling.

Syn might not have much working knowledge of the outside world, but she knew what this place was.  The College of Winterhold.  The seat of the mages in Skyrim.  Syn knew this because her Master had expressly told her (and the rest of the expedition) to avoid the College at all costs.  After all, it was the Mage's College that made necromancy illegal.  Whether it was actually out of a belief that experimenting on the dead was immoral, or just to garner a better reputation among the masses, most mages wouldn't hesitate to eliminate any necromancer on sight.  Granted, Syn wasn't technically a necromancer.  As if her Master would allow her to learn such skills.  But it would likely be guilt by association.  She supposed technically she would've been considered a thrall, fine details of no one actually summoning her notwithstanding.

She may be alone now, but Syn didn't feel like risking running into one of the College Mages right now.  Maybe they'd sense she was... whatever she was.  So for now, she ignored it and continued north.

There wasn't much farther north from there.  Just some iceflows dotting the Sea of Ghosts.  Further away, though likely too close for the mages' liking, sat Olenveld.  Strange... she'd thought she might see the island from here.  No islands, but she did come across something worse: an ice roc.  Not rock, r-o-c-k, though she did initially mistake it for such when she first walked upon it.  No, roc, as in a giant bird monster that spews out freezing winds.  The thing had been napping (or lying in wait) atop an iceflow, but snapped into the sky as soon as Syn neared it.  Her furs were no match for the biting arctic wind it blew at her, and nor could she fight the beast as it hovered just out of reach of her sword, as if taunting her.  Compared to the alternative, the frigid waters felt like a sauna as Syn dived beneath the ice to escape the roc's relentless pursuit.  Frost crackled along the waterline above, obscuring her view as she swam as quickly as she could, ducking up for air only.

Sadly, the roc was unrelenting.  No matter how far Syn swam, the monster would not call off its chase.  And as undaunted by the cold as Syn usually was, it was beginning to make her limbs stiffen.  Soon she'd be too physically frozen to stay afloat.  Luckily, hope was just on the horizon, as Syn spotted an opening in between some glaciers ahead.  A cave!  Blessedly too small for the massive roc to fit through.  Scrambling up the icy embankment, Syn made a mad dash for the cave, the chilling breath of death literally on her heels.  Syn heard the beast's wings beat against the glaciers as she ducked inside, followed by a cry of anger that she'd escaped.

She didn't notice right away, but the cave was far bigger than she'd expected.  Once she felt assured of her safety within the ice walls, Syn realized that the cave lead down further.  A light shone from within, though not due to the sunlight refracting through the crystalline walls.  And was that mumbling?  Curious, and with nothing but time to kill until the roc hopefully lost interest and sought easier prey, Syn followed the path down.

Syn had heard that the folks living in Skyrim were hardy, but she didn't expect them to have carved living quarters from the very ice.  Actually, based on the odd metallic contraption wedged in one side of the wall, Syn guessed it was more accurate to say the cavern had existed for a while, and the current inhabitant had merely made himself at home.  Very at home.  How exactly did one get a bookshelf inside an icy cavern on the edge of the world, out in the sea?  The sight of another man made Syn feel a little anxious, and not just because he looked like a mage.  Or at least a scholar.  He wore simple robes, the dark color contrasting with his white beard.

At first, Syn stood awkwardly halfway down the slope leading into the heart of the cavern, but the man paid her no mind.  He didn't even acknowledge her, instead standing before the metal contraption, mumbling to himself.  The contraption made Syn feel ill at ease.  It was obviously old, judging by the tarnished bronze metal.  Though it was probably even older that it appeared, as the ice likely protected it from most of Skyrim's harsh elements.  Turquoise spheres protruded from the front, like the eyes of some great insect.  When she cautiously approached, the man began to speak, presumably at her.  Then again, it quickly became apparent to Syn that the man was half-mad.  He spoke cryptically, yet poetically, in the manner of all men driven mad by some knowledge.  His ramblings, for all their vagueness, were quite lucid and easy to follow -- even if the leaps of logic were not.

He introduced himself as Septimus Signus, a scholar of some repute, and he was there to study the dwarven artifact, the strange door.  Through his ramblings, Syn gathered that he believed the Heart of Lorkhan had been sealed inside.  As the man blathered on, Syn wracked her brain.  Lorkhan was the god who tricked the other deities into creating Nirn, the planet they lived on.  As punishment, they stole his heart, but unable to destroy the heart of a god, they sealed it away somewhere.  The dwarves, apparently, were obsessed with obtaining godhood through use of the Heart.  Syn could definitively state that many believed the dwarves tampering with the heart was what resulted in their unexplained disappearance.  Short of going back in time, no one could say.  Though the belief explained why Septimus might think it was here... somewhat.

Coming back to the present, Syn realized she'd zoned out for a minute while the man continued his story.  But he either didn't notice or was accustomed to people staring blankly at him, because he gave not a single pause.  His lack of need for her input to continue this one-sided conversation was both familiar and a little annoying.  It wasn't until he mentioned needing an Elder Scroll to open the box that Syn's attention settled fully on his ramblings.  That was a title that needed little thought to remember.  Elder Scrolls were the rarest, most coveted, and most mysterious artifacts known to man and mer.  These relics existed outside of creation, and even the gods couldn't tamper with the events hidden within.  They showed the future, or the past, or multiples of both.  Finally, Septimus faced Syn fully.  "But perhaps you can go where Septimus cannot."

Septimus blathered on about how he thought a Scroll existed in Skyrim, and that this one in particular revealed the secret to opening the chamber to the Heart.  Why the Scroll would have such information, Syn couldn't guess.  Though if the dwarves had been storing it, and the Heart, it made some sense.  The madman's eyes suddenly clearly focused on Syn for the first time since this strange conversation began.  "You will find it for Septimus."

Syn could only stare back, surprised not only by her apparent trustworthiness but viability to retrieve such an important artifact from a dangerous ruin.  Perhaps solitude had made him long for companionship.  Or perhaps it was because Syn hadn't outrighted attacked him.  Either way, the next thing Syn knew, Septimus was shoving two metallic objects at her.  The first, a heavy metal sphere.  Septimus called it an Attunement Sphere, and said she'd need it to activate the machine housing the Elder Scroll.  The dwarves had imagined themselves as gods of logic, but Syn recognized the weighty ball as just a glorified key.  The second, much more interesting object, Septimus called a Lexicon.  A metallic box, a little bigger than a handful, of dark metal with indecipherable markings.  It looked like it was made of panels that could open.  A box?  According to Septimus, the Lexicons had been used to store information for the dwarves.  Rather than bringing the Scroll to him, Septimus wanted Syn to transcribe the information within the Scroll into the Lexicon so he could safely read it.  Reading an Elder Scroll had some nasty side effects, including blindness and madness.  Syn gazed knowingly at the old man, his madness and interest in the dwarves suddenly making more sense.  He wanted to read Scrolls, and the dwarves had apparently found a way to do it safely.

