#cyrodiil problems

[cyrodiilproblems]

some idiot calling the guards because "there's an oblivion gate" my dear sir that is a sunset

[pinbones]

Ataxia real?! I thought they made that shit up for Skyrim apothecaries

[kyliafanfiction]

I have been guilty of it in the past, but if you’re making fanfic of a video game that has a (in the game) silent protagonist, or a protagonist choosing from a very limited selection of dialogue choices, etc, and then you choose to have your protagonist not only speak, not only say things the game doesn’t let you say, but say things that are radically distinct from what the game could normally allow...

Then you can’t immediately return to game dialogue in the next line that has nothing to do with anything.

[volumina-vetustiora]

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN - There is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness. You don't have to do anything anymore.

LIMBIC SYSTEM - But what's this? An awareness creeps up on you. A jumping, juddering sensation forces your head up and your eyes open.

LOGIC [Easy: Success] - You are moving. On a cart of some kind.

INTERFACING [Trivial: Success] - Your hands are bound. This is a *problem*. With your magic digits out of action, you're helpless!

RALOF (BLOND BRAID GUY) - There is a blond man with a braid in his hair sitting across from you. He tries to get your attention: “Hey you! You're finally awake.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Success] - He has piercing blue eyes. Oceanic.

RALOF (BLOND BRAID GUY) - “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there.”

LOKIR, THE HORSE THIEF - He gestures towards the meek looking man next to him.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] - Imperial. Of the Empire. What Empire? *The* Empire. The great Empire of Men, centred at the Imperial City, in the Imperial Province of Cyrodiil. These guys used to rule the world.

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Failure] - Clearly they still do.

LOKIR, THE HORSE THIEF - “Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along!”

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - His sudden anger is a thin disguise for terrible, terrible fear.

LOKIR, THE HORSE THIEF - “Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell.” He turns to you. “You there. You and me—we shouldn't be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Formidable: Failure] - Stormcloaks?

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Easy: Success] - Cool name.

RALOF (BLOND BRAID GUY) - “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.”

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - Brothers and sisters? Like he wouldn't trample over the lot of you for a chance to get out of here.

IMPERIAL SOLDIER - The cart driver speaks up: “Shut up back there!”

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Easy: Success] - Silence.

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Medium: Success] - You watch the snowflakes dance in the air.

SHIVERS [Easy: Success] - This land is cold. Bitterly cold.

[the-elder-polls]

because i have been enabled again by yall im gonna ramble a little about my nerevarine, rildras, cuz hes been on my mind a lot lately. please talk to me about him i love this freak so much

his parents are an urshilaku exile named nedrala and uh. azura. he's a demiprince and that's one of the least strange things about him.

he grew up in cyrodiil. he knows he spent the first few years of his life with his mother nedrala but he doesn't remember anything about her because he was so little. when he was about 5, she dropped him off at an orphanage and he never saw or heard from her again.

he was a thief for most of his childhood, all of his adolescence, and well into his adulthood. he got caught ONCE and got deported to morrowind. (he is still mad about this.)

dagoth ur is his baby daddy/he's dagoth ur's baby daddy. don't worry about that too much. totes normal

he's 6'10"/208cm, lanky, hairy, and perpetually kinda dazed

he hates the gods. all of them. aedra, daedra. none of them are exempt from the depths of rildras' hatred

he stole an indoril helm and started wearing it midway through the events of morrowind out of spite

he eventually retired to become a mushroom farmer. he learned about the following games and turned in the opposite direction cuz he's already saved the world once. not his problem anymore

here's some art i've done of him please look at my freak

[jiubilant]

Do you think Morokei and Savos Aren ever had like, a thing?

Like yeah, one of them was a millennia old litch who was probably deeply racist and one of them was an undergrad having the worst and most traumatic experience in his life, but at the same time...

A: Morokei knows Savos Aren's last name and uses it, which seems weird in the context that Savos should be more or less a bug to him. You'd expect him to be derisive, even if he did know Aren's name right?

B: Refers to Savos as "my old friend".

C: Seems genuinely disappointed when he realises the player character isn't Savos? And then stops talking to you soon after.

And all of this is from an encounter that was (to our knowledge) a quick mage battle in which Aren sacrificed his friends and immediately escaped. So it feels like something's missing.

i just had a thought...remember the "mages can communicate telepathically with one another" lore?

[T]he mages of the War College in Cyrodiil (who were handling communications for the Council) reported problems linking up with their compatriots in Akavir, even between master and pupil of long training. [x]

i think morokei could have broken into aren's mind—and probably the minds of his companions as well—in order to learn who they were and how to best terrorize them into doing his bidding and freeing him. it's not within the realm of impossibility that the mindlink persevered right up until aren's death. given that aren never really put the trauma of bromjunaar behind him you could in a warped and awful way call morokei and aren "master and pupil of long training"

[what-even-is-thiss]

Can’t sleep so I’m giving beyond Skyrim Bruma another try on Xbox this time and I decided to go through the main quest and civil war before heading to Bruma and I ended up picking up the blades armor during the main quest because it went well with my battlemage build and to my surprise the NPCs in the mod react to you if you’re wearing blades armor.

I was so surprised when one of the guys from the knockoff mages guild said hey don’t let the thalmor see you wearing that armor. And not surprised when the thalmor saw me wearing that armor and nothing happened.

People also make note of the armor being old and akaviri in design.

People in the mod also have special dialogue depending on the quests in Skyrim you’ve done which I honestly didn’t expect. When the guy guarding the gate realized I was in the imperial legion he let me into Cyrodiil no problem and the thalmor in Bruma were pissed at me for being the Dragonborn. Idk if that has anything to do with me carving a bloody canyon through their Skyrim embassy but that’s how I’m choosing to read that.

I’m considering going back to do the dark brotherhood questline to see if anything special happens after you kill the emperor.

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[mehrunessdagon]

been having massive brainrot about my recent skyrim mc so here are some things about her that i would like to share:

unironic mehrunes dagon and namira worshipper

joined the stormcloaks not because she particularly cares about the politics of skyrim (shes a breton, she has enough internal strife to think about) but because oh boy wouldnt it be fun to be part of a revolution

doesn't have any problems with the empire, just the fourth era thalmor (understandably)

thinks the thalmor weren't actually too bad during the first and second altmeri dominion(s), just hates those in the current era. both because of the obvious xenophobia and because they took credit for "saving the altmeri people" post-oblivion crisis

^^ part of the reason she worships dagon, she believes their failure to prevent another oblivion crisis will lead to people questioning them and ultimately their downfall in tamriel

joined the dark brotherhood simply because she likes murder. she truly does not give a fuck about sithis or the tenets

simultaneously a massive nerd who loves history and collecting books. yes this means i have to find every single book and yes it is a pain in the arse organising them all

helps the citizens of skyrim not because she cares but because she's bored and needs something to pass the time / make money before she can finally go home. best believe she does not remember anyone's name

^^ she ends up actually enjoying life in skyrim and never leaves

got stuck in skyrim by accident, was intending to journey to the mythic dawn headquarters in cyrodiil but got stopped at the border

ofc there is still more about her that i haven't put into words yet but maybe i will eventually add those if people actually care enough

[cyrodiilproblems]

finding out your neighbour, who hasn't been seen in months, was in fact a mythic dawn cultist and not little red riding hood

[rustyram035]

Oc's staff day 2. Why not?

