#hermaeus mora fanfiction

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Four

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical violence, canon-typical swearing, suggestive themes

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Part Four of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

The First Dragonborn and the Last Dragonborn meet. Miraak makes an offer.

Part Three

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

Is this what falling feels like?

You thought you knew.

How many times have you slid down the side of a mountain or purposefully launched yourself over a wall you believed was much shorter than what it turned out to be?

Too many times to count, and every time it happened you believed you were falling. But those instances are nothing compared to this.

This is just air. A hover before the descent. Endless amounts of space with nothing to grab on to. You are falling. Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

What were you expecting when you tore at the fleshy wall of your cage? What did you think would happen when you dug your nails in, scratch scratch scratching until the gelatinous hole grew wide enough to fit through?

Before you, beyond your endless air, are towering spires and connecting bridges. There are arches made of books and so many eyes embedded into the wall of the tower you hurtle past. Are they Hermaeus Mora’s eyes? Is he watching you fall? Does he care or is this all amusing to him? A game?

Perhaps the eyes are not his. Perhaps they belong to no one in particular. Just empty pupils and empty irises that are simple decoration. Hermaeus Mora appears to create with purpose, but you don’t truly know him. How can a mortal, even one like you, hope to understand a Daedric Prince?

You’re a complete fool. An idiot.

Those were not bars made of black metal. They shifted under your weight. Wiggled. Bent outwards. Unfurled. There is no victory of escape. No reward for tearing your nails into the wall or using your Thu’um to weaken it.

The Seekers knew, didn’t they? They knew that you were clawing toward your death. That is what this fall is. A precursor. A bridge. The height of the song that swells with the music before the Bard plays the final cord.

Your hands extend outward. Seeking. You put all your efforts into reaching for the monolith beside you. Distantly, you hear those Seekers shrieking. They’re likely signaling others, or maybe announcing your imminent death.

All this falling, that feels so incredibly fast, is also so terrifyingly dull. You’ve already accepted the outcome. You already know what awaits you in the dark water. There is no surprise. Your future—your fate—reaches toward you in eagerness.

Black tentacles burst from the water, completely extended in your direction, vibrating with the anticipation of your falling body. You should have listened to Teldryn. You should have never opened the book. You should have taken it to Master Neloth as you originally intended.

What a mess you’ve made.

The largest and longest of the tentacles greet you with a brush of their slimy appendages. You start to curl into a ball, turning your face away from them and upward toward the sickly green sky. Apocrypha’s illness of an atmosphere roils. Ripples.

But as you curl into yourself in an attempt to protect your head, a winged shadow passes above you.

There is a roar, and it is so loud it shakes your bones and teeth.

The shadow returns and with it comes a dragon’s claw.

The tentacles that pull at you, that tug on your limbs and hair fall away, surrendering to the massive silvery blue beast that catches you before you strike the water. Your waist is completely enclosed in its great fist, as are your arms which are crossed over your chest.

The dragon soars upward, turns sharply, trumpets one more time before threading through the massive towering spires that dot the landscape.

It is a beautiful creature. Unique. Its head is more like that of a snake’s than of the dragons you’re used to. There is also a clear underbite as if the dragon’s jaw is too large for its head. The dragon’s scales are smoother and finer. Its hide shimmers, nearly iridescent.

You twist a bit in the dragon’s grasp. There isn’t much room, but there is enough for you to look out upon the lands of Hermaeus Mora.

The realm of a Daedric Lord is vast, and truly you understand just how large Apocrypha is as the dragon carries you above the landscape. Heights have never bothered you, but your head is spinning, swirling with dizziness. How long has it been since you’ve last eaten? Since you’ve rested properly?

Everything is starting to catch up. Everything is rushing forward, ready to slam into you like a giant’s club. You want to resist the tug of exhaustion. The dragon’s claw is a cocoon of safety, and it lulls you into sleepiness. You desperately fight it, but there is no denying what your body craves. It needs the nothingness of sleep absent of dreaming.

When you awaken, it is because the dragon shifts in the sky. It descends toward a towering structure amongst a maze of many. The largest of the bunch has a platform. It isn’t large enough to hold the dragon but it is big enough for the beast to gently lay your body down on its slightly rocky surface.

It takes flight yet again, circling overhead before retreating into the distance. You watch it go, not knowing if this place will be a refuge or a new hell.

Slowly, you push up from the platform, observing your surroundings. The tower is like that of any other across Apocrypha, and beyond it, the labyrinth is a swirling mass of buildings and stairways. It’s clearly a warning to keep away, but to keep away what? People don’t casually find themselves in Apocrypha. What’s the point of the maze?

Standing on shaky legs, you slowly stride from the platform to the interior space, passing under a low archway that leads into the tower.

It’s…a laboratory? No—not quite. A study? That doesn’t seem correct either. It is a home, but more like someone’s attempt at making something strange into something familiar. On the surface, it is a human space made within the horror of Hermaeus Mora’s realm.

Everything around you appears to have been touched by Hermaeus Mora’s influence. To your right is a massive cutout in the black stone of the tower. Within the cutout is a large bed covered in dark sheets that look exactly like the dark waters of Apocrypha. There are furs as well, and you’re not sure if they’re from creatures of the mortal realm, or from this one. The rest of the space consists of stacks and stacks of books, some of which appear beyond saving.

To the left is a stone desk covered in scrolls and loose pieces of parchment as well as quills and ink vials. There is an alchemist workbench as well as an enchantment area. All the soul gems are black, and all the vials on the shelves are full. There are many ingredients on the shelves that you recognize, and a good many you don’t.

Parts of the space remind you of your own home, but something about it feels…off, as if Mora’s influence is wrapped around every item. In your mind, you envision the large Daedric Lord hovering in the air, his mass of tentacles sliding over and around everything yet invisible to the human eye. You sense someone watching you, but as you observe the large space, you notice no one inspecting you from the shadows.

You touch nothing. You know better than to poke around with things you’re not familiar with. There could be any number of unwanted surprises hiding here, and the last thing you want to do is trigger something on accident. Instead, you peer at everything, keeping a safe distant between whoever this stuff belongs to and you.

Apocrypha wants to consume you. It wants to suck the flesh from your bones and then break them open to slurp up the marrow. This realm desires to keep you in its clutches, to possess you and your knowledge, to chew on your brain until you become one with the Daedric Lord. Even here, in this new environment, the tacky pull of Mora’s influence gnaws at the back of your mind. You shiver, wiggling your shoulders in response as if Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles lay against you like a cloak.

So far, Hermaeus Mora has been unsuccessful in drawing you in. And you plan on keeping it that way.

Glancing around the large interior space, there is no sign of the owner. It is entirely quiet. You observe the space uninterrupted. What you really need is a change of clothes. This…sack you were put in does nothing to protect you. It’s also entirely too revealing. You want it gone and to replace it with your armor.