Syn could've refused.  She was hardly equipped to take on a ruin, likely filled with all manner of traps and automatons.  She'd overheard more than a few stories from necromancers of losing expedition teams in such ruins.  The dwarves may be gone, but their defenses certainly were not.  And yet, perhaps because she could refuse, Syn found herself rasping out, "Where...?"  The sound of her own voice startled her, barely a croak.  Was that what she sounded like?  It matched the growing voice in her head, just as rough from disuse.  She wasn't even entirely sure it was coherent enough to be understood.  But it must have been, because the next thing she knew, Septimus was handing her a map of the country.  It was old, but probably accurate enough.  Places like Skyrim didn't change much.  Syn was familiar enough with their expedition to give a rough estimate of their current location northeast of Winterhold.  Septimus helpfully marked the location of the ruin in question, Alftand.  It wasn't terribly far away, maybe a day or so journey southwest toward the center of the country.  And without another word, Septimus ushered her off.

Still unsure if she should even attempt to assist this madman, Syn decided to head back to her camp to think things over.

And for the record, the roc had not lost interest.

[tastesoftamriel]

Into Oblivion, part 2 (a long tale by Talviel)

The casserole I’d made for dinner was mainly ignored in favour of wine, after the news that Brynjolf had just shared. Our aim was to get as drunk as possible, on whatever was in my pantry, because it was very likely that both of us were going to die very soon. Needless to say, the night ended much the same as our last encounter in Riften: in absolute disarray, and in bed.

We woke up around noon the next day, groggy and with pounding heads. “For a change, I’ll get the housekeeper to organise breakfast.” I groaned. “Good thinking.” Brynjolf grunted into his pillow. I called out for Felayn to bring us some fruit, cheese, and bread. In a moment, a large tray was brought to the bed, filled with a hearty amount of food.

“So lass, too early to start planning?” Brynjolf said between a mouthful of buttered bread. “Definitely. I promised Geldis Sadri over at the Retching Netch that I would come by to learn his sujamma recipe, and if I’m going to die I’m taking that to my grave.” “Aye, that’s fair enough. If that’s the case, while you do that I’ll go visit Glover and see if I can sway him.” We finished our breakfast and agreed to meet back at the manor whenever we were done.

Geldis was somewhat annoyed that I hadn’t turned up yesterday like I said I would, but his frown was replaced with delight when he saw the satchel of goodies I’d brought for him from Skyrim, in case he’d changed his mind about teaching me. He lead me to a secret trapdoor that led downstairs to his personal brewing chamber, and we got to work. It turns out sujamma is a lot more complicated to make than I’d originally anticipated, and the lesson only concluded by early evening.

By the time I got back to Severin Manor, Brynjolf was waiting for me by the fireplace, digging into a plate of last night’s casserole. “Ah, you’re finally back, lass. You took a while.” “Sorry about that,” I said, hanging up my cloak and scarf. “Turns out sujamma making is even more difficult than simultaneously picking the pocket of a draugr deathlord and carrying off the contents of a Falmer’s chest in one hand. How’d it go with Mallory?”

I helped myself to a heaping plate of casserole and sat down next to Brynjolf, feeling that tingle of delight I always get whenever I’m around him. “It went surprisingly well.” He said, sounding pleased. “Whatever it was Delvin wrote in that letter worked. Glover was beaming ear to ear and we’d struck up a deal in 15 minutes. I’ve had worse jobs.” “Well done.” I said, swallowing a large bite of casserole.

When dinner was finished, we sat in solemn silence, trying to put off the matter at hand. In the end, I broke the silence. “So, Oblivion. Did the High King say where we’d find the gate?” Brynjolf was silent for a moment, then went to his satchel to dig out a map. “You know Solstheim better than I do, lass. Apparently it’s near a Skaal village, somewhere northeast.” “I know where that is. The Skaal are smart enough not to go anywhere near it, though they’re probably busy fending off whatever creatures are coming out of it. They won’t help us.”

Brynjolf took a sip of mead. “I was tossing up the idea of asking for help. Even from Karliah, but she seems to have disappeared again. But we’re Nightingales and we work stealthily and quietly. I don’t want to go barging in announcing our presence with a whole army, which was my original plan: to bribe the Redoran Guard until I saw you. We go in and get out.” “Eyes open, and walk with the shadows.” I intoned. “Indeed. Walking in the shadows in Oblivion seems to be the smartest and safest thing we can do.” Brynjolf replied.

We sat in thought for a while. “What worries me is that we don’t exactly have a map or know what we’re going to find beyond that gate.” Brynjolf said. “That’s true, but luckily for you I spent a good few months in the Imperial City and was perusing the library when I discovered transcripts of Martin Septim’s studies of the Deadlands before he died, as well as the journal of the Hero of Cyrodiil in which there were several sketches and explanations of the layout and creatures we’d expect to find when we pass through that gate.” I replied smugly. “Obviously I can’t remember all of it, but I have a rough idea of how to find the stone. If the High King doesn’t need the stone right away, I can send a message to the College of Winterhold, who probably have a copy of the journal in their library that we can borrow.”

“You, lass, are an absolute legend.” Brynjolf said, grinning, leaning in to kiss me. I pushed him back. “Look Brynjolf, if we’re going to probably die together, I just want to know…what are we?” He looked confused. “Well, we’re…partners in crime?” “No, you idiot. I meant…with all this kissing and rolling around in bed and whatnot, are we together or what?” I demanded.

“Lass, you’re wearing an amulet of Talos, not an amulet of Mara.” “Thanks for pointing out the obvious, but I didn’t say we were getting married.” “We are what we are, lass.” He said, caressing my neck. “I know you love me, and I want to love you too. We just may not have much time left. But I’m grateful for whatever time we do have left, because I get to spend it with you.” I blushed, feeling the rush 16 year old me felt whenever I saw Brynjolf. “I feel the same. I’m just glad you said me and not one of your Guild underlings.” He knuckled my hair. “You are one of my Guild underlings, lass. Now who’s the idiot? Can I get that kiss now please?”

After lying together in bed for a while, I got up and started writing urgently on a piece of parchment to the College of Winterhold, hoping they had a copy of the Hero of Cyrodiil’s journal. I contemplated writing to the Imperial library as well, but decided against it as the message could take weeks to arrive. I got up and started pulling my clothes on. “Whoa, what’s the rush, lass?” Brynjolf said, looking concerned. “I’ve got to find a messenger to deliver this to the College of Winterhold as soon as possible if we want a minute chance of living. We need as much leverage as we can get if we plan on pulling this off. I’ll be back shortly.”