🫀Relas🫀

° The main fact about him is his love of adventures.

He is not a young elf, so he saw a lot of good things or not..He was born in Balmora, but it wasnt a problem to him. Relas doesnt want to be a merchant like his father, so he escape for a huge time from home.

He's not that bad in history. Because he saw snowy Skyrim lands, maybe he was in Cyrodiil too.

° I think he is doesnt feel this sense of freedom like a few years ago.

Relas knows that trying to kill the God wasnt a good idea for him. He was ill, and corpus slowly killing him. But on the other hand, strange memories crept into his head, about a life that he did not remember at all.

°It was not easy to recognize himself as a Nerevarine, because on the one hand he was himself, and on the other hand someone else, then also something familiar

° Now he is living in citadel with Voryn and children to whom he devoted his life. Also he has a lot of work connected with House Dagoth, like some political deals

[onedivinemisfit]

My personal opinion has always been that Skyrim lore alone spits in the face of established lore in the TES universe, which is hardly the first time. The retconning of Cyrodiil’s ecology comes to mind immediately.

I’ve long had a headcanon that the tale of the World-Eater Alduin is, if not wrong, then misunderstood. Certainly he’s supposed to be inspired by the Wyrm, Nidhogg, from Nordic mythology.

But what if that was a corruption of his sphere of influence?

Anu and Padomay were Stasis and Change, Order and Chaos, respectively. Paarthurnax and Alduin seem to be a reflection of these primordial siblings, and given they are “children” of Akatosh, that adds a layer of bittersweet tragedy to their roles. Imagining a lonely Akatosh/Auri-el/Anu recreating himself and his lost sibling makes my heart ache.

Going by the idea that Akatosh, Auri-el, and Anu (among others) are just facets and interpretations of the same godly being, him assigning to Alduin the almost identical purpose as what ended up corrupting and causing the fall of Padomay feels cruel.

And beyond strange, given that Nirn is the corpse of Anu’s wife Nir, and their many children. Whom Padomay slew. Why on earth would Anu want anything to devour Nirn, least of all a son he himself created to maybe [fill the void] of his previous loss. And this is the same guy who chucked Lorkhan’s heart to fuck for daring to intervene with Nirn even a little, and established a dynasty of mortals infused with his blood and will to protect Tamriel from Daedra. Who sent Padomay to the Void, whence he can never come back.

Change itself isn’t even an evil by design. Lorkhan’s desire for change won out, even if he was punished for it. Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedra of Change, Natural Catastrophes and Revolutions, is not evil by what he influences, so the same can be argued for Alduin, even if he’s more demigod than Daedra. And demigods are also an established thing, there have been several mentioned throughout Tamriel’s history, like Morihaus Breath-of-Kyne. Alduin claiming to be a son of Akatosh isn’t farfetched.

The idea of a World-Eater who regularly eats the world flies in the face of all lore about Anu. We know this because the Aedra are actual living things in this universe, who influence, appear to, and even talk to the people on Nirn. Auri-el walked among the Aldmer for a long time, just to have a walk. No biggie. The Septim line could all summon his Avatar in dragon-form as part of their bloodline’s contract. Note that the Avatar is one of Protection, not Destruction. The Septims could destroy as many mortals as they liked, even reshape lands and landscapes, but notice how they were still duty-bound to protect Nirn. From forces that could actually harm [her corpse].

So who exactly would benefit from Alduin the World-Eater?

Whose sphere used to be Change, whose corruption led to Nir’s death [the corpse of the world], who wishes for all things to come to the Void, to be Ended, more than anyone else?

Padomay. Sithis.

Hell, even the color palette of Sithis’ legion is the same as Alduin; black and red. The painful irony of the Betrayer Brother corrupting the son Anu created in his very image is just. No words. Even more so if Alduin doesn’t realize, doesn’t know he’s fighting under the banner of his father’s enemy. And what an amusing showdown it’d be; instead of a Dragonborn just Shouting the Problem away for Someone Else To Deal With, it’s trying to talk someone out of continuing down a path they were never meant to tread. A classic “come back to your senses”, only it’s aimed at a giant demigod dragon with a daddy complex.

[elderscrollsconceptart]

I'm not into Fallout, but I dread all tv adaptions of games. I only have to point at the travesty that is the Netflix Witcher as to why (don't get me started, I've got a long list of reasons and I WILL go through them all given the opportunity). That said I think Bethesda games are a better choice for adaption than the Witcher or TLOU because there isn't really a set protagonist or cast of characters to misuse - as long as it's entirely original, only based on Fallout lore, it might be okay.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts and I agree that a lack of a set protagonist is one of the boons to either a TES or Fallout TV series in terms of not immediately stepping on established series lore.

As you know, the Fallout show itself is making massive changes to established lore in the games. Not necessarily reconning things per se, but I don't want to get into more detail in a post due to obvious spoilers for a brand new show.

I feel a TES show *could* work simply due to the fact that

A. Tamriel is massive and Nirn is obviously an entire world.

B. We have multiple dimensions where things could take place in thanks to all the realms of Oblivion, known and unknown.

C. TES has a massive massive timeline that stretches beyond known history in their world. They could set a show in late Merethic era Elsweyr or High Rock and barely step on any established lore. A TES TV series absolutely *could* add to the lore while not quashing established lore or creating lore problems.

All in all, my biggest worry is the impulse for TV show runners to want to place the series in the most recognizable or familiar setting/timeline. God forbid a TES TV show happens and they try setting it in directly post-Oblivion crisis Cyrodiil or something like that. Thats not to say that such a period couldn't be explored in the lore, but I certainly don't trust TV executives and writers to start taking "creative liberties" or "fix" the lore of well established periods and locations. Additionally, a TV series could be made thats 100% non-canon and treated as such. I think most of the fandom would be totally cool with that and the show could tell any story it wanted without upsetting anyone. Sadly it seems like a lot of these big "TV adaptations we've seen over the past decade seem to insist on becoming canon or adjacent to it.

Never forget the Rings of Power...Never forget the Witcher on Netflix...Never forget Game of Thrones... Creators/rights holders allowed their properties to be taken by television companies to make shows out of them. They all ended up sucking, disrespecting the source material, and greatly upsetting most of their fans in the process. Television shows based on adapted material should not be made by people who don't care about the property itself and just want to make a popular TV show.

I think a TES TV show of *some* kind (perhaps animated?) is almost inevitable if the Fallout show is good and a huge success, and I think it absolutely *could* be both quality television *and* respectful of established lore. I just don't personally trust television executives to make a show of that caliber *and* respect the source material.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Josh Lore Thursday Mega Post- Summerset

This is a compiled post from posts I've made on Discord. It includes art and a general overview of a bit of Josh lore related to a theme. It's long, very long so most of it will be under the cut. Week one is Summerset,

Year: 3E 33 and 4E 5 Age: 63- 69 Location: Sero- Estate, Sunhold, Summerset.