But that might be impossible. Wherever you are, you’re likely far away from your gear. The next step is figuring out what is available to you in this moment. There has to be something useful in this place for you to take, especially a change of clothes. You’ll even take a blanket off the bed. It’s certainly better than what you’re wearing now.

A movement in one of the many vials catches your eye. You pause, and then turn toward the flickering movement. Something is wiggling around in the glass. Something dark and slimy and wet. Something with tentacles. Something with cloudy eyes.

“Does my collection interest you?”

You drop into a crouch, snagging a knife off the nearby table. You flip the handle around and brandish the knife like any blade. It’s dull, which is disappointing, but it’s better than having nothing. Anything can be a weapon in the right hands.

From the dark recesses of the room comes a specter. At first, it is just spots of color. Then those spots elongate, extending outward into points, glowing brightly and revealing a humanoid figure.

Whoever this is, they wear a mask. It’s golden. Shiny. The eyeholes are thin slits and the top of the mask curves upward at four separate points. The bottom half of the mask look like tentacles. It reminds you of the Seekers and their faces. Their robes are a deep greenish brown accented in gold embellishments around and down the arms, at the waist, and shoulders. The colorful glow comes from an aura around the upper half of the body. It’s dragon-like in appearance.

They take one powerful step forward and you sink closer to the floor. With the distance, there is still a thickness in the air, as if their mere presence is enough to change it. It sits heavy on your chest, pushing you down toward the floor.

The stranger takes another step toward you. Instinct ignites, tells you to strike first.

You throw the knife.

You’re good with blades, especially after spending time with some members of the Thieves Guild. But you’re tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Your aim is shit, and this intruder easily bats the knife to the side.

“In my own home.” The stranger is a man, and you are in his home. “How rude,” he croons. He doesn’t even sound upset, just slightly irritated as if the thrown knife is an inconvenience.

He takes another step in your direction. More and more of his form comes into clearer focus as he nears. He is bright and bold, and the power that radiates off him is like an unrelenting hand around the throat. It’s so concentrated in the air you could choke on it.

But you don’t plan on staying. You’ll make for the maze. That has to be better than being stuck in here with him.

You throw yourself out from behind the table and sprint for the platform. Your legs burn and your chest heaves, but you’re determined, eager to break free and go about this on your own terms.

As you approach the archway, the dragon from before lands on the platform. It starts to slide a bit, but it’s smart, using its massive claws to hook itself onto the wall of the tower. It’s serpentine head swivels toward you, and then it roars.

It is earth-shattering and you fall to your knees in pain. The world vibrates around you and everything spins. The floor is cold beneath your hands and is hard against your knees.

You are so tired, and you hate it. It makes you weak. It keeps you at the mercy of others.

The serpentine dragon shakes as if it were a dog removing water from its fur. Its giant head turns in the direction of the glowing man. “Miraak. Zu’u drun ek.”

Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora’s servant.

The man whose influence corrupted many minds on the island of Solstheim. The man whose power corrupted the stones, the same stones you purged upon request of Storn Crag-Strider. His followers attacked you in Riverwood, tried to slit your throat and claim your death in his name.

Mora called Miraak “Dragonborn”, and spoke of his desire to return to the mortal realm to conquer it, and in turn, Hermaeus Mora’s influence would spread. But the Daedric Prince also mentioned Miraak’s desire to break away from Mora’s control. That he was “restless” here.

This is the reason you are here in the first place. You and Teldryn didn’t venture into Miraak’s temple because it was too heavily guarded. The Black Book was the option you went with, and instead of finding direct answers, it has handed you over to the person you’re seeking information about.

How…convenient.

You want to laugh but you might sound mad.

“You serve me well, Sahrotaar.” Miraak’s glowing brilliance begins to fade, and then it slowly melts away from his body, disappearing into the air. “Go. When you hear your voice on the wind, know that it is me.”

Sahrotaar shifts, his massive head turning toward you one more time before he pushes off and disappears into the sky. Miraak watches him go, and then slowly twists in your direction. Now that the glowing aura around him is gone, you can see Miraak more clearly than before.

While his robes appear a bit aged, they’re in good repair. Miraak looks regal, almost kingly, which is so odd in a place like Apocrypha. Everything drips with Mora’s influence, and while you see that influence in Miraak’s mask, everything else about him seems detached from Hermaeus Mora’s touch.

Miraak fits right in, and yet is very much out of place.

“You are Dragonborn.” Miraak’s voice almost echoes as if there are two of him speaking. “I can feel it.”

Exhaustion might be setting in, but you’re feeling sharp. Your tongue is a blade and your words are the sting of steel. “How perceptive,” you bite, trying your best to slowly put some greater distance between you and Miraak.

“And yet,” he pauses, masked head tilting slightly to the side, “you do not understand just how much power a Dragonborn can wield.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “And you do?”

“I know things that the Greybeards will never teach you.” Miraak starts to walk toward you again. It’s leisurely, as if he’s not scared of you at all.

And why would he be? You are disheveled. A mess.

“I’m not looking for a teacher,” you snap, slipping as you try to stand.

Miraak is so close, and you’re desperate to escape him. That is what your survival hinges on. Escape. You have no chance if you try to take him on like this. It will not be a fair fight. And you will lose.

Throwing yourself to the right, you reach for another knife. It’s just as dull as the other one, but you don’t care. You’ll use your nails and teeth if you must in your attempt to flee him.

Miraak dives toward you, and you swing at him. He leans back, the edge of the knife scraping against his mask as he moves out of the way. You try again, and this time, you know your exhaustion is truly sneaking up on you. Your reaction time is poor and Miraak grabs your wrist out of the air.

He twists and pain shoots up your arm. You release the blade with a strangled cry. Pinning your arm behind you, Miraak thrusts you toward the floor, your cheek smashing into the cold rock as he pushes you against it. When you kick out at him, Miraak sits on your legs, his weight concentrated on your upper thighs.

You try to buck him off, but only end up rubbing up against him. The sack you’re wearing rides up, dangerously close to exposing yourself to him.

Miraak laughs softly and bends forward, the mask incredibly close to your face. “An enticing offer. But you are…filthy.”

“I hope Mora chokes you with a tentacle,” you growl, wiggling some more.

“I suspect you’ve already choked on one.”

You throw your elbow back but Miraak pushes you right back down against the floor.

“Behave,” he purrs. “I don’t intent to harm you.”

“Liar,” you growl, the air from your lungs pushing some of the hair off your face as you speak.

Miraak shifts his weight on your legs. “What have I done to illicit such anger from you?”

Is he serious? Has he completely forgotten that he sent his worshipers after you?