I wandered over to the docks, not feeling too optimistic about finding a courier in the dead of night, but feeling the urgency of getting my message sent to Skyrim on the first boat out in the morning. After a futile chat to the sailors, they suggested I check the Retching Netch. I thanked them and hurried over. The inn was packed when I got in, so I rushed over to Geldis to ask if I could make an announcement. Looking confused, he agreed and I clambered onto the bar counter. “Attention good folk! Are any of you couriers who are travelling to Skyrim on the first boat out tomorrow morning? This is very urgent and I will pay good gold.” I yelled. The inn stood in complete silence, before a young Nord looked up from his tankard of sujamma and waved his hand. I jumped off the bar and walked over to him.

“Are you really a courier, or did you just perk up when you heard the word ‘gold’?” I asked. “No, I’m really a courier! Here are my credentials, and luckily for you I’m heading back to Skyrim at sunrise aboard the Northern Maiden.” I breathed a sigh of relief and handed him my envelope. “Make sure this gets safely to the College of Winterhold as quickly as possible. I’ll pay you double if you make it your first stop as soon as you step off that boat.” “Done deal.” The courier hiccuped, and I handed him a pouch containing 300 septims, an outrageous amount that most couriers would only see after a few months. I wished him a safe journey, then made my way home.

“Any luck?” Brynjolf asked when I got to the bedroom. “Just enough of it thankfully, though we’ll need more luck beyond that damn gate.” I said. “Now we just wait a week or so and see if we can get that book.” “This is going to be the longest week of my life.” He groaned. “Really? With me around?” I laughed, poking him in the ribs. “Fair point, lass.” He replied, poking me back.

End of part 2

[plumpburgers]

SKYRIM PROMPT

I never really played video games coming up. Everyone had video games but I didn’t. I preferred books, cartoons, movies, and the like. That’s not to say I’m not familiar with video games. Growing up I was a writer, I still am, and I liked to dissect the storylines of games. Love Portal, love Kingdom Hearts, love Subnautica. I really appreciate lore. But there was one game that I really appreciated for its complexity. Basically, I’m 17 and a few weeks ago for the first time ever in life I started playing Skyrim. I’m about level 21 now, but around 15 I started hunting word walls. I’m at the point where all undead are re-dead in maybe 5 hits or less (save bosses) I’ve got some daedric artifacts and completed the College of Winterhold questline and similar basic stuff, I’m holding off on heading to Skuldafn just yet. And I just love how no matter your skill, people like bandits and forsworn still try to run up on you.

Honestly I just want someone to write me a story where a group of Bandits have taken over a mine and that’s their center of operations. They go out on raids periodically and they bring back some good loot and they just love their wild lives and everyone has their own complex little relations and you’ve got dating within the group and a couple bandits that think they’re hot shit just because they know a little magic. One of them even brags that they could have gotten into the College at Winterhold if they wanted to.

-And then I want to read a first person account of how one day this random stranger wearing a mask, with this warrior woman following along beside him/her, just wanders up the pathway accidentally and stops at their camp to get their bearings.

-The Bandits intercept them, everyone’s rowdy and sarcastic, and they all get ready to gather around the two of them and pick off their stuff.

-They keep it light, they tease them, say the iconic “You picked a bad time to get lost friend” and start to move in. A couple of them draw their weapons. Others in the back are calling dibs on the cool mask. Looks almost like it came off of a real Dragon Priest. Then out of nowhere this loner stranger fucKINGG SHOUTS GIBBERISH AND FULL ON ENCASES FOUR GUYS IN ICE

- The dudes fall to the ground and everyone is fucking shook but they regain their composure and collectively decide to rush this pair because they’re a family.

-Then the woman runs forward and charges them and wait…IS SHE WEARING DWARVEN ARMOR?

-She’s wielding a Dwarven mace too?! Who are these guys? She easily takes out 2 or 3 people in a snap.

-Already everything’s going to shit. Now the first stranger, the one who Shouted, is crackling with magicka. Our POV sees someone they never really got along with, running toward the stranger. One bolt of lighting. Two. Suddenly their fellow Bandit fam is a pile of glowing ash.

- They stand there mesmerized. Too much is going on. One of their mage buddies comes running from the mine, already casting frostbite. It slows down the woman, who has already mowed through 9 of her clan.

-Another mage friend comes out, casting fire at the Shouter. Then there’s a burst of purple/black light and…is that? It can’t be. An Atronach?! From Oblivion? I’m gonna be sick.

-Both mages pale as this guy’s personal fucking daedra starts taking out their archers.

-The Shouter is only getting started, he runs to his companion, flash of light and her blue skin is restored to a healthy glow, then he whirls on his heel and shouts again. This time a wall of fire rushes to take out the mages.

- They were brothers. They always made awful puns.

- The mine doors burst open and higher ranking bandits rush toward them. Hope! They’re really good fighters. Seconds only to the chief.

-By now our POV has snapped out of it and brandishes their sword. They charge screaming at his back, half hysterical, when he shouts again.

-Our POV is relieved to see the Seconds okay, but their weapons have been torn away and tossed out of reach by this stranger’s VOICE.

-They falter. Should they scramble for their weapons or try to overwhelm the two of with numbers. The daedra is gone and there are a few straggling archers hiding out in concealed lookouts.

-In their hesitation, the woman runs into the fray and starts destroying.

-Our POV is a little impressed because DOES SHE STOP TO BREATHE? Chief would love her.

-While they’re distracted the Shouter prepares another spell. What is it? Another daedra? Please not another daedra.

-Not a daedra, but it’s worse.

-One of the mage brothers is reanimated. He moans, turns on the others and starts casting frostbite.

-Our POV is definitely going to be sick

-With the warrior woman drawing the attention and the Shouter picking people off with lighting, the higher ranks are reduced to nothing. The ice mage drops to the ground, the spell having expired.

-Our POV releases a silent heartbroken squeak

-Now it’s just our POV, and the strangers. The woman starts to step forward and the Shouter stops her. “Wait Lydia,” he says. “I just learned this new one.”

- The POV doesn’t know what to do. They’re confused. They just stand there. The Shouter directs a shout their way and POV is overcome with fear. The kind of primal fear that means the difference between life and death. Their legs are moving before POV realizes and they can’t carry them fast enough. They run down a path and hide in a cluster of rocks. They can just see the edge of the hill, the mine entrance obscured.

-Only one person is left to fight Lydia and the stranger

-She can just hear the chief’s voice. Rage and anguish. His rag tag family. His volunteer army. His merry band, gone.