An overview of the events leading up to his choice to stay in the Summerset Isles.

After fleeing Morrowind after the deaths of the (what he assumes was the whole) Tribunal under Indoril Nerevar's control he finds himself in Cyrodiil scared and destitute. Teldryn aimlessly wanders the province of his birth, selling various items that were associated with the Nerevarine- mostly his armour, the defining weapons, just everything he could potentially sell to prop up his drinking habit. Which is pretty much all he's consuming at the time.

Joshi finds himself in Kvatch one night during what is meant to be the commemoration of his defeat of Dagoth Ur and just feels empty.

Nerevar's still getting into his head constantly and he decides to "deal with the problem".

Or in his view, he removes the ring that is melded to his finger, he gets rid of the problem and he can have some peace. Josh can't actually take the ring off, so in a drunk stupor he decides to try amputating his ring finger. He fails.

He's found by Jiub just as he passes out from drink and blood loss.

Teldryn recognises the dunmer from the handful of times they crossed paths during his early adventures on Vvardenfell (and may have shared a kiss once). He finds himself comfortable and lets himself think maybe he's gotten a second chance at happiness.

Cue the Oblivion Crisis and the siege of Kvatch. Something that had nothing to do with the fact that he was there but he doesn't know that as he's fleeing the chaos.

He's hurt, he's grieving both chances he once had at a life of stability and, since he's left almost everything back at their old apartment, he's destitute once again.

This is his Oblivion arc, Josh starts wearing a mask full time just to avoid people recognising who he is. He doesn't have it in him to fight the jaws of hell yet again. He doesn't want to. He can barely take care of himself. This is Josh's 0 empathy point. He can't feel anything but crushing numbness and it leads to him murdering an Arcane University student about his son's age for a purse of coin and a watch.

He gets away with it.

After finding himself back in the holding cells of the Bastion after a pub brawl because he was called out for running a ticket-scalping scam. He gets an offer to join a particular guild by a toxic ex he can't say no to (Read the Hero of Kvatch).

He eventually gets roped into stealing something important from the Imperial Library. Something prohibitively expensive and enough to set him up for centuries.

What he wants to do, what he's been trying to do since Kvatch fell, is get to Sunhold and the only people he knows he can rely on to look after him when he's in this state.

Josh goes to stay with his mother and Geldis (who are very much an item at this point and will remain that way).

So this is how and why he's in Summerset.

So, now that Josh is in Summerset for the next 6 years, what's he up to? Well, officially, Teldryn Sero isn't there. He's either dead or, as a few people in North Eastern Cyrodiil believe- He's in Akavir. He doesn't actually care what people think happened to him. He just wants to be left alone.

As a result, Josh doesn't leave the estate all that often unless he's fully hiding his identity. Usually, he's only leaving to go drink and fuck at the various pleasure houses. No one makes him take his helmet off. No one asks questions. He's okay with this since he's a bit fatigued from all the fanfare he used to get in Morrowind. He's constantly craving both anonymity and attention. It makes him very restless.

The truth is, Joshi's in a really bad state at this point. He couldn't do much outside of being completely internally focused. Josh's bratty behaviour that he starts to display in this period actually starts up with Jiub but goes full force when his mother starts doting on him.

(Old design but is the same idea).

Brat Josh is a bit different from his Nerevarine persona and who he'll become later. He's similar to fresh of the boat Josh in terms of attitude- he's spiteful, he's well- very bratty and he's very emotionally volatile.

But, this time he's got the "Horrors tm" swimming around through his head.

He's lost both Erra and Jiub within a few years of each other and he's beyond a mess. He falls back on this behaviour because he has no idea what to do. He cannot look after himself at all for the first year or so, pretty much doesn't leave the estate.

He pretty much just stays in his room and works on his thing, drinks all night and sleeps it off after. Sometimes he'll do this outside in the garden or on the beach.

He's pouty, he's uncomfortable with his thoughts and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

So he often just finds himself paralysed by thoughts and staring at his bed canopy.

Then there's Nerevar annoying the shit out of him, pestering him to go take power from Helseth and move into the power vacuum left by the Tribunal.

So he drinks to shut him up, dons his mask and goes looking for something to make him feel better. He's gone missing for days at a time when he's in this state. Geldis or Maera usually find him passed out somewhere by the docks.

This isn't the first time he's gotten into this state- where he's pretty much incapable of self care- his mother knows what to expect.

He's done this emotional regression on a few occasions but for different reasons-

The first time he had Corprus and needed to learn how to move in his new body, learn how it functions, learn how to walk again and regain his muscle mass after the significant wasting he experienced.

So he's grieving who he was.

The second time was after he lost Erra and shattered his pelvis and his femurs.

It's the second time he's had to learn how to walk again. He still requires a mobility aid since these injuries never really healed right. Does he use it? No…unless he's made to do so by Maera. XD

When Josh is in Summerset, it's less about him recovering from his physical ailments and more him being allowed to experience his grief in a safe space with no responsibilities. Mind you, he's still hobbling about but this is the first time in well…ever where he's actually being taken care of and allowed 5 seconds to breathe.

The Sero Estate in Sunhold is a villa with it's own private beach which he likes to make use of. in The Nerevarine's Lament, he describes how he'd describe things if Erra was there-

We had planned on seeing Summerset. My love, I would still have taken you there, even if you couldn’t see the twisting streets and towering walls of Sunhold, or the bone-white beaches and turquoise water that lapped soothingly at the shore. It would make it seem as if the chaos of home never existed. Erra I would have taken you by the hands and let you feel the sun on your skin. Let you feel the salty breeze flow through your hair. Let you breathe in air that wasn’t choked with ash. I could have been happy with that. Your ghost had told me otherwise.

Josh likes living on the water, he likes a warm climate and he likes the feeling of being alone, staring out into nothing and feeling like you're the only person on Nirn.

The villa lets him experience that sense of peace that he's been searching for. He starts to recover and focus on something new.

In those years between The Oblivion Crisis and Red Year, Josh is allowed to focus on himself. He doesn't have to worry about things like remembering to eat. He actually puts on some weight for the first time as a result. Teldryn's still naturally very lean but he's not looking "bony"

Basically, his clothes fit properly and that makes him feel weird.

Josh doesn't like anything too tight, more so after he get corprus and is stuck wearing compression bandages. He pretty much exclusively dresses in flimsy, thin silks, muslin and linen when he's in Summerset. This is also his usual wardrobe when he's not on the road. He pretty much just wears super thin, loose robes when he's lazing about. He wears a lot of jewellery as well so he's really just breathing that "Spoilt Rich Boi" look. Below are the compression bandages and said thin silk robes back in Suran straight after he's 'cured' of corprus. He still wears them on and off by 4E 199 but mostly under armour. Sydari thinks, initially that it's wrapped for fist fighting. Usually, that's what he says anyway.