“Your cultists attacked me,” you say through clenched teeth.

“They were simply trying to subdue you.”

“They tried to kill me. One of them even had a note. It said that whoever struck the killing blow would earn your favor.”

Miraak stiffens. “That is most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” you laugh, bitterness in your tone.

“That was not my instruction.”

Hermaeus Mora’s words come creeping back to you.

I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.

“What do you want from me?” you murmur.

Miraak is silent for a moment before he speaks. “If I release you, will you try to stab me?”

You pause, considering it until Miraak begins to fidget in irritation. “No promises,” you finally answer.

His chuckle is low and soft. “I value your honesty.” Miraak removes his weight from your legs and releases your wrists.

You push up onto your knees and glance up at him from your position on the floor. Miraak towers over you, the two of you observing each other in silence. His chest rises and then falls with each breath, but he makes no other move. It’s a bit unnerving, and you question what it is he’s thinking about behind that golden mask.

There is a break in the silence. A flash of movement. It is Miraak’s gloved hand. He offers it to you, palm upward.

You glance it. Then back at his mask. Then back to the hand.

What options do you have? Where will you be if you refuse him? It is unlikely that Miraak will so easily let you go. You don’t trust him, but you trust Hermaeus Mora even less.

With a deep frown, you slide your hand into his. Through the glove, you feel his warmth. That heat is human, and it is an oddly comforting thing after so much strangeness.

Miraak helps you to your feet. Your legs wobble, exhausting swinging its angry head again. Everything aches. It sits down in your bones, the weight of it like boulders. Your stomach growls loudly and you want to cringe from the volume.

Miraak still clutches your hand. You don’t hate it, but it does make you uncomfortable. Yanking your hand away, you drop your arm to the side, hiding the fingers as they curl to form a fist.

“You can bathe through there.” Miraak indicates the direction with a light tilt of his mask. “You need it.”

You snort. “Now you’re the one being rude.”

Miraak crosses his arms but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge you’ve said anything at all. Giving him your best scowl, you turn on your heel in the direction he indicated. There is a deep cut in the wall, one that cannot be seen straight on. You pause right at the opening, and turn back toward Miraak.

He’s walking away in the opposite direction. Your gaze darts to the arch and platform, to the maze beyond the tower. If you time it right, you might be able to slip away from him, to enter the maze and lose him.

As you take a single step toward freedom, and Miraak’s voice rings out around the room. “Don’t even consider it.” You freeze, one hand firmly planted on the wall, every muscle tense. “You cannot flee from me, Dragonborn. I would find you.”

“Bastard,” you whisper, and Miraak turns in your direction as if he heard you.

Slipping inside the opening in the wall, you enter a small, private washroom. In the middle is a tub made from the same black stone as the rest of the tower. There is a drain in the bottom but no indication of how to fill it.

More importantly, is there water on Apocrypha? There is the dark water you plummeted toward, but is there actual water? The kind you drink or bathe with? It seems impossible, and yet there are hundreds if not thousands of Hermaeus Mora’s most devoted followers who haunt his halls, preparing his Black Books.

Do they eat? Do they hydrate? Or are they sustained on Mora’s influence alone? The very idea makes your skin crawl.

You’re about to back out of the room when a Seeker floats in. Its mandibles flare in agitation, and you gasp, stumbling into the wall as you move out of the way. The Seeker doesn’t even give you a second glance. In its four hands the Seeker clutches four buckets of water. Slowly, it empties each one into the tub before disappearing out the way it came.

Seekers are servants of Mora…aren’t they?

You follow it out and watch as it floats to a well-like structure. It’s not exactly a kitchen but there is a small fire pit near it. The Seeker begins filling the buckets and you take this time to glance at the rest of the room. Next to Miraak is another Seeker. A third floats near the bookshelves. A fourth slowly ascends the stairs that leads to another space out of sight.

“What is this?” You gesture at the Seeker fetching your water.

Miraak quickly turns in your direction, his back straightening. “Why are you still wearing those rags?”

You blink, stunned that he completely stepped around your question to ask one of his own. The Seekers floats toward you and you step to the side.

You wave your arm in the creature’s direction, and repeat your question. “What is this?”

“That is a Seeker,” replies Miraak flatly.

“I know what it is,” you retort. “But what is it doing here?”

“It serves me.” Miraak’s arm extends to the rest of the room. “They all serve me.”

You shake your head. “They serve Hermaeus Mora.”

Miraak rolls up the scroll before him and tosses it onto a nearby pile. “They did serve him. And now they attend to my every command.”

The Seeker that floats next to Miraak trills. Miraak glances at it before returning his attention back to you. Even though his features are hidden behind the mask, you feel his gaze roaming up and down your body. You immediately cross your arms over your breasts.

Miraak’s answer gives you no comfort.

“Is that all?” he asks, almost bored.

You glance away from him and back at the opening in the wall. The Seeker emerges, carrying empty buckets. You’re too tired for this. Not liking his answer but accepting it nonetheless, you head back into the small washroom.

You stare into the water in the tub, and keep staring until the Seeker returns, emptying the buckets. The tub is full, and the Seeker gives a little nod of the head before it dismisses itself. Stepping up to the tub, you hesitantly dip your hand into the clear water.

It is cool, and the temperature sends a little shiver up your arm. While you’d prefer it warm, you’ll take anything at this point. You’re coated in grime and even a bit of slime. There are still some crusty bits on your face from when the Cipher removed the paste they slathered over your eyes.

Glancing over your shoulder, you check to make sure no one has entered uninvited. There is no one there. You are alone.

Slowly, you slide one arm and then the other out of the worn rags. It falls to the floor, pools at your feet. You take one step toward the tub. The moment you begin to lift your leg, an arm slides along your back and around your waist.

The touch is so surprising that you shriek and then lash out. The side of your fist hits Miraak in the middle of his mask. He makes a humph sound and draws backward from the blow.

With your hand still raised in alarm, you stare at him in disbelief. Then you realize how intimate the placement of his hand is. That disbelief quickly turns to anger.

“What the hell are you—”

Miraak lifts his hand and flames erupt above his palm. The sudden fire snaps your mouth shut. He hasn’t released your waist, and with the mask, you’re not sure if he’s staring at your face or the rest of you.

His attention shifts to the tub and you take this opportunity to hook your toes under the sack and bring it up enough to snag it. You immediately hold it against your body, clutching it like a shield as the flames in Miraak’s hand vibrate and shift, swirling and then extending as he begins to heat the water in the tub.

You watch in fasciation as the water ripples and then starts to steam. Before it comes to a simmer, Miraak abruptly cuts the flame. He reaches into his robes with his free hand, and from it he retrieves several bundles of lavender.

Miraak tosses them into the tub, and only then does he step away from you.