- The chief is out for blood and POV hears the clang of Dwemer metal on banded iron.

-A shock that probably sears the chief’s skin is heard. But the fight goes on.

-Then another shout. This one is impossible not to hear. Loud doesn’t describe it. It’s even more primal. The ground trembles and the air explodes with something like focused thunder. FUS RO DAH

-POV can just see the chief’s body sailing through the air, over a low ridge.

-POV hopes the crunch was imagined.

-They crawl out of their spot as the twisted fear wears off. The strangers are coming back down the path. We consider these two random strangers who ruined POV’s life in 10 minutes. These walking hurricanes. These monsters! Bandits are an accepted part of Skyrim, everyone else accepts it! Why didn’t these two? Why did it have the be their clan. POV is completely alone now. They fight back tears.

- “-don’t know why they always do this Lydia,” the Shouter was saying, “I just wanted to check the map. They attacked US. This literally always happens. I just want to live”

-“I agree my Thane. Perhaps one day we can relax and train at our own pace, without the threat of death. Maybe with the Blades. I hear the wine in Markarth is-”

-POV comes out and interrupts, poorly blinking back sorrow,“You’re a Thane? Wearing that?! Who even are you?”

-Lydia looks fierce but the other Shouter removes their mask and looks POV in the eyes. Their face is surprisingly tired and kind.

-They ask our POV a question

-“How fast would you say news travels in Skyrim?”

-“About as fast as anyone can talk,” POV responds. A hard exterior forming. It will now be necessary after all.

-Yet you haven’t heard of the Dragonborn?

OH THE POSSIBILITIES!!!!!!!!

[whispersafterdusk]

In  Your Hands - ch 3

It felt like a lifetime had passed.

The sight of Fort Dawnguard atop its hill was...not altogether a welcome one, but it at least meant shelter, food, and the presence of helping hands to bandage the crusty, scabbed over claw marks that had made his right arm all but useless with pain.  Stored away in a saddlebag was what remained of the armguard that had been torn off as a bear had charged and ravaged him -- Ralsten was grateful for the craftsmanship that had let the guard cling to him long enough for Gunmar to sink an axe into the back of the bear's neck, but in its death throes the bear's jaws had snapped the leather strap and sent it flying free, and those nasty claws had sunk in and gouged deep, long lines from forearm to bicep in the blink of an eye.

He'd cleaned the wounds as best as he could and Gunmar had helped him bandage them; neither of them had any sort of potion or tincture to drink or apply to the gouges, and Ralsten suspected they were beginning to turn and go infected as the pain had steadily grown worse and his arm - while it looked bruised but more or less normal - felt hot to the touch nearest the tears. ((Continued under cut))

Not for the first time the wood elf cursed himself for stubbornly not spending the coin to fully replenish his supplies, telling himself over and over that he would quickly stop at home and restock from the supplies he kept readily on hand -- potions kept in the storeroom did him no good out on the field, and he was paying for it now...but, the fort was right there.  Even if they had no potions or medicine to spare there would still be people there to help lance the wound, drain any infection, and clean it out properly.

Once again as he shouldered his way into the keep Isran met him; Ralsten could immediately tell something had the man riled up, especially when he stalked over to grab the elf by the arm (thankfully his uninjured one) and drag him off to the right of the main entrance, to one of the side rooms Ralsten had steered clear of -- it was a claustrophobic space, with a torture rack and various...tools...scattered across the table near it, with old blood stains painting the floor beneath the rack.

He was utterly surprised to see the woman - Serana - stood between the rack and the singular chair of this tiny, terrible place.  Isran gave him a push forward when he stalled in his surprise, and Serana's eyes narrowed, just barely perceptibly, at the Dawnguard's commander.

Her expression softened into one of wary friendliness when her attention moved back to Ralsten.

"You probably weren't expecting to see me again."

Ralsten looked her up and down; she had no visible wounds or signs of mistreatment, and miraculously had the Elder Scroll strapped to her back.  "What...what are you doing here?"  How had she gotten in the door without someone killing her?

"I'd rather not be here either, but I needed to talk to you.  It's important, so...please, just listen before your friend here loses his patience."

Ralsten glanced over his shoulder to Isran; the man looked enraged and disgusted by Serana's presence, but met Ralsten's gaze for a moment before moving around him to stand imposingly and needlessly close to the woman.  Serana didn't acknowledge him, attention remaining on Ralsten.

"It's...well, it's about me.  And this Elder Scroll that was buried with me."

He nodded.  "I gathered.  What about...ah, you?"

"The reason I was down there... It all comes back to my father.  I'm guessing you figured this part out already, but my father's not exactly a good person.  Even by vampire standards.  He...he wasn't always like that though.  There was...a turn.  He stumbled onto this obscure prophecy and just kind of lost himself in it."

The elf's attention flicked to the handle of the Elder Scroll that jutted above her shoulder.  "What sort of prophecy?"

Serana's gaze dropped to the floor briefly and when she looked up her eyes were as cold as ice - but it wasn't anger at him, he felt.  "It's pointless and vague, like all prophecies.  The part he latched onto said that vampires would no longer need to fear the sun.  That's what he's after.  He wants to control the sun, have vampires control the world."

Even Isran looked surprised at that.  Ralsten took a moment to let that sink in, slowly shaking his head.  "That's...ah."  He fumbled for words.  "-what do you mean, lost himself?"

"He just became...absorbed," she answered after a pause.  "Obsessed. It was kind of sick, actually.  A prophecy saying vampires would no longer need to fear the sun?  For someone who fancies himself as vampire royalty, that's pretty seductive."

They fell into an uneasy silence; Serana refused to look at Isran, refused to meet the man's angry glare.  Isran had remained silent as he listened and still did not speak.  Ralsten again let everything sink in, trying to ignore the insistent, painful throbbing of the claw marks across his arm.

"Why come here?  You -- you took a huge risk coming here."

Serana smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.  "I had heard there were vampire hunters here.  I thought they might want to know about a vampire plot to enslave the rest of the world.  And, as for the risk - I did take a huge risk.  But something about you-" Ralsten knew that was directed at him, and him only "-makes me think I can trust you.  I hope I'm not wrong."

"But YOU'RE a vampire," he blurted out.  "Why work against your own kind?"

"If something happens to the sun don't you think people would rise up to correct it?  What my father plans would draw attention to vampires - all vampires - and...  My mother and I didn't feel like inviting a war with all of Tamriel, so we tried to stop him.  That's why I was sealed away with the Scroll."

"So...to prevent a war, you want us to help you."

She nodded.  "That was the plan, yes.  I came here for help - I came looking for YOU.  You already know you can trust me at your side.   Assuming the rest of them can trust a vampire... I'll need you to help convince them."