So he sometimes wears those bandages under the flimsy robes.

So, Josh starts to feel better after he's had some time to just have his feelings. He has a few years before Red Year to do "whatever". What does Josh do?

Finishes his translation of the Rosetta Stone of course!

In 4E 227 he describes what happened,

“Didn’t think I’d see your face back here,” the sorcerer hummed, “Something about this whole place being beneath you?” I took a deep breath through my nose and opened my eyes again…I honestly don’t really recall precisely what it was that I did, only that I found myself getting into an argument with Arniel Gane on what I knew to be a translation error in his Dwemeri research. He simply implied that I had no clue what I was talking about and then proceeded to misinterpret from my own research tome. I mean, I did find the key to translating the Dwemeri language whilst I was fucking around as a hired sword on an expedition back on Vvardenfell. I’d only been out of prison a few months at that point, serving the rest of my sentence as a conscript for old Uriel Septim VII’s personal spy network. I just happened to talk my dumb ass onto the team. Mage’s Guild was lucky I knew fucking Ald Aldmeris well enough to actually make use of the findings. Of course, they dismissed me then too. Took an Altmeri pseudonym for my translation to be taken seriously, then the Mages Guild disbanded and my work was lost. So imagine my fucking shock when I saw my translations popping up in various mages halls across Tamriel after the Great War. Everyone’s using the Hanging Gardens of Wasten Coridale as their key. They just don’t know who did the work. I can tell you they certainly don’t expect a grizzly fuck like me to be the translator. But then again, stories of the Nerevarine’s more um…scholarly pursuits are not quite public knowledge for a reason. Mostly because I try my best not to associate myself with that title, it has never felt right. It’s a skin that doesn’t fit. I never was that kind of hero, and I refuse to try to live up to that ideal anymore. I like to spend my time researching Tonal Architecture and puzzle locks. It still surprises a lot of people. I scratched at my nose, looking the sorcerer in the eyes again, “I never said the College was beneath me, but it is beneath me to bother with idiots who can’t fucking read, mate.”

The translation of the Hanging Gardens of Wasten Coridale actually began whilst Josh was still fucking around with running Blades errands. The translation is difficult due to fragmentation and just the fact that he just doesn't get a lot of free time between 3E 427 and 4E1. Someone was always needing him to do something.

Since his mother is fiercely protective of his privacy at this point, he suddenly has the time for himself, and the project he started years ago. No one knows where Teldryn Ensirhaddon-Sero is, and those who think they do seem to think he's sailed away to places unseen (thanks Thieves Guild rumour mill.)

Josh, when not drinking his sorrow away or whoring is pretty much focused on this language key. He's always liked cyphers, writes his journals in one he invented when he was 12. It was just a big game for him. (think intently focusing in the Dwemeri Cube of Rubic).

He has his key figured out in about 4E 3 and tries to get it published. He starts by using his husband's last name (which he will use sometimes or that mixed with his father's last name) but found his work was getting rejected in both Summerset and Cyrodiil. So he uses an Altmeri pseudonym and suddenly finds it gaining interest.

The Mages Guild gets disbanded as his work's being reviewed. Which he's infuriated with, but he hopes that sending it to a few Altmeri institutions would help.

By the Dragon Crisis, you'll have one version with a mistranslation marked into it. Something that happened when the work that was submitted to the Mages Guild was then translated years later from the Altmeris he originally wrote the thesis in, to Cyrodiilic. This is usually marked as "Author Unknown".

This is the one he rags on Arniel Gane about. He found it one time at a bookshop in Sentinel and he's personally offended by the existence of it. By the Dragon Crisis, you'll have one version with a mistranslation marked into it. Something that happened when the work that was submitted to the Mages Guild was then translated years later from the Altmeris he originally wrote the thesis in, to Cyrodiilic. This is usually marked as "Author Unknown". This is the one he rags on Arniel Gane about. He found it one time at a bookshop in Sentinel and he's personally offended by the existence of it.

The second one is the correct translation and mostly circulates around the Dominion. It's the same thesis he originally submitted. It is published under the name Earran of Sunhold. He'd rather people use this version, but since it's locked behind the Dominion it's kinda inaccessible. He's since written it in Dunmeris and Cyrodiilic but those versions aren't in circulation. Existing in a lock box at his mother's estate in Blacklight for safe keeping.

He thinks Calcelmo's work using the Altmeri version is promising and may have taken a look at Sydari's charcoal rubbings of the falmer-dwemer stele. He found that there's 5 new letters and now thinks there's dialects.

By 4E 3, however, Josh's dreams start to cause him alarm again. His dreams usually play out like so:

He finds himself standing alone in the darkness, which slowly reveals itself to be the Ashlands of Vvardenfell.

He looks up at a volcano, which he eventually finds out is Red Mountain and watches it erupt.

He dies in the pyroclastic flow.

Then he wakes up for the second half of his dream. In the past, this has been the point that Dagoth Ur weaves something messed up or he comes into contact with once of the ascended. This is the point, just after being infected with corprus, that he fully accesses the hive mind and acts out ritual behaviour in his sleep.

Since he defeated Dagoth Ur, it's been mostly darkness until he encounters a fellow blight creature and he wakes up (after being consumed) or someone else wakes him up. He cannot do this himself.

The second part of these dreams, now that the Blight is silenced more or less can leave him almost comatose if he can't find a way out.

Not good, but he's grown a bit apathetic to waking up after having been asleep for a week. That only happens if he's alone- which isn't happening past the first occurrence of this. So he'll often just wander in darkness all night until he hears a familiar voice. He's used to it and he's bored by it.

What starts to alarm him is that the dream suddenly seems to be a bit more…lively. He finds himself in a loop in Vivec City as a great cataclysm rocks it. Sometimes it's that stupid rock, sometimes it's ash. The main thing is that he tries to save people but ultimately fails each time.

Originally, Teldryn thought what he saw in his dream was Sun's Death, mostly because he was dreaming of that particular eruption until he defeated Dagoth Ur. This part of the dream is always how Azura makes her presence known.

Josh starts to believe he's being given visions of something horrific to come and all he can think of is getting people out before whatever it is he keeps seeing actually occurs.

Unfortunately, he's misinterpreting Azura's intentions. This isn't a warning for him to go save people.

This was intended to tell him that he's fulfilled the prophecy and Azura has gotten her revenge on the Tribunal. This devastated landscape was intended for a fully melded Nerevar to fill the societal void. The intention was for the Incarnate (Nerevar) to bring the Dunmer back to "glory". Naturally, because Teldryn ended up being the damn Incarnate this didn't quite work right. His mind's too resistant and the melding never happened.

Instead, Nerevar struggles for control. Teldryn's still learning how to fight him off and Nerevar can possess him as a result.

He starts doing this to prevent Joshi from going back to Morrowind. It takes him almost a year to fight him off, but he does manage to get on a ship back to Vvardenfell after sending out several letters. He saves a lot more people than he thought he would, but he still blames himself for the devastation. And so ends his time in Sunhold. He has enough quiet time to get a foundational concept out of his mind after he lets himself rest and try to process what happened. He puts on weight and he spends a lot of time just being.