The gesture of heating the water and throwing in the lavender is…odd. You hate that you like it. But it’s too human. Too kind. Too intimate. Isn’t this man supposed to be your enemy? Isn’t he trying to take over Solstheim and the rest of Tamriel? Does he not see you as a threat to all his carefully laid plans?

“Are you going to join me, too?” you ask, irritating slipping in your tone.

Miraak pauses at the opening in the wall. “Your stink is nauseating.” He disappears, leaving you open-mouthed. Shocked. Fuming.

Growling, you throw your poor excuse for clothes on the ground and step into the tub. The water is perfectly warm and you instantly melt into it, sinking down down down until your head is under the water. When you come up for air, your eyes are closed and you’re smiling. You push your hair back out of your face and breathe deep, reveling in the comforting warmth of the water.

As you open your eyes, a shadow takes form in front of you. At first, you’re confused, and then you quickly realize that it’s Miraak. The entire upper half of your body is on full display, laid bare before his gaze.

You cover your chest and sink into the water until only your head bobs on the surface. Frowning, you stare him down as a he places a chair in front of the tub. He sinks into it, reclining casually, and then tosses a bar of soap at you from one of his pockets.

Snatching it out of the air, you bring it to eye-level. You sniff it, and smell nothing.

“I didn’t poison the soap,” Miraak deadpans. “If I wanted you dead—”

“If you want on my good side, I prefer compliments. Not an insult to my intelligence,” you interrupt, wetting the bar of soap and lathering it between your hands.

Miraak doesn’t finish his sentence. He leans back in his chair, watching as you start to move the suds over your arms.

“Please leave. You’re making me uncomfortable,” you say. Miraak doesn’t move. He just sits there. You drop your arm into the water to rinse it off. “Think I’ll run? Is that why you’re sitting there watching a naked woman bathe herself?”

“Yes,” he replies, almost instantly.

“You are unbelievable,” you mutter, starting to work on your other arm.

“You’ve consumed dragon souls,” states Miraak, completely changing the subject.

You pause in your lathering and glance at him. “You’re just like Hermaeus Mora. All this knowledge and yet everything that comes out of your mouth is incredibly dull.”

Miraak moves as if in a silent laugh. You roll your eyes and return to scrubbing your arms.

“Do I amuse you?” you ask, inspecting the undersides of your nails.

“You bite,” replies Miraak. “And teeth are useful.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or a threat.

He takes a deep, audible breath and shifts in the chair, lifting his hips as he adjusts. You keep your gaze firmly on your nails as if that one subtle movement didn’t stir something in your belly.

“Do you ever wonder if it hurts?” he asks, almost absently, like he’s not really expecting you to answer the question.

“Do I ever wonder if what hurts?” you hesitantly reply.

“To have one’s soul ripped out. Do you think the dragon’s feel it? Do you think they understand what’s happening to them?”

The soap almost slips from your hand. Miraak sounds pensive, almost sad. “We are not dragons,” you answer softly.

Miraak nods. “You’re right. We’re not. Because we’re better than them.”

There it is. Arrogance. Now you feel it. Now you understand a bit of what Hermaeus Mora hinted at. That overwhelming heaviness is back. Miraak’s power is potent. It crackles in the air. Sizzles on your tongue.

His gloved hand taps against the arm of the chair. “When the dragons ruled over mortals, I served as a dragon priest on Solstheim. That was my purpose for many years.” Miraak’s golden mask is turned away from you as if he’s recalling an old memory. “During that time, I came to possess one of Hermaeus Mora’s Black Books.”

Miraak stops tapping the arm of the chair. His hand forms a fist. “He taught me many things. A great many powerful things. One of these things was a dragon shout capable of bending dragons to my will.”

The pause afterward stretches, and you decide to fill the gap, to play along. He is revealing information. Pieces of his history. Why he’s doing so is a bit of a mystery, but you also know that if you play this right, you might gain something that will give you an upper hand on him.

“And what did you do with that knowledge?”

Miraak’s mask swivels in your direction. “Knowledge like that was forbidden. I was a dragon priest serving my dragon masters. To use power like that against them was unthinkable.”

You know where this is heading. “Yet you did it anyway?”

“I betrayed them,” states Miraak. “I used that shout and my power as Dragonborn to devour their souls. With each soul I consumed, I became more powerful. I terrified our dragon overlords. I threatened the power the dragon priests possessed.”

You move to the edge of the tub. Placing the soap on the ledge, you cross your arms over the lip of the tub, you give Miraak your full attention. Men are all the same in the end, and it is clear that Miraak is just that. A man.

His chest rises and falls rapidly. “During the Dragon War, I was…propositioned. Hakon One-Eye, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, and Felldir the Old all pleaded with me to use my power as Dragonborn to assist them in defeating Aludin. But I refused them. I attempted my own rebellion against the dragons instead.”

“I suspect that did not go well for you?”

“No,” he admits. “I was unsuccessful. And because of my betrayal, the dragons razed my temple on Solstheim.”

“I’ve seen your temple,” you say. “It’s something to behold.” That much is true. Those words are not lies. You and Teldryn were both impressed with how large the structure was on the outside, and the two of you discussed at length just how massive the temple must be on the inside.

“You also interrupted my progress on Solstheim.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, sinking into the tub a bit. “I did.” He stares at you a long moment before you decide to bridge the gap. “You didn’t tell me what happened. After your temple was razed.”

Miraak glances away again. “There are two stories that are told. The first is that a fellow dragon priest named Vahlok became my jailor. Restraining me to Solstheim. The other story is that when Vahlok was about to kill me, Hermaeus Mora stepped in and saved me, transporting me here, to the realm of Apocrypha.”

You laugh and Miraak’s head snaps in your direction. “What?” he asks, clearly flustered.

“It’s obvious that the correct story is the second one.”

“Is it?” replies Miraak, a bit of amusement leaking into his tone.

“Is it not?”

He shrugs and you only shake your head, returning to your soap, this time lathering it into your hair.

“So if Hermaeus Mora stepped in to save you, what have you done all this time?”

Miraak shrugs. “I’ve not been idle.”

“Clearly,” you snort.

Miraak sighs. “I’ve devoured many dragons. Far more than you have I suspect.”

“And that makes you better than me?”

“It makes me more powerful. But you are Dragonborn. You are the only one who I can consider my equal.”

The pieces are falling into place. What was it that the Greybeards told you all that time ago when you first ventured up the mountain? They told you that there is only ever one Dragonborn at a time.

But here you are. And here is Miraak.

The two of you. Together.

You swallow, and your salvia sticks in your throat. “You crave power. Why would you ever see me as an equal?”