Isran flashed her another glare as she spoke as though he wasn't standing inches from her, then his attention shifted to the wood elf.   "All right, you've heard what it has to say. So tell me - is there any reason I shouldn't kill this bloodsucking fiend right now?"

Ralsten stared at him in silence for a breath or two.  Had he not heard a damned word Serana had said?  "Because we're going to need her help."

"You actually believe that?"

"Why else would she walk into a stronghold of vampire hunters?"

Isran snorted.  "Who knows.  Maybe it has a death wish.  Maybe it's just insane.  I don't really care."

"It is a woman and SHE has a name," Ralsten snapped.  "Set your hatred aside and try to see the larger picture, Isran."

"Set my hatred aside?  Not a chance," Isran growled.  "It's what keeps me strong."

Ralsten rolled his eyes, looking to the ceiling before closing them and exhaling loudly through his nose.  "You don't trust her - fine.   Trust me.  I believe her."  He opened his eyes to fix Isran with a determined stare.  "You've trusted me so far, and I've been into and survived the beast's den."

For a very long moment the two men stared one another down; at last Ralsten saw Isran's jaw clench, then the man let out an angry grunt.   "You'd better know what you're doing.  IT can stay for now, but if it so much as lays a finger on anyone here, I'll hold you responsible.  Got it?"

Ralsten opened his mouth to reply, only for Serana to finally look to the hunter.  "I'll remember your generosity the next time I get hungry."

He quickly made a 'knock it off' gesture at her; thankfully Isran just gave the woman a warning look, then stomped off deeper into the fort.  For several breaths Ralsten strained his ears in the silence, trying to tell if Isran was informing anyone else of their guest...but the fort was silent - devoid even of the sounds of men and women training.

Slowly he breathed out - he hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath - and looked to Serana.  "I'm not sure if that could have gone better or not."

She nodded.  "I wasn't expecting a warm welcome, but he's...something else."

Ralsten chuckled quietly at that - she wasn't wrong, after all.   Again he looked her over and she seemed in fine health.  "With that over...what next?"

"I managed to get out of the castle with the Scroll, obviously," came her answer.  "Whatever it says, it has to have something that can help us stop my father.  Of course...neither of us can read it."

"True."  Ralsten rubbed at his bandaged arm, and peeked under its edge.  It would be better for everyone if he got out of here as quickly as possible, before Isran had a chance to change his mind - he would need to get this taken care of very soon, even if it hadn't been infected.  "Do you know who COULD read a Scroll?"

Serana was quiet a moment.  "Well, the Moth Priests are the only ones I've heard of who can do it.  They spend years preparing before they start reading though.  Not that it helps us anyway because they're all half a continent away in Cyrodiil."

With a nod and a gesture Ralsten headed back out to the main entryway of the fort and then kept going, heading off to the side rooms with Serana following close behind.  As he passed shelves and cabinets he began to grab potions, bandages, cleaning cloths; the last thing he found after searching through the kitchen area was a pitcher of water.   He carried it all back to the corner cot he'd claimed as his and laid it out across a very small and short table.

"Before we start planning a trip to Cyrodiil do you have any other ideas on how we can figure out what's in that thing?"

He poured the water into a bowl and dropped one of the cloths into it; Serana seated herself on the stool Ralsten had been sitting on in what felt like an age ago.

"Well, back before I...you know.  The College of Winterhold was the first place I'd think to go for any kind of magic or historical thing.   The wizards know about all kinds of things that people shouldn't know about.  Actually, now that I think of it...I'm going to come along with you.  I've been really wanting to get out and explore a bit, and it gets lonely by myself."

Ralsten fumbled one of the bottles open and a pungent, herbal scent filled the air.  "Is that a request to learn more of me?" he teased.  He smeared the bottle's contents across another cloth and then took a small, sharp knife from the table to cut off the knot holding the dirty bandage to his arm.

"Not at this rate, no," Serana answered dryly.  Ralsten laughed at that, and she smiled at his response.

"Well, we can get to exploring first thing tomorrow morning.  I need to clean this out and get it taken care of before my arm falls off and I get sick."

She nodded at that and sat quietly as he quickly and properly tended to the injury.  She didn't even move until it came time for him to tie the bandage to his arm; without a word she'd reached out to tie it for him, as he held the bandage in place.

"-you may not be curious about me, but I am of you.  I can't say I've met many vampires like you."

She smiled faintly.  "I can believe that."

He began closing bottles and folding up the leftover bandaging.   "Were you always a vampire? -- I mean, were you a vampire as a child and...do vampires actually grow up?  I've never seen a child vampire among them."

She let out a laugh that was mostly an exhale.  "We stop aging when we're turned.  As for how I became one...it's...a long story."

"I'd like to hear it, if you're willing."

The look she gave him was part surprise, part wariness, and she didn't reply right away.  "I...  I guess...we kind of have to go way back.  To the very beginning of my story.  Do you know where vampirism came from?"

"If...I remember correctly, it came from one of the daedric lords."

She smiled.  "Exactly!  The first vampire came from Molag Bal.  She...she was not a willing subject."

Ralsten flinched slightly at that, and she paused to look at him curiously.  He made a 'go on' motion at her and started cleaning up the blood and mess from the table with a clean corner of one of the cloths.

"-she wasn't willing, but she was still the first," Serana went on.   "Molag Bal is a powerful daedric lord, and his will is made reality.   For those willing to subjugate themselves he will still bestow the gift...but they have to be powerful in their own right before earning his trust."

"How did your family - how did YOU - become a vampire then?"

Her smile faded and her expression went neutral.  "The ceremony was...degrading.  I'd rather not revisit that.  But we all took part in it.  Not really a wholesome family activity but I guess it's something you do when you give yourself to a daedric lord."

Ralsten picked up the bowl of filthy water and chucked its contents toward the entryway, where a drain was sunk into the stone floor.  "-do you regret it?"

Serana straightened a bit where she sat, looking at him in surprise. "...nobody's ever asked me that before.  I...I don't know, really.  I think...mostly, I hate what it's done to my family."

"What exactly did it do?"

She huffed, looking amused.  "Well, you've met most of us.  My father's not exactly the most stable, and eventually he drove my mother crazy with him.  And it all ended with me being locked underground for who knows how long. It's definitely been a bad thing, on the whole."

With everything cleaned up Ralsten flexed to test the hold of the bandage - it seemed to be in the correct place and tied tightly enough to not slip but also not so tight that it would cut off circulation.  He picked up the last bottle - the only one he'd left untouched on the table - and popped the cork free, then downed its contents.  "-Daedric princes... I'll admit, I've had a run in with Molag Bal.  He tried to make me a follower...  I refused him and thankfully survived the conversation, but it was rather frightening.  I can admire your bravery and devotion."