He's just existing really. He hasn't had a chance to just be in a very long time… if ever. There was always something he was doing wrong, being somewhere he wasn't wanted, being watched or having to complete some sort of colossal task.

From 3E 33 and 4E 5 Josh can just be. This lack of direction ultimately comes to bite him in the ass later (Drug addictions, sex cults, setting fire to more shit, more prison for said arson and then more arson and a whole group of pirates with a vendetta and ties to more powerful groups he's pissed off).

But for a little while it's okay. Josh needs structure.

He can't live without the structure!

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

And now for your TESblr-ing pleasure, another LDB crackship, but this time it's Galmar who gets to play "Will they, won't they?" with Leara

This did not put my bestie to sleep. But it did make her laugh, I think.

ao3 | masterlist

The peace council is over before Galmar realizes that the Dragonborn manipulated them all into nonaction without any secessions of territory or pride to the other side. If he wasn't relieved that the Stormcloaks would maintain the whole of Eastern Skyrim without sacrificing their honor to the Imperials, Galmar would feel the loss of Markarth silver more keenly.

Nothing that the war wouldn't soon win the Stormcloaks.

As the Stormcloaks prepared to leave High Hrothgar, Galmar catches sight of dark red hair disappearing through the doors to the courtyard from the corner of his eye.

"Where is she going?"

Beside him, Ulfric's mouth falls into a grim line, but if he knows, he doesn't say.

As they make their descent from the monastery, Galmar seeks Ralof. It is night on the Seven Thousand Steps: Despite the cold and blistering winds, they keep watch. The Imperials are only a few hundred yards further along the path. Too close for Galmar or Ulfric's comfort. Ralof is by the fire when Galmar settles beside him. The younger Nord's gaze is distant, but at the general's approach, he seems to come to himself.

"Couldn't sleep, General?" "With those Imperial dogs within an arrow's shot? Bah."

Ralof nods. They are silent for several moments, then Galmar speaks.

"What can you tell me about the Dragonborn?"

Ralof looks at him properly for the first time, eyes present and smoking under the firelight.

"What did you want to know, General?"

What didn't he want to know? The woman was a puzzle, maneuvering through politics in such a way that nothing changed except her own position. She was a ghost, a wisp.

"She was at Helgen. Your report on the incident said she left with you and stayed with your sister before heading to Whiterun." "If you're wondering why she was at Helgen, she was coming from Cyrodiil." "Why?"

Ralof shrugs.

"Never came up."

Then Ralof's eyes cut across the small encampment to the tent where Galmar knows Ulfric lay wide awake.

"Seemed nervous around Jarl Ulfric, though."

That the Dragonborn was nervous around Ulfric was not something Galmar picked up, and now he chastises himself for it. But now that he thinks back on it, the Dragonborn, tall in her own right despite her delicate frame, seemed to withdraw under Ulfric's gaze. Galmar's mind spun through many possible explanations, but he could rationalize none of them. Her pure stance of neutrality and the rumors of her service to the people of Skyrim couldn't rationalize with the cosmopolitan Half-elf who was seemingly afraid of Ulfric Stormcloak.

Galmar, never one to back down from a challenge, asks Ulfric what the Hell he did to the Dragonborn. He waits only for them to return to Windhelm and the privacy of the war room.

"What?" "Don't tell me you didn't notice the girl wouldn't look you in the eye." ". . .and so I must have done something to her?" "She has some kind of problem with you."

Ulfric grimaces.

"Galmar, if you were any one else, I'd clap you in irons for such an accusation." "If I were anyone else, I'd have actually accused you of something instead of asking."

The thing is, Ulfric doesn't know. The few times he's met the Dragonborn, she's shied away from him. This doesn't help Galmar.

What made someone so sacrificial so skittish?

When news comes that the World-Eater has been defeated and the Dragonborn is once again wandering through Skyrim, helping the needy on both sides of the war, this question burrows deeper into Galmar. He doesn't understand her.

When he voices his wonderment to Yrsarald, the other general just scoffs with a shake of his head.

"You'll want to keep an eye on her. I don't trust her." "Hmm."

The thing was, even if the Dragonborn didn't seem to trust Ulfric or the Stormcloacks or, perhaps, anyone, Galmar found himself trusting her. Her every play seemed to be for the betterment of Skyrim and her people. Yrsarald's musings that she was a Thalmor plant didn't sit right with Galmar. Even if that explained her neutrality at High Hrothgar and her aversion to Ulfric, the Dragonborn was too giving to be under the thumb of the Dominion.

At least, Galmar didn't think she was.

Then she sweeps into Windhelm like a spring wind, still cold from the death of winter but breathing new life in her wake.

Galmar is in Candlehearth Hall when the Dragonborn appears at the end of the bar, wearing a blue dress not dissimilar to the one she wore during the peace council. She offers him a smile.

"I don't think we were formally introduced: Leara Ormand."

Galmar gives her a nod, greeting her as he takes in the wide eyes and curling red hair. All the power of a dragon inside such a frail woman. But she defeated Alduin.

What was she afraid of?

Galmar is aware of Leara in the peripheral as she inserts herself into the investigations concerning the recent string of murders in the city. Ulfric is distracted by the war effort and the guards are spread thin as it is. Yrsarald advises they keep an eye on her, and Galmar agrees, though he thinks it is for a different reason than Thrice-Pierced. Yrsarald is thinking of the safety of WIndhelm and her Jarl. Galmar, Housecarl though he was, was thinking of the fear and frailty that seemed to shroud Leara.

This point is driven home when Leara catches the Butcher and recieves a knife wound in thanks.

Galmar visits her at Candlehearth, finding her reclined in a chair by the fireside. A plate with a half-eaten apple tart sits on the table nearby, but she's more engrossed in the cup of tea he helps her pour.

"I'm all right, General, though I thank you for your concern." "Thank me by not dying while in Windhelm. The Imperials will start pointing fingers."

Leara laughs, and Galmar finds himself chuckling with her.

After that, Galmar finds himself visiting Leara as she recovers. It isn't as if he didn't already leave to go to the bar, but now that dropping in on Leara is a part of that routine, Galmar becomes hyperaware of Ulfric and Yrsarald watching him. One night, over a week after Galmar first visited Leara, he turns to Ulfric.

"You could come with me."

It wasn't as if Ulfric never came with him to the bar. Maybe some housecarls got ornery about their Jarls visiting the local taverns, but Galmar never saw the harm in it. Actually, it was good for morale for the people to see the Jarl out amung them.

Ulfric frowns, his hand on his beard.

"I don't want to impose on the Dragonborn. She won't want to see me."

Galmar scoffs.

"Just say hello to her and then find us a table. That's hardly bothering her."

Galmar almost regrets asking Ulfric to come when Leara's eyes find the Jarl across the room and instantly widen into saucers. The fork in her hand, speared with apple tart, quivers before she sets it back on the plate.