“It is foretold that the Last Dragonborn will be my freedom. For so many years I believed it involved your death. But I was wrong.” He leans forward in the chair. “Hermaeus Mora does not lie, but he does twist the truth until you believe that up is down and down is up. He likes control, and I am a thing to collect. It’s what he wants from you, too.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know what Hermaeus Mora wants from me.”

“Beware, Dragonborn. Hermaeus Mora will betray you as he has me.”

“I am not Mora’s puppet. Nor will I be yours.”

“We are the First and the Last. We are the beginning and the end. I am the first blood drawn and you are the killing blow. We are bound by fate. We are inevitable.”

You don’t like where this is going. All this talk of fate is pulling at your nerves. Hermaeus Mora said fate you brought you to him, and now Miraak says the same. But Teldryn told you different before you opened the Black Book. He insisted that the woes of Tamriel are not yours to fix. That your life is your own.

You grip the bar of soap hard enough that your nails begin to sink in. “And yet, you did not slay Alduin.”

“And you have?” counters Miraak.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

“Alduin would not face me because he knew I would defeat him. But the two of us? Together? We could do it. Easily.”

You’re beyond clean now, but Miraak goes too far. He wanted you brought to him so that he can manipulate you into serving with me? To help him…what? Conquer Solstheim? Skyrim? All of Tamriel? Would that even be enough for him, or will Miraak demand more, dragging you along with him in his lust for power?

“You presume much, Miraak. What makes you think I’ll join you?”

Miraak stands from the chair and walks to the edge of the tub. He grabs the back of your neck, and lifts you slightly out of the water. Leaning in, the golden mask is all you can see.

“Do you not feel this? We are tethered. Either we fight it and end up fighting each other. Or you join me.”

As quickly as he grabs you, Miraak releases you, and you fall back into the water, your arms wrapping around your torso protectively. He stares at you behind the mask, and then turns, disappearing from view.

The water has grown cold.

The bundles of lavender have unraveled. Wilted.

You sink further into the water, watching as a lavender stem floats by. The purple petals are dark. Almost black.

You’re not in a physical cage. There are no bars. No restraints. But you are not free with Miraak. He demands an answer, and there is only one he is expecting.

But it’s not the one you want to give.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats @ninman82

[comradeacerbus]

Yeah finals are over so NOW I HAVE MORE TIME TO DRAW THE EDGY TENTACLE MAN

BEHOLD

[emrysthegoodwitch]

THE VESTIGE - DRAGONBORN

Many believe, the Dragonborn found out about their heritage after battling a dragon to save Whiterun.

In fact everyone believed it. They assumed their talent with magic and ancient languages was from growing up in the academic sphere.

Both assumptions were completely and utterly wrong. The Dragonborn found out about their heritage and power granted to them by Akatosh, long before the 4th Era.

They found out about their heritage long before Alduin returned, before the Oblivion Crisis, and before the Tribunal Temple fell.

They found out long ago, when they went by a different moniker. A different title for a different age.

The Dragonborn's first title was The Vestige.

Almost a thousand years ago, when the Three Banners War waged. The Vestige discovered who they were in Elsweyr.

When they accompanied Abnur Tharn on a quest to stop the war, only to release Dragons who had been locked away.

No, no one knew of this. It was a secret they kept dear. Few alive knew of the truth, and even then 'alive' was a loose term.

Were dremora ever really alive?

So when Cultists came to attack them, claiming they were the 'false dragonborn' they felt an anger that hadn't surfaced for a very long time. Perhaps not since Mannimarco dared to sacrifice their soul.

After all the trials and tribulations they had been through, someone wants to claim they were a false dragonborn?

They made their way to Solsthiem, a lonely island they had not been to for a few hundred years. Looking for answers, and not giving up until they found some. They did indeed find answers, their face morphing into a smirk when they realized another Daedric Prince was impeding their way, that would simply not do.

Hermaeus Mora was surprised and extremely alarmed when he felt and saw The Vestige enter his realm. He wanted to assume it was a coincidence, but the second the Thu'um left their throat, Herma Mora second guessed himself for the very first time.

Miraak was surprised to run into another Dragonborn, even more surprised to find out they were far older than they looked. He also appreciated escaping Apocrypha with their aid in one piece.

[miraakulous-cloud-district]

Out of context spoilers/memes from chapter 5!

Loved writing The Big Battle™ so, so much!

[ao3feed-izuku-midoriya]

DragonBorn and Hero Blood

DragonBorn and Hero Blood by Nefilolghost

With skills gained from an old journey, the small traumas of my past in wars and scars will be my companions if I manage to get into the AU, as well as very good friends.

Words: 8056, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Multi

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Inko, Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Hermaeus Mora, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Class 1-A

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45896029

[isirumarin]

Miraak and Isira pt.3

His eyes opened and blinked and for a moment, he thought he was having another of Mora's tortuous dreams- but it wasn't. The aurora was shining like a silk ribbon across the dark ashen sky. His blue eye shined with its reflection, his blind eye reflected nothing. He brought his hands to his chest. Naked. Real.

He was free and alive. Miraak sat up. Remembering the events of the past day. His battle with Isira, Mora, and escape from the Apocrypha.

Isira. The last dragonborn.

He turned and met her silver eyes. They shone brightly in the rich light of the Solstheim night. She was still naked as well. The lights highlighted her delicate elven form. She was lithe and muscular. Her silver hair fell in a long silken sheet across her back, shining in the multicolored light. Her arms were crossed and resting on her knees. She watched him silently, her expression contemplative.

"Something happened." He said finally, with his resonant voice.

Isira laughed softly. "Yes..it did."

He narrowed his eyes. He did not tolerate being made a fool of. "I mean, I heard voices, and felt some sort of divination before.." He snapped, standing quickly, his fists tightening as he faced her.

"Kynareth spoke to me." Isira replied calmly, not bothered by his angry display. She looked him over since he was offering the view. 'Damn..' she thought. 'How was she going to explain this to Rumarin." She averted her eyes.

"Kyne?" He replied, puzzled. For his experience was different...a dark voice had spoken to him. A powerful and ancient might, urged him to chase his animalistic desires. 'Take her and grow stronger.' He remembered. It wasn't Mora, it was...older.

She watched him as he relaxed and digested this revelation.

"Are we aspects of Kyne and Shor? The great Fox and Hawk." He muttered.

"You are wiser than I." Isira replied calmly as she gathered her armor. "You are very, very old." She added as she slipped into her underclothes. Miraak still stood as a statue. His mind at work.

"Time does not pass in the way it does on the mortal realm. If not for my power and Mora's....influence, I would have succumbed and become undead, as the seekers are." His voice was beautiful, like a divine. Isira thought. He was just a beautiful creature, even if he was half-blind and Apocrypha scarred. She thought of Rumarin. She would have to tell him what happened...and introduce them. She was afraid of what Miraak would say to her lover and companions.