Again it took a moment for her to respond; she seemed to be studying him, brows furrowing and head tilting as she stared and considered the man.  "...not many people understand the appeal.  You keep surprising me."  After another pause she continued.  "Anyway.  Molag Bal is the original source of vampirism...and what I have isn't the watered down child's power you can contract from other vampires.  I'm pureblooded - a creation of the original vampires.  I earned this power and it is far more than what any other vampire you might have met would have."

Slowly Ralsten nodded at that.  "I see.  I never really knew the history that well...and certainly no other vampire I've met did either. That's quite interesting to hear."  He stood and stretched; his armor clanked and creaked softly as it shifted with him.  "All right.  That didn't take as long as I thought it would, and I'm already feeling better.  If you're willing, we can just head out now and start our trek to Winterhold."

"I thought you'd never ask," she said with a smile.

------------------------------------------------------

They rode together, both on the back of Unli; the horse was used to bearing Ralsten in full steel plate armor, and for this trip Ralsten had opted for a lighter set of mixed cured leather and metal plating -- it was much lighter, and he wasn't worried overly much about leaving his plate at the fort (nor was he concerned about the lessened defenses of lighter armor).  With less weight for the horse to worry about Ralsten had given Serana the choice of riding with him or the two of them detouring to a stables to obtain a second horse for her.  The woman had opted to ride with him to save time, and she sat on a padded blanket just behind the saddle at Ralsten's back.

Their conversations were idle but friendly; Serana wanted to know of the world still, and Ralsten found her curiosity comforting, in a way.   Anything he told her, or pointed out, she wanted to know more of -- for once, someone was interested in the knowledge he had about the natural world around them, and he was more than willing to share it about any given thing she asked about.

The closer they drew to Winterhold the harder the ride became - not because of speed but because of weather.  The more it snowed the less Serana spoke, and often he could hear her grumbling about being willing to go back into a crypt just to get out of it.

"Never really cared for the extreme weather across some of these mountains," he commented early one evening as they set up camp while the wind howled and a veritable blizzard closed in on them.  

They had found a cave full of bones and straw - Ralsten thought it was an abandoned bear's cave, mostly because they found an entire, intact bear's skeleton at the very back.  He took a few minutes to clear away bones and larger rocks, piling it all toward the back with the remains of the cave's owner, then guided Unli in and left the horse standing near the entrance where it would be sheltered from the worst of the wind.

"How long do you suppose this storm will last?"

He didn't answer right away as he set about gathering up some of the old straw and dried grasses, piling them into a makeshift firepit he'd dug out with a small spade and surrounded with stones.  "-I'm not sure. I'm more worried about how deep the snows might be, and where else we might encounter storms.  Once the storm's gone the winds will keep the drifts manageable, for the most part, but it's not going to be pleasant in the slightest to ride in this if we get caught out again."

He tugged off his gauntlets and flexed his fingers, then used a flint to strike a spark into the straw and a few of the logs he'd pulled from the saddlebags; one of the few things people didn't tend to carry with them was a few pieces of firewood -- Ralsten had learned a long time ago to not rely solely on what he could collect or scavenge from the wilds when it came to firewood as often it was too green, too wet, or he was somewhere there weren't any trees TO collect anything from.  He imagined he could take the little hatchet hanging from the saddle and trudge out to the trees to collect more if he had to but with how it was snowing he really didn't relish the thought.  Once the storm had died down he could go cut more to replenish what he was using now, or at the very least he would do that before they packed up and left again.

Serana sat nearby, close enough to the fire for warmth but not so close to Ralsten himself; her attention was on the storm outside and she didn't look at him until he was standing over her offering her a cup.

"What's that?"

"Mead.  A little something for the spirit that won't inhibit us too much. Helps warm you up too.  ...vampires DO eat normal foods, right?   I've always found food stores in their dens, but never could figure out if it was strictly for the ah..."

He wanted to say thralls but hesitated - the thought of thralls had always unnerved him...regular folk turned mindless and into a walking source of food like some common beast.

Serana took the cup from him and gave it a sniff.  "We can, but it's mostly for pleasure...regular foods don't sustain us.  What you found was probably for the ca- for the thralls."  She sipped the mead, made a face, and handed it back.

Ralsten smiled.  "I imagined as much, but it always seemed like too much for the thralls I found with them."

"I've always thought the lesser vampires are...wasteful, with their thralls.  Entirely too many like to be cruel and torment mortals around them -- it's a way for them to show off their power, or the illusion of power, so they have them fight others or torture them for their own amusement, and then when they feed off them later they butcher them like-"  she paused and glanced at him with an uneasy look.  Ralsten had kept his expression friendly but inwardly his stomach was twisting.   "-I've always thought it better to care for what we feed off of.   It's...the best I can compare it to is how mortals raise cows and goats.  You don't torture them, because then they'd get injured and sick, and you try to use as much of them as you can.  You survive off them.   Just...just killing them is sick."

Ralsten was silent a long moment, then nodded and tried to not let his soured stomach show in his expression.  "I suppose that makes sense."

"Sorry.  I won't bring it up again."

"I'm the one who brought it up, and it's -- well, I wouldn't say it's fine, but I do understand.  We are very different people, and need different things to survive."

Again she looked at him curiously.  "You seem...more accepting than most.  Why?"

Ralsten prodded at the fire with a stick.  "...I try to look at things in terms of the big picture, or the long game.  It's easier to adapt and adjust if you're thinking further than in the moment.  At its most base you're just trying to survive like the rest of us."  He shifted and looked up at her, her form mostly obscured by the brilliant afterimages of the fire dancing in his eyes.  "It also makes it easier to consider things, and think logically, when there's a problem to solve.  And, to take people individually, rather than assume every person is the same."

"...like me," she said quietly.

It wasn't a question, exactly, but he nodded.  "Like you.  You've not tried to hurt me in any way, you've come to me for help - we're both just trying to save our respective people...though, I have a considerably larger population depending on me."  He smiled weakly at her.

They fell into silence for a time; Serana kept her attention on the storm and politely declined any further offerings of drink or the salted goat meat strips Ralsten pulled from the saddlebags.

Much later the elf had moved over closer to one of the cave's walls and was stretched out with his head braced on a flat stone, watching over his toes as the storm raged on outside.

"You're not telling me something."

He started a bit at Serana's words - he'd grown too comfortable with the silence.  "What?"

"You're a vampire hunter who doesn't seem to...well, hate vampires.  Why?  What aren't you sharing?"