(Why did she always have sweets when he came to visit? From what Galmar had seen, she never seemed particularly interested in them.)

Leara makes to stand, but Ulfric holds up a hand.

"Jarl Ulfric!" "Good evening, Miss Ormand. I want to thank you for the services you've rendered my people. Galmar has told me how you're recovering." "Oh, it was my pleasure. I, I'm just glad to have prevented any more deaths."

Ulfric offers Leara a soft smile. Galmar blinks as a rosy hue stains Leara's ears.

Ulfric does not leave to find a table. Leara invites them to sit with her. By the end of the evening, Galmar is reassessing everything he thought he knew about Leara's perception of Ulfric. There was a certain wariness in her shoulders when the Jarl was around, but she appeared somehow softer as she spoke to him.

Something twisted in Galmar's stomach.

Less than two weeks later, Leara is gone.

"Not for long, I think I'd like to come back."

But when Leara smiles at him. Galmar can't help but remember the smiles she gave Ulfric. No, she wasn't afraid.

She's . . . Galmar couldn't acknowledge it.

Not yet.

Galmar can't devote all his time to the Dragonborn, however. There's still a war on, and dragons about, though they seemed less troublesome since Leara defeated the World-Eater. It was wishful thinking that she would bring that same canny peace to the war that she did to the dragons. But Galmar could dream.

And he did, often. Out in the camps, strategizing with the commanders and coordinating movements, Galmar found himself pinpointing missions that the Dragonborn would excell at. He could almost see her flitting through the camp, a Stormcloak blue cloak with the bear insignia thrown over her silver armor.

Damn it, Galmar missed the elf.

He could see Yrsarald shaking his head.

Fort Snowhawk is a strategic position in Hjaalmarch. Seizing it would give them a launching point to take Morthal and seize the hold, bringing them right to Solitude's doorstep. But the winter is settling in and with it, storms.

Galmar is tired of the cold.

"General, someone to see you." "Who is it?" "Says she's the Dragonborn."

Galmar nearly knocks his half empty bottle of ale off the table in his haste.

There she was, a brown hood barely containing the riot of dark hair.

"If you're here to help, then it's about damn time."

She laughs. Galmar missed her laugh.

"I'm afraid this isn't that kind of call, General Stone-Fist."

Then Leara hands him an old leather wrapped scroll. Galmar stands at it.

"Forgive my ignorance, but I believe this is something you're looking for."

Galmar's mouth is dry as he unravels the scroll. And there it is. The map to the Jagged Crown.

"I knew those pointy ears of yours were good for something." "Listening is one of my special talents."

Leara's smile is coy. Galmar wants to ask her about her other talents, but this wasn't the time (if the time ever even came).

"Has Jarl Ulfric seen this?" "No? He wasn't the one searching for it." "He'll need to be told." "Surprise him."

Leara's smile widens a fraction. Galmar swallows.

Leara is there at Korvanjund when they retrieve the Jagged Crown. Galmar can't say he's not glad she's there: She always seems one step ahead of the Imperials, bandits, and draugr that dog their path. But by Talos, until she joins the Stormcloaks formally, she's a liability.

Just as quickly as Galmar recalls her blush and downcast eyes when meeting Ulfric in Candlehearth, he recalls her iron hand at the negotiation table that held both sides in check. Trusting her was easy when she didn't insert herself in the middle of Stormcloak special operations, moving through them like a needle through thread.

. . . even if Leara was uncannily helpful.

"I hear Leara has been instrumental in a few of your recent ventures." "It would seem so."

Ulfric's jovial tone does nothing to raise Galmar's spirits.

Why won't she commit?"

"You seem troubled." "The Dragonborn troubles me." "She didn't before. What's changed?" "Does it not bother you that she hasn't sworn loyalty to the cause?"

Ulfric's face falls into thought.

"She won't betray me." "That's not my concern."

Surprise colors Ulfric's face.

"Then what are you worried about?"

Galmar shakes his head. But in his gut, he somehow knows that an oath of fealty isn't needed to bind Leara and Ulfric together. That more than anything ticked at him. She wouldn't betray the Stormcloaks—Ulfric—to the Empire or the Dominion. Galmar knew that all too well.

Leara's aquisition of Hjerim only strengthens his certainty.

"Do you want to come over for dinner?"

Galmar stares at her.

Leara is in another blue dress, this one a cool blue like frost. A basket of produce is hooked at her elbow.

"Galmar, would you like to have dinner tonight?" "That depends, can you cook?" "Yes, and I can bake too!"

The smile and laughter together. Golden blue and morning birds. She reminded him of Cyrodiil, or at least the parts he'd seen that weren't burned in battle.

He watches her stroll away through the market before realizing he never asked who else would be at Hjerim that evening. Well, he knows for sure at least one person . . .

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Clenching his jaw, Galmar crosses his arms.

"You mean she didn't invite you to dinner?"

Ulfric shrugs, clearly just as baffled.

Women. Who could understand them?

When he shows up at Hjerim, there is literally no one else there. Except Leara, of course. And her housecarl from Whiterun. But the dark-haired woman just smirks at him before disappearing upstairs with a bottle of ale and a tray of shortbread.

What was going on?

"Won't you sit down?"

Galmar sits down. Leara wasn't kidding before when she said she could cook: There is a lamb roast, potatoes and carrots, hot bread, butter, several sliced cheeses, and braised cabbage. In her hands, Leara cradles a Breton vintage he can't place.

"There's a custard in the kitchen. I couldn't get any lemons, so I bought some snowberry jam and swirled it in."

His throat dry, Galmar can only nod. There is an honest, earnest light in Leara's eyes that he can't quite face.

He would.

"Jarl Ulfric doesn't like snowberry jam." "And? What does he have to do with our dinner?" "It's something to keep in mind before you serve him the real meal." "The real meal? What are you talking about?" "This is a practice dinner before you ask Jarl Ulfric to come here."

The yellow-white bottle makes a soft thud as Leara deposites it on the table. Her eyes fix on Galmar, her mouth pops open.

"Is that . . . are you serious? No, of course you are!"

Ah. She was upset. Before Galmar can puzzle out how he's upset her, Leara sinks into a chair, her head in her hands. Galmar braces himself for either crying or some other hysterics, but no, Leara only sighs. Sitting beside her, Galmar clears his throat.

"Look, you don't get where I am in life without being able to admit you're wrong. This isn't some test run for a fancy meal for Ulfric, is it?" "Not at all."

She props her chin on the heel of her palm, a vaguely amused quirk to her otherwise tired mouth.

"It's for you." "I see that now, Ormand." "Do you?"

Then Leara is facing him, a hard set to her pale gold face. She looks far too Altmer in that moment, and Galmar only just refrains from shifting in agitation from the abrasive moonstone in her gaze.

"It was all for you."

This admission is so sudden, Galmar can't hold back the stunned,

"What?"

that escapes him.

Nodding, Leara squares her shoulders.

"The Jagged Crown? The field work? The brawl in Dawnstar—" "The what." "Oh, never mind that! Don't get distracted!" "You got into a brawl—" "For you!" "Why would you do something so stupid?!"