"You have someone already." Miraak stated matter-of-factly. "You are afraid, Dragonborn." He picked up his mask from the ash and wiped it clean. "Fear no mortal man." He met her gaze. "We are bound by the true gods of this land. Your petty love-things mean nothing."

Isira slung Shadowsong onto her back and scowled at him as she approached, her face stony.

"Do not misunderstand." He stated authoritatively, his face close to hers. "I will not interfere with your....'life'....as long as it does not stand in the way of what must be done." His eyes were intense as usual.

Isira softened and looked away. "I still don't understand what is being asked of me." She admitted, looking out at the sea.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her close and she did not resist him. "We must do as we are bid. We must." His words were true. Miraak was persuasive and exerted his influence effortlessly. She could imagine him every bit the cruel but charismatic ruler. "Why did we..." she whispered, her voice trailing off.

He grabbed her face, the soft leather of his gloves cradled her face and he looked deep into her eyes. "You felt it." He said intensely through his tightened jaw. He looked down and away then back at her. "I can't explain it, but I can't deny what I feel...when you flew in on Sahrotaar and walked to me, I felt I might fall to my knees. Me. The most powerful mortal creature in this world. I already knew you. I already....had feelings for you that were always there and never there....coexsisting." he whispered. He looked puzzled and his hand fell away from her face. "I am considerably weakened by this and yet when we are together...I feel invigorated. I don't understand why I'm telling you any of this." He tightened his jaw.

She could feel his anger rising. Without thinking she stroked his cheek with the softness of her hand. "All will be made clear, I'm sure." She whispered soothingly. "The important thing is that Hermaeus Mora was thwarted and whatever malignant plans you had died as well. You made it back without my soul."

"The weak always view the powerful as villains." He said defiantly, in his resonant voice. She eyed him suspiciously. She could feel he was very bitter about that, but that he was grateful to be free of Hermaeus Mora. "And there will be a cost..." He added quietly, his voice melancholy.

Isira turned from him, his eyes still following her.

She thought about his words, all of them. What Miraak had said about feelings... that's exactly the feeling she had with Rumarin.

What the hell was going on?

[xenargon]

A short bit I wrote for the spirit of The Amaranthine Paradox that will not be in the final version

(I would put a "read more" tag but I can't find how to do this on mobile and I hate mobile tumblr too much to bother caring.)

Hermaeus Mora is no one single thing. He lives in every part of his realm; listening, watching, echoless and still. Time itself is rather stagnant in Apocrypha. It is a lesser thing, for Herma-Mora is perpetuity incarnate; memory without order, knowledge made flesh, oceans of blood-wisdom that span beyond mortal comprehension. Every other depiction of him is misleading and trite.

To traverse the halls of his realm is to walk within him, across his bones, among towering, ancient limbs tempting with useless fruit.

How many trees are there across the whole of Tamriel? This is a thing he can tell you.

His memory is vibrant and perfect, of course, but removed from passion or judgement. He has seen through mortal eyes, as he has cracked open their minds like seed-hulls and consumed their experiences. They fill him with color, and every one holds something to be learned. They become part of the Known in this way, their lives forever preserved in serene apathy within him. I can imagine no more perfect ending than this.

All of Mundus lives within Hermaeus Mora, for this is a thing he knows, and he is all things that are. He becomes the Aurbis, in the sense that it knows itself. Know that when you walk among him, you tread upon the mind of God.

Miraak described him as fickle, and this is not untrue. Herma-Mora is far too many things to remain static. Too expansive for timebound mortals to see him as anything but raging chaos. His thoughts are a cacophony of different places and times, unrelated except by the fact that they are known. I imagine that only myself and Miraak, being Dragonborn, have had the means to hear this without going mad. And it is strange, because Miraak still wanders Apocrypha in the form of his hollow memory, animated by the impression of his spirit.

"How do I know," I ask, "that I am not myself a memory?"

Hermaeus Mora scoffs at the very question, always amused at the naivete of lesser beings, for within his domain, there is no distinction between memory and truth.

"You know you are alive, just as Miraak does. The difference is that you can return to Nirn. Or, at least... you believe you can."

His voice softens into a whisper, and his amused condescension swells.

"Miraak believes this, too."

[rosenroteis]

Why I am chill with Daedra in Skyrim, kinda.

Meridia is my mom. I don't know why I started calling her that, but I am always excited to hear "A NEW HAND TOUCHES THE BEACON" and all that crap. I also hate mages, necromancers, and vampires. Oh, and whenever I'm walking up to her statue, I will chant "FIRE SWORD FIRE SWORD FIRE SWORD" until mommy speaks again. Damn, she bought my allegiance with a sword that has fire and a cool name.

Azura is pretty cool. My partner has the RP that his character in any Bethesda game is the Chosen of Azura, be it in an Elder Scrolls game, Fallout, or even Starfield when it finally comes out. I guess that makes her my mother-in-law in the in-game sense? I have no fucking clue.

I want to fuck Sheogorath. I will write the fucking smut myself if I have to-

The rest of them can fuck themselves.

Especially Herma-Mora. Fucking tentacle ass bitch.

[sonsofbal]

The arrival of Seth in Morthal

Seth stepped out of the Moorside, the village inn, and the icy Morthal breeze hit him in the face. He wrapped his sleek black cloak around him as he took a hard look around. He sighed with resignation before he started walking along one of the many raised wooden walkways that connected the few houses in the village. When Lord Harkon had assigned him to that place he had imagined more than just old wooden buildings and thatched roofs. But even the Highmoon Hall, his next stop and seat of local government, was nothing more than an overlapping jumble of these materials that barely surpassed the other buildings in size. Nothing comparable to the impressive stone-carved structures of Markarth, the city in which he had grown up. 

He had arrived in Morthal barely an hour ago and, since then, he had been accompanied by an oppressive sensation in his chest. He had felt it as soon as he had first seen the town and it had increased during his stop at the inn, where the inquisitive stares and the whispers of the villagers had soured his lunch, without anyone addressing him. Truth be told, he didn't mind being the center of attention. At sixteen, Seth was used to being the center of attention wherever he went: he was attractive, and just in case anyone didn't see him that way, he went out of his way to reinforce that image with stylish clothes that complemented his natural charisma. What bothered him about those glances was that they were indiscreet and loaded with suspicion. They lacked the reverence he was accustomed to, and made it clear that his plan to infiltrate among the villagers was going to cost him more time and effort than he had planned. Patience was not something that characterized his family; much less failure.  