He'd shifted to look at her, and at her questions shifted to look up to the root-encrusted ceiling.  "That's a long story."

There was a pause, then "I'd like to hear it, if you're willing."

He chuckled at having his own words repeated back to him; he waited a breath or two, then looked over to her again.  "Later.  I promise."

[soulstealer1987]

Arc 2, Chapter 7

Ziist Grozein

Ahhh, necromancers. Gotta love 'em. As it happens, Ilinalta's Deep is a lot less of a hassle to deal with when you've got friends. Especially if they know what they're doing. Unfortunately, Aranea being there does mean that Gallus is basically locked into the Azura's Star side of the quest, but he most likely wouldn't have gone to Nelacar for the Black Star anyway, right? 

Crossposted from AO3. Masterpost is here.

Arc 2: A Dream of Despair

Arc 2, Chapter 6 ~ Arc 2, Chapter 8

In retrospect, rushing headlong into a semi-collapsed fort full of necromancers may not have been the best idea Gallus has ever had. It isn’t even close to the best idea Gallus has ever had, not that he keeps track of those. If anything, it’s close to the worse idea he’s ever had, which he does keep track of - for some reason. Now, however, is probably not the time to question his current life decisions. Granted, it never is the time to question his current life decisions, but right after he’s been unceremoniously sent flying into the wall by an atronach really isn’t the right time. It isn’t even close. In fact, he probably should be focusing a bit more on the fact that if he’s not careful, he’s going to die.

Gallus rolls out of the way of the frost atronach’s punch just in time - its fist gets stuck in the wall where his head was moments before,  ha - and shakily stands. His ears are still ringing, because of course they are, and his sheath is empty. Considering that his sword isn’t in his grip, it has to be somewhere nearby. At least, he hopes it’s somewhere nearby. If it’s not, then… he’s definitely got a problem, and a big one.

But first things first.  Even if the atronach currently has one fist, or whatever it’s called, stuck in the wall, it can still pack a punch with the other. So, Gallus wisely takes a couple of big steps back, readies a Courage spell, and uses it on himself to take the edge off the pain for now.

Fuck atronachs. He needs to remember for future reference that necromancers were conjurers first, and can still conjure plenty of nasty things from Oblivion if there aren’t any corpses handy. Apparently.

The atronach roars, whether in anger or in pain, Gallus can’t tell. In truth he’s not sure he wants to know, and as long as it’s stuck, he has other things to worry about. He quickly focuses on his sword, casts Clairvoyance, and-

Are you kidding me, Gallus thinks to himself, because the spell very clearly leads to the rather pissed off frost conjuration still stuck in the wall. He can see his sword under it now and, while it would be easy to take down the atronach if he used fire, he couldn’t manage a Flames spell if he tried.

And he has tried.

So this is how it is: he needs his sword to fight the atronach, but he needs to deal with the atronach to get his sword back, because of course he does. Funny how that works.

A cry from behind him draws his attention, and he sees Erandur and Aranea facing off against a pair of necromancers: one of whom conjured the frost atronach, the other - oh gods that guy reanimated his friend! In any case, dubious morality of the necromancers aside, Aranea took a rather nasty hit to her side, but is otherwise okay. So’s Erandur, and, once Gallus is satisfied they’ll be fine for the time being, he looks around for something he can use to fight the frost atronach.

He could try punching it but, for one thing he’s not at all optimistic about his hand-to-hand skills, and for another, it would be like punching an iceberg - a really big, really pissed off iceberg. Or a wall, except unlike the atronach, Gallus is pretty sure he’d just break his hand. A Calm spell might work long enough for him to get his sword, but his spells tend not to work on atronachs, for whatever reason. It’s probably just that he needs more practice.

His gaze finds a torch, dropped by one of the necromancers and somehow, despite the exceedingly damp conditions, still alight. He grabs it, and holds it between him and the atronach as he advances, slowly and cautiously.

“Nice atronach,” Gallus tries, looking it where he figures its eyes would be if it had any. Naturally, he doesn’t get any further, because the atronach roars and swings wildly with its free fist. Clearly, it’s not in the mood for small talk. Gallus sidesteps it, stumbles a little, but manages to jab the atronach with the flaming end of the torch.

Gallus would be a lot more satisfied about the fact that the thing’s now starting to melt into a messy little puddle of icy hatred if his ears weren’t still ringing and his head didn’t hurt far too much. He shakes his head quickly in the hope that the ringing will get better. It doesn’t. It actually gets worse, much to Gallus’ chagrin. Oh well. He’ll ask Erandur about it when he gets a chance.

As the atronach finishes melting, Gallus dashes forward to grab his sword from underneath a pile of disgusting, melted frost atronach goop. He wipes it off on his mage robes - he really needs to get something other than mage robes, because it’s a pain to fight in these - but now that the atronach’s dealt with, he can worry about Erandur and Aranea.

Fortunately, what Gallus keeps forgetting is that they’re competent fighters too. Probably more so than him, considering they don’t have amnesia and about a month’s worth of memories. The necromancer that summoned the atronach is down, the other necromancer reanimated within seconds of his death is down, and Erandur is fixing up Aranea as Gallus comes over.

“Maybe a stealthy approach might be better from here,” Gallus offers, and leans a little bit heavier than maybe he should on the wall. “I don’t think anyone other than those two heard us, thankfully. Probably because of the noise from the water.”

“Yes, it is on the loud side in here,” Erandur agrees. He nods to Aranea, stands, and heads over to Gallus. That’s when his face falls. “Mara’s Mercy, Gallus, you look terrible. We were fighting different enemies for five minutes.”

“In my defense,” Gallus grins sheepishly, “I wasn’t expecting an atronach.”

“Necromancers are still conjurers,” Aranea says, maybe a little too matter-of-factly, but Gallus isn’t particularly bothered. Even if he’d already figured that bit out himself. “Granted, they are the worst kind of conjurers, and there are those who consider necromancy to be its own school of magic, so it’s not a hard mistake to make. Just be careful.”

“When have I not been careful?”

Erandur clears his throat. “I can name several times when I’ve been with you, and I’m willing to bet that your friends back at the College of Winterhold can name twice that easily,” he smirks.

“Twice that is… honestly being generous,” Gallus shrugs. “Also, my ears are ringing, that might be a problem?”

Erandur’s smirk disappears, and he groans, “Your ears are ringing? That’s not good.”

“I figured. Definitely did hit my head somewhere, that still hurts.”

Aranea looks to Erandur with a frown, “Do you think-?”

“Concussion,” Erandur agrees. “Not a severe one, or he wouldn’t be walking, never mind fighting. Still a problem.”

“I’m fine, really,” Gallus shrugs. “We’ve got a necromancer and a Daedric artifact to find, don’t we?”