Reflectively, other women might have slapped him or screamed at him. If he were very lucky, they might only vocalize wordless frustration and then storm off.

Leara is not other women.

A slender hand reaches up and pats Galmar's cheek, before settling to rest on his jaw. Galmar's insides churn, heating. Leara's smile is accommodating and amused.

Oh.

Then she pinches his sideburns, not quite gently.

"You drove me to foolishness."

Then Leara is kissing him, and Galmar is very glad that this is not a practice dinner for Ulfric because after this, he isn't letting Leara run off to another man, even if that man is his Jarl and oldest friend. And then all thoughts of Ulfric and of Leara and Ulfric together disappear. Everything is Leara, her warmth contrasting the taste of frost and winter on her tongue.

He pulls her into his lap so he can wrap his arms around her. Blue skirts fall like glacial water over his knees as Leara presses into him, her arms winding around his neck.

The bear helm hits the floor.

Galmar growls and stands, arms full of Dragonborn. He trails kisses down her jaw, hoisting her up to better access her neck.

"Galmar . . . dinner . . ." "We'll have dinner, don't worry."

And they do. And then they have the lamb for dessert. If it's a bit cold, Galmar doesn't complain. He's warm enough, laying on the hearth rug with Leara. Tomorrow, he would feel it in his back, but tonight, he was quite content where he was.

However, when Leara rouses him at half past three to come to eat custard with her in her bed, Galmar doesn't regret following her somewhere more comfortable

The next day, when Ulfric discovers just what dinner with Leara had led to, Galmar can only laugh at his friend's slackjawed face. Later when he tells Leara about it (mercifully nested in her bed), she finds it as funny as Galmar did.

There's still a war going on and dragons are still terrorizing innocent farmers and travellers. Talos help him, but he's got to get Ulfric through the Moot and on the throne without any idiotic heroics or ill-begotten assassination attempts. It's all a bit daunting, but Leara's there, and if there's one thing Galmar knows, it's that he can trust her to be there when he needs her. And she'll be there, iron fist and all.

fin

[sheirukitriesfandom]

Ye Big Olde Savos Aren Headcanon Masterpost

(Super long post under the cut)

Short biography

General information:

- Savos is an only child.

- He was born in 4E 5, making him 194 years old by Skyrim time (Elven ages are ugh, but according to the UESP, 200 is old for a dunmer…)

- Savos was born under the apprentice, thus making the month of his birth Sun’s Height.

- He is bisexual.

- He was born in Winterhold and grew up among the city’s large dunmer population.

- Knows Winterhold-dialect Dunmeris, Tamrielic, Nordic, and a tiny bit of Dovahzul.

- His parents owned a tailor shop.  

- He's a second generation immigrant to Skyrim. His parents came to Winterhold shortly after the fall of Baar Dau (I imagine there was a short period of growing volcanic activity before Red Mountain blew up for good), fearing further consequences of the impact. His grandparents lived in Morrowind until their death.

- He has been to Morrowind on several occasions (and he has met Neloth). He has also been to Cyrodiil.

- Savos is not very religious; he was raised to believe in the reclamations, but over the years it has become a matter of “Whichever deity is willing to listen”. However, he does practice ancestor worship in a sense; he regularly leaves a little offering for the dead of the Great Collapse (which included his parents) on the shore below Winterhold. 

- Also, due to the nord/dunmer cultural mixture of his hometown, exclamations like “Shor’s bones!” are just as much a part of his vocabulary as “Azura curse you!”.

Appearance:

- He is fairly short for a dunmer (1,68 metres); he’s just a tiny bit taller than Mirabelle.

- Savos has a Lichtenberg scar (a souvenir from Morokei) running from just below his clavicle all the way to his hips. He’s extremely self-conscious about that and will lash out at anyone questioning his explanation of “magical accident”.

- He has a barely noticeable bald patch (a scar) from when he got hit by an icicle when he was a student.

- He doesn't care much about anyone's looks, including his own. He's clean and knows when to look presentable, but he cares more about being comfy than looking good. Has exactly one outfit for special occasions.

- He's in average shape for his age and lack of physical activity. 

 Social:

- Savos does not like dealing with people in positions of authority. Serious talks with Jarl Korir, for example, are his personal nightmare.

- Although Savos is an introvert through and through, he is not necessarily shy.

- He is not a good public speaker. Even when he was still a teacher he could not capture the crowd. However, those students who still listened would get clear and easily understandable explanations and instructions.

- Savos’ “Love language” is spending time together.

- Savos enjoys giving physical affection but is terrible at receiving it. It’s not that he doesn’t like it (he’s probably quite touch starved), but he has trouble accepting that someone could care for him.

- For that reason, he’s usually the big spoon - even if his partner is taller than him.

- Savos does not like smalltalk a lot. 

- However, if someone captures his interest he has no problem chatting until the early hours of the morning.

- Despite some different opinions about his leadership, Savos still gets along with everyone in the faculty.

- He does not trust Ancano and finds him annoying at times, but the previous headcanon includes him as well.

- Savos is a fairly sensitive guy and it’s easy to tell whether he’s happy, sad or angry. However, he’s often dishonest as to why.

- Savos is one of those people who’ll always promise to do something “later” and then forget about it. Mirabelle often has to remind him of his duties - much to her annoyance.

- Savos is not the type to make enemies (at least on purpose). If he has nothing nice to say to someone, he won’t say anything.

- Although it rarely happens, Savos can hold a grudge (and for a long time, too).

- He and Viarmo are close friends (and spent a night together once)

- Mirabelle Ervine was his student and he is still very close with her.

- Savos is good friends with Tolfdir and the two sometimes go fishing together.

- He's oblivious to Kraldar's "interest" in him and views him as a good friend.

- In fact, Savos is incredibly dense when it comes to flirting.

- Although Savos doesn’t engage with the students all that much, he still feels a sense of pride whenever he hears about their accomplishments.

- He also loves J'zargo’s shenanigans.

- There are some days where he’ll lock himself in his chambers and not open the door to anybody. The rest of the faculty knows to leave him alone on “one of those days”.

- Savos tolerates some crookery as long as it serves the college. For example, although he isn’t happy about Enthir’s business ventures, he realizes that having someone who can procure anything away from the normal supply lines is indeed quite beneficial.

- I like the idea of him being the nephew of Fathis Aren, the court mage in Bravil during the oblivion crisis. Given Fathis’ area of expertise and the possibility of their lifetimes overlapping, it’s not unlikely.

- Savos is not good at comforting others. He’ll let them pour their heart out to him, he’ll listen, but he doesn’t really know how to react afterwards. However, no matter how poorly he may express it, his sympathy is usually earnest.

- He is, however, very good at keeping secrets.

Skills & Knowledge:

- After the battle with Morokei Savos obsessively researched the dragon cult and its priests. Over time he’s come to understand (but not speak!) a tiny bit of Dovahzul.

- Since his conjuration magic was anything but useful against Morokei, Savos picked up restoration magic as soon as he returned to the college.