He arrived at the doors of the Highmoon Hall a few minutes later. The walk, though brief, was enough to muddy his boots. The cobblestones of the town had cracked over time and now only a few stone groupings attested to the fact that the street had been paved at some point in the past. Seth wiped the sides of his boots against a bush before climbing the stairs and the damp wood creaked under his feet, as did the door when he pushed it. It wasn't even a double door. 

The interior was as austere as he had expected. A long room of wood and stone, with stairs and a pair of doors on either side, and no decoration other than a handful of hunting trophies scattered along the walls. At the back of the room stood a stone platform barely two steps high, with a limited area for the throne. Its style, of course, was also sober. He had the feeling that the chairs of his former home must be worth more septims than that old piece of furniture on which he had expected to see the jarl seated. Two men guarded the throne and, from the way they looked at him, Seth guessed that the whispers they exchanged were about him.

It was some time before the elder approached, skirting the hearth whose embers warmed the room. Seth did not even make an effort to give him a pleasant smile, having deduced from his clothes that he must be one of the jarl's servants. 

“I am…”

“Seth Athan, yes. We have received your letter.” The man cut him off with a harsh tone and a suspicious look. “My wife will see you soon. Do not move from here.”

The man walked away and up the stairs to the west wing. Seth, aggrieved and bewildered, hid his emotions under a mask of aristocratic indifference. Apparently, there even the nobles dressed like paupers. Everything in that town seemed to be very different from the reality to which he was accustomed.

As the minutes ticked by, his nerves began to fray under the insistent gaze of the burly Nordic man who must have been the family's Housecarl. The atmosphere was so inhospitable to him that some questions he was actively trying to avoid came to him. He thought of his mother and his siblings. Of the security of the home he had left behind. But the pressure of finding himself alone for the first time facing such an important mission for the clan's plans was still there since he had set out on the journey, like a knot in his chest.

The door creaked behind him and brought him out of his reverie. A redguard entered; his purple robe was befitting a master conjurer and the ring on his hand revealed him to be the court wizard. Seth was grateful for the distraction and turned to face the man. 

“You must be the court wizard", he greeted, holding out his hand.

Falion planted himself before the boy and studied him with an indecipherable expression. Silence lingered without the wizard bothering to reciprocate his gesture. Seth withdrew his hand uncomfortably. 

“And you must be Seth Athan", he replied at last. He had a monotone voice and a slow speech.  “I’m Falion".

The name crossed his mind like a flash of lightning and triggered a gesture of recognition against his will. He had heard that name before. According to rumor, the sorcerer had been banned from the College of Wizards after they discovered his experiments, for which he also made a good number of enemies. Not for nothing, Falion was said to be the only man in all of Tamriel capable of curing vampirism in an advanced state. Seth tried to conceal his surprise. Too late. The redguard's eyebrows had contracted subtly. 

“I have heard of you. Of your achievements in conjuration", he confessed. 

The sorcerer analyzed him with parsimony. He seemed to be looking for some double meaning in his words, or at least that's what Seth deduced from the tinge of suspicion that his gaze had acquired. 

“And what do you know about conjuration?” asked Falion. 

“Not as much as I would like, but as much as the Doctrine of Hibernalia offers," he replied confidently. He forced a tinge of admiration into his gaze. 

His words seemed to surprise Falion who, however, still seemed somewhat tense. 

“Those are bold words for someone your age", he questioned. 

Seth was beginning to sense why he had not aroused much sympathy among the school's wizards.

The sound of a door followed by voices and footsteps upstairs cut the conversation short. They both turned their attention to the commotion. Through the sparse wooden railing he saw how an older woman, whom he identified as Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, took the face of a young girl, his daughter, and addressed her with words he could not decipher. What struck him most was the teenager's worried and confused expression.

“Perhaps we can pick up the conversation another time", Seth proposed with genuine interest as a parting shot. 

After thinking about it, Falion nodded.

“There are not many opportunities to discuss the noble art of conjuration here in Morthal", the sorcerer conceded. 

Seth made his way to the back of the room, leaving Falion behind him. He greeted the lawmaker's family with a brief nod. The jarl took her place on the throne and her children stood to the side, next to their father. Instead of an expensive dress, as was customary among the rulers of other shires, Idgrod Ravencrone wore a cloak trimmed with furs, comfortable yet elegant. Her daughter seemed to imitate her style. The woman had a regal aura that reminded him of his mother for the second time that day. 

“Young Athan. So you have decided to move to Morthal”. The jarl's voice, confident and slow, commanded as much respect as her presence.    

Seth nodded. 

“As I informed you by letter, it is my intention to settle in Stonehills.”

The jarl arched an eyebrow. 

“I figured you'd change your mind as soon as you got here. Have you seen it yet?”

“Not yet, but I get the idea of how it is. I plan to restore it and, hopefully, learn about mine management. It's what my father would have wanted..." his voice trailed off and he looked away, in a gesture as distressed as the script called for. 

According to the cover he had devised, his presence in Morthal was justified by the family urgency that, after the assassination of Lord Athan, one of his sons would take the reins of the mines they had scattered throughout Skyrim. 

The jarl looked at him with understanding. While he was grateful that she didn't give him the same pitying look he used to get whenever he mentioned what happened in Markarth, he also missed that expression. It was definitely going to be difficult to manipulate Jarl Idgrod through emotions. 

“What happened to your father was atrocious," the jarl muttered unhappily. “I trust you will find your new home in Morthal. Besides, perhaps the collaboration between our families will bring an era of prosperity to the village", she announced, and at that moment she glanced sideways at his young heiress. She must have been the same age as him. 

Seth smiled. By the news, because the approval of the local ruler was needed to settle in his domain. But he also did so when he noticed that look. Seducing the jarl's daughter could be a very fast advance in his plans. Without wiping off his smile, he bowed his head again, now with thanks. 

“I hope so too, Jarl Idgrod.”

Idgrod Ravencrone held his chin with a look of intrigue. 

“Still, it's a pretty isolated place," she observed, "I'd expect someone so young to want to be closer to village life.”

“The truth is that I value the peace and quiet. It helps me to concentrate on my studies," he shared, self-possessed. 

He knew that her interest in history and literature made a good impression. He held back a smile as he perceived the jarl's nod of approval, but the woman's gaze took on a cynical tinge that he failed to understand at the time.

“I hope that your vassals will grant it to you.”

Bewilderment appeared on his face. He did not understand the reference.

“Sorli and Pactur? Is something wrong with them?”

Seth saw that cynical expression on the jarl's face again, now topped by a smile. 

“And Jesper, Sirgar, Gestur, Galdur, Swanhvir, Brirvid, Avujof and Jofka.”

The recital of names dropped his jaw. Not having visited his vassals before reporting to Morthal had been a mistake. 

“What?" he asked, incredulous at the list of names. 

Jarl Idgrod laughed. It was a kindly laugh.