Both Erandur and Aranea look skeptical, but the group continues deeper into the semi-flooded fort, albeit with a lot more stealth this time, and with a lot less major injuries. It helps that Aranea, at least, can heal herself, although Erandur’s the Restoration mage here. Aranea’s more of a jack of all trades, when it comes to her magic. (Although, Gallus notices with a hint of pride, he hasn’t seen her or Erandur cast an Illusion spell yet. Ha.)

It’s when they’re nearing what Gallus sincerely hopes is the final chamber that they hear voices, one of which might possibly/hopefully be Malyn Veren himself. Gallus stops just outside the doorway - his stealth skills are pretty good, but there’s being sneaky and being in plain sight - and listens.

“More souls are needed for the Star. The last one died before he could be harvested.”

“We can’t take another villager from the surface so soon. I told you to prepare everything properly.”

“We can just sacrifice another disciple. Apprentice Haerlon will be no great waste.”

“Yes. He’ll do.”

Both are clearly necromancers, and both are clearly talking about Azura’s Star itself. One of the voices is clearly a woman, so definitely not Malyn. The other… possibly. Maybe. The knowledge that whoever these two necromancers are, they’d be more than willing to sacrifice one of their own… it makes Gallus sick to his stomach. Or maybe that’s the concussion.

He glances back to Erandur and Aranea, only to realize that Aranea isn’t there. By the time he figures out where Aranea is, she’s halfway inside the chamber, a plain-looking dagger in her hands and murder in her eyes. Which,  well. Considering what he knows about the Dunmer people’s position on necromancy, and seeing as these particular necromancers have stolen Azura’s Star, he can see why Aranea’s pissed.

Gallus watches, silently, not trusting himself to follow without tripping over something, as she sneaks up behind the closer of the two and slits his throat. He falls, and his partner stumbles back, shouting something, but whatever it was she doesn’t last long. A fireball from Erandur catches her square in the chest, and the second necromancer falls.

“We still have a bit to go,” Aranea says shakily, slipping her dagger back where it came from. “And I’m not certain what we’ll find.”

“Neither are we,” Erandur points out. “Let’s go.” He looks to Gallus, who nods, and the trio continues through Ilinalta’s Deep, offing necromancer after necromancer as they go. And then, in the final room, they find Malyn Veren.

The only problem is, he’s not exactly alive. His skeleton is sitting on a throne, looking completely relaxed, not to mention quite obviously dead. Azura’s Star - or at least, Gallus hopes that’s Azura’s Star, although it really doesn’t look to be in the best condition - lies at his feet, and to the side there’s a book with a bloodstained cover.

Aranea immediately goes for the Star. She picks it up gingerly, examines it and, while she’s frowning and looks vaguely horrified at how outright  broken  it looks, she nods, silently. This is definitely it. Erandur, meanwhile, kneels next to the bloodstained book - a journal, maybe? - and begins leafing through it. Gallus finds himself staring into the cold, dead gaze of Malyn Veren himself.

Pity you’re already dead, Gallus thinks to himself. I was almost looking forward to killing you myself.

“This is it,” Aranea whispers, “but I- something’s gone wrong. I don’t know what. I wish I did. Lady Azura may have some insight, but… we’ll have to return to the Shrine to ask her.”

“It looks like he at least thought he was succeeding,” Erandur nods to the necromancer’s bones with a scowl. “It’s quite clear from this that he lost it some time ago, but other than that… it seems almost like he’s put his own soul into the Star, but that can’t be right.”

“No, it can’t,” Gallus agrees. He still hasn’t torn his gaze away from Malyn’s empty eye sockets. “Why would he do that? Also- how?”

“Maybe if he had one of his followers cast a Soul Trap on him,” Aranea muses, “but I’m not certain the Star is even functional in this condition. It’s all but falling apart as we speak.” She’s cradling Azura’s Star to her chest gingerly, like she’s afraid it’ll disintegrate if she lets go of it. Which, granted, it very well might.

The most intact-looking part of it - the black soul gem inlaid in the middle, which probably isn’t actually supposed to be there, come to think of it - has some nasty looking cracks in it, one of which is so deep that any significant jostling might break the Star in two.

Once, before Malyn Veren got his hands on it, Azura’s Star might have looked a lot like a stylized eight-pointed star, much like the one Azura’s typically depicted holding. He’s pretty sure the statue of Azura at the shrine is holding something quite similar to this, actually.

“That’s probably his fault,” Gallus concludes. “And if we need to get Azura’s input, we should probably get back to Winterhold.”

He can figure out his own position on Azura and Daedric Princes as a whole later. Even so, Nelecar’s words echo in his head.

“Look, I don’t care who asked you to find the Star, but don’t take it back to Azura. The Daedra are evil. They’re the reason Malyn went insane.”

Maybe, but… was it really a smart idea on Malyn’s part to piss off a Daedric Prince who was capable of driving him insane in the first place? Gallus glances down at Erandur as he climbs up the ladder to a trapdoor and, hopefully, a way out. Their gazes meet, and Erandur’s own words on the subject come to mind.

"I may be a priest of Mara, but that doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge Azura as one of the more benevolent Daedric Lords, if not the most benevolent.”

If all Daedric Princes were evil, Erandur would know that better than anyone, considering his history with Vaermina. And, if he’s on-board with helping out Aranea, assuming it’s not just because he’s quite clearly head over heels for her, then Gallus supposes he can be, too.

Speaking of Aranea, her words too come to mind as Gallus pushes open the trapdoor and climbs out into the open air of Falkreath Hold.

“The visions are a gift. Azura warns me of tragedy, war, death before it happens. I won’t leave her guidance.”

Aranea seems to think of Azura in an almost personal way, although it’s quite clear she reveres Azura just as much as Erandur reveres Mara, if not even more. Her entire way of life revolves around Azura and, while Gallus can’t imagine himself being happy that way, she certainly seems to be.

With that settled, it’s almost dark, and the trio has just enough time to get back to Falkreath before night falls. The carriage driver there outright refuses to take them back, and no amount of flattery or gold can change his mind. So, they stay at the local inn, which is named the Dead Man’s Drink for some reason. And they say necromancers are morbid.

Fortunately, there’s enough rooms for everyone to get one of their own and, while the innkeeper does mention something about how there’s been a lot of traffic through Falkreath lately and something about a lot of Dunmer, too, Gallus doesn’t pay much attention.

He’s far too tired, and concussion be damned, he’s going to sleep and nothing is going to stop him.

(In retrospect, that may not have been the best idea on Gallus’ part, but it’s not like he has a history of making terrible decisions and having to figure out how to deal with the aftermath of them later.)

(Oh. Wait.)