- Savos toyed with necromancy when he was an apprentice, intrigued by the promise of immortality. After what he did in Labyrinthian, he’s never used a spell of that sort again.

- Savos is extremely skilled with wards and even (re-)discovered different types of wards by combining restoration and conjuration (think of something like ESO’s barrier and bound ward spells).

- He is a good healer and possesses a decent knowledge of anatomy.

- While Savos is not a physical fighter, he still knows how to keep someone from knocking his teeth out (thanks to Hafnar).

- Savos is an average alchemist.

- He can talk backwards, much to the annoyance of Ancano or anyone else he decides to mess with. He also has a talent for deciphering drunken gibberish.

- Savos’ interest in magic, particularly conjuration, was caused and fostered by his uncle and Savos always looked forward to his visits. 

- He is a quick learner but not very studious, which made him an average student. It was his skill with wards that caught the previous archmage’s attention.

- Although he grew up in a tailor shop, he can't sew at all.

- He's a terrible cook.

- Laments that he doesn’t know telekinesis but never actually sits down to learn it.

Attitude, Hopes And Fears:

- Savos is scared of lightning

- Savos tends to be pretty laid back when it comes to pranks and mischief as long as it doesn’t hurt students or staff.

- Savos is quite conflicted about his position as archmage. On the one hand, he’s proud of his station and wants to use it to improve the college, but on the other hand, he’s fully aware that he wouldn’t have gotten the title if Atmah and his other friends were still alive. Not to mention that they died under his leadership.

- Savos is both an optimist and a hopeless idealist. While this combination lets him believe that he can eventually lead the college into a better future, it also often blinds him to reality.

- In his youth, Savos dreamt of travelling the world in search for ancient knowledge - a dream shared by his friend Atmah. After Labyrinthian he buried any aspirations of adventure.

- Ever since Labyrinthian, Savos has trouble with nightmares. He often stays up late.

- He’s tried several methods to help him sleep, such as stuffing his pillow with lavender - a scent which clings to his hair.

- The easiest way to piss him off is to bring up politics.

- Savos rarely gets seriously angry but if he does, he tends to act irrationally.

- Overall Savos is not a brave man. Standing up to Ancano when he took control of the eye was perhaps the bravest things he’s ever done. It was also the most reckless he’s been since Labyrinthian

- He is crippled by a fear of repeating his mistakes.

- He’s well aware of some of his flaws (his lack of social skills, too lax attitude) but denies others, particularly those related to his past failings. 

- In Savos' opinion, a three-headed man-eating horker could apply for a place at the college—so long as it has the aptitude and keeps the man-eating in check, he'll be okay with that.

- He's got an ego the size of a peanut and it's easy to make him doubt himself.

Taste and Favourite things:

- Despite having tried many different beverages from many different parts of Tamriel, his favourite alcoholic drink is still a good mead.

- Savos has a sweet tooth which he doesn’t get to indulge all that often save for the honey he puts in his tea.

- Ever since his first trip to Morrowind, Savos has had a fascination with bugs and as a child, he always wanted a Nix-hound. He got a Nix-hound plushie instead.

- In fact, Savos likes many creepy crawlies others tend to find disgusting. Spiders, worms, bugs, scorpions — he thinks they're fascinating.

- His biggest hobby is gardening, which later led to an interest in alchemy.

- He used to be interested in archaeology (more Atmah’s hobby than his own, still…), but the expedition to Labyrinthian put a damper on that.

- His favourite food are honey nut treats, though his dad’s fish soup is the one he misses the most.

- His favourite colour is pine green, followed by the deep dark blue of the ocean.

- Savos enjoys going for a walk along the shore every once in a while.

- He is an avid reader with a preference for nonfiction, travel logs in particular. They're good for dreaming oneself away from bleak old Winterhold…

Random Headcanons:

- He’s a blanket thief.

- Savos has two standard sleeping positions: rolled halfway off the bed and blanket burrito.

- Savos is a cheerful drunk overall. However, he also becomes quite reckless if inebriated.

- Despite having lived in Winterhold all his life, he is not at all good at dealing with the cold.

- Savos is a clean but not very orderly person and the chances of finding anything in his quarters without asking is slim.

- He is an absolute night owl and has the bad habit of sleeping in his favourite chair rather than his bed. 

- Savos is not good with children. He likes them all right; he just doesn’t know what to do with them.

- However, he does stand by his opinions. In fact, he can be quite stubborn.

- Savos still has that plush nix hound mentioned above. It’s in… well-loved condition.

- Savos was the type of kid who'd always try to get out of doing chores. He spent most of his childhood playing in the streets with the other kids of the crafter's quarter. He remembers that time fondly.

- He had a very good relationship with his parents that continued into adulthood, despite their disappointment about him joining the college rather than taking over the tailor shop. 

Savos Dadcanons

- Okay so first off I can’t see Savos planning to have kids. The college is no place to raise a child (neither is Winterhold, for that matter) so if he became a father, it would be by accident. As such, I think he’d be happy but also very, very worried.

- However, when he gets to hold his kid for the first time he just turns into a joyous puddle on the floor (like, not literally, but his knees would be very weak and he’d shed few tears).

- He doesn’t really know what to do with children and that really becomes apparent when he has to handle the baby. But damn he’d try. He has probably read every book on childcare the arcanaeum has to offer, though granted there may not be too many of those.

- He’s overall not one for random silliness (I can’t see him making faces at the child or making babytalk, for example) but he’d smile and laugh a lot more around his kid.

- Also cuddles. At first Savos is a little scared of handling the child bc it’s so small and vulnerable, but eventually he’d enjoy holding the them.

- He’d try to teach his kid as much as he possibly could, though not through books and dry teaching. He’d definitely show his kid the garden or venture out into Winterhold at night to watch the stars. In a modern AU he’d absolutely be the dad building a baking soda volcano who’d then be almost as excited as the kid when the volcano explodes.

- There aren’t many children in Winterhold so Savos would be concerned that his child can’t make many -if any- friends. At some point he considered summoning a friend for them before realising that that’s a horrible idea.

- He’d continue his own dad’s bedtime story tradition.

- Savos would be a bit of a worrywart though; he’s lost so many students already so he’d definitely try and shelter his kid a bit. He’d teach them wards as soon as possible.

- He’d absolutely encourage some mischief.

- In fact, I don’t think he’d be a strict parent at all. It’d fall to his SO or Mirabelle to teach the child some boundaries. 

- As a healer, he is entirely unfazed by anatomy and awkward puberty topics. For example, he can give his child The Talk just fine, they just shouldn’t ask him how things feel\taste\etc. He’s a very private man and would get flustered at having to reveal things about his love life.

- He’d always stay a bit insecure about his parenting skills though, even when the child is all grown up. Is he a good dad? Did he raise a responsible adult? Did he prepare his child for all that’s out there? Late at night, he’d wonder.

- At any rate, Savos is by no means #1 dad, but he’d grow into it and he’d always be there for his child, even in case of potentially massive fuck ups.

Savos Adult Headcanons:

The NSFW alphabet