“I know. At this rate, Stonehills will have more population than Morthal. Anyway, if you don't feel comfortable there and you're considering living closer to town, we can negotiate the sale of some land. It would be good to get back some of the buildings that magic and nature have taken away from us.”

Seth was agreeable and the conversation continued in a polite tone. Once they closed a deal that pleased both parties about their installation in the Hjaal March, the only thing left to do was to make the proper introductions. 

!Well, then we have an agreement. Welcome to Morthal, young Athan. These are Idgrod and Joric, my sons. They will do their best to make you feel at home, won't they?”

They both nodded and approached.

“Welcome to our village," greeted the young Idgrod with a friendly but reserved smile. Although she disguised it well, Seth could see the worry still shining in her dark brown eyes. 

“I am Joric, the future head of the guard. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Joric's introduction brought him out of his thoughts. He shook his hand. One glance was enough for him to deduce that he was an easy guy to read. 

“Idgrod, darling," exclaimed Jarl Idgrod. Her gaze and tone had a hint of an insinuating, gentler tone. “Perhaps you could show Seth around town.” 

Although Idgrod looked uncomfortable at the proposal, she nodded. 

“Of course, mother. Shall we, Seth?”

He nodded as well, but before following her he took one last look at the jarl and her family. 

“It has been a pleasure. Thank you very much for welcoming me in your village.” 

Idgrod and Aslfur smiled politely, while the Housecarl remained still without taking his eyes off him; he had been like that the whole visit. Joric, for his part, seemed anxious to say something. Seth held his gaze to give him cause to speak. 

“Next week is the Festival of the Mist, Morthal's biggest party. You should come, we can introduce you to our friends and neighbors in town.”

“Thank you, Joric," he replied, after a few seconds' thought. “I don't think I'll be able to come anyway. The house moving is going to keep me pretty busy until who knows when," he declined. He thought the boy looked relieved to hear that.

 “Oh, man. That's sad. Maybe next year?” 

Seth nodded and turned around. Idgrod knotted his cloak as she waited for him by the exit. He put on his own cloak and they walked out of the Highmoon Hall together.

“Your brother seemed pleased by my refusal," he commented with feigned disinterest, with no other objective than to get to know his companion a little better. Idgrod laughed and that puzzled him. “What's wrong?”

Idgrod led the way and guided him along a new set of wooden walkways that circled the Hjaal River. He stopped in front of a building and took the opportunity to look at it.

“I'm sure it's because of the dance. Joric has gone out of his way this year to impress the girl he likes and you, well…” the young woman let a knowing glance close the sentence.

He smiled a self-paying smile as he understood what she meant. 

“I get it. Coming from someone like you, that's quite a compliment," he commented matter-of-factly, before giving her a charming smile. 

Seth knew the effect this usually had on girls his age, he was used to using his natural charm to weaken people's barriers, but to his frustration Idgrod frowned and turned his back on him. She gave him a tour in which she showed Seth where the most important buildings in town were, such as the guard house, the inn and some stores. They stopped in front of a building also made of old wood that was two stories high and sunk its foundation into the bank of the Hjaal; the general store, he gathered from the sign. A note on the door warned that the store was closed and the worried expression returned to Idgrod's face. 

“Is something wrong?”

Idgrod sighed. 

“Morthal may seem quiet, but even here changes come. Lalette ran this store until she left us not long ago, they say to join the Stormcloaks, do you know what they are?”

Seth nodded. He knew Lalette's story firsthand; she had been the first victim of his plan. Idgrod's words confirmed that at least that front had gone as he had planned with Lord Harkon.

“Yes, the followers of Ulfric. There was a lot of talk about it in Markarth. Men never liked the idea of elves meddling in their beliefs.”

Idgrod nodded. They continued the visit as they chatted. They exchanged comments on the politics of the region and Idgrod also told him about the town's most notable neighbors, about whom she told him the basics so that he could get by in his first days in the town.

They passed by the Moorside Inn and Seth crossed the bridge to reach the last group of houses located in the northern part of Morthal. Idgrod headed for the sawmill first.  

“And this is the village sawmill," she explained. “If you ever need me, I usually spend my evenings here, behind the building.”

“Run by Hroggar?” Idgrod looked at him, pleased to see that Seth had paid attention to her explanations. “And he's okay with that? I mean, in Markarth we weren't allowed to go around any of the businesses when they were already closed.”

Idgrod shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess it's out of remorse. Hroggar acquired the business after Jorgen disappeared about six years ago. Rumor has it that he abandoned his family. Hroggar took advantage of the family's need to buy the sawmill cheap, but Alicent likes to go there. I imagine he finds it hard to say no.”

“It seems that Morthal has a serious emigration problem," Seth commented, taking the heat off the matter. However, Idgrod's gaze darkened. 

“It's not that simple. This disappearance is still shrouded in mystery. Despite the rumors, Alicent always speaks of him fondly. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who would just abandon his family.”

“And who is Alicent?” he asked. 

He had perceived Idgrod's smile every time she had mentioned her and now, at the question, he could tell how fond she was of her by the expression that appeared on her face. 

“My best friend. She is the daughter of Lami, the alchemist. Joric, my brother, is madly in love with her. She lives right there, in the Thaumaturgist’s Hut. 

Seth turned on his own body to contemplate the building Idgrod was pointing at. The last one on his tour of Morthal. It was a two-story hut surrounded by a garden full of exotic plants. He nodded with recognition at the name. He had heard of that place, their potions were famous throughout Skyrim.

“I've heard about the store. In fact, I was thinking of stopping by before I left for Stonehills," he shared. 

“Of course, you're going to need a few cold resistance potions until you get used to the local climate," she smiled. “Well, I hope I've helped you get your bearings. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.” 

It was time to say goodbye. Seth gave her a penetrating look, accompanied by the same charming smile he had given her earlier.

“Thank you very much, Idgrod. I'll take your word for it," he assured her, as he took her hand with the intention of kissing it.

Idgrod cleared her throat and released his hand. Seth frowned and looked at her in disbelief. This was the second time she had resisted him, and that was something new. 

“Seth, no offense, but I'm not interested in anything more than friendship," she explained honestly. “Even if my mother has other ideas in mind, I hope we can be good friends.” 

His frown relaxed as he listened to Idgrod's explanation. Ah, so that's it, he thought. He gave her a sympathetic nod, a knowing smile. 

“I see, may I ask who is the lucky one?”

Surprise assailed Idgrod's face. 

“How do you know...?”

He gave a casual smile and shrugged his shoulders. 

“It's the only reason I can think of for you to be so blunt.” 

Idgrod looked away. Now she looked uncomfortable. Seth knew he had discovered a secret as soon as she looked at him again and anticipated the plea for complicity in her eyes. 

“It's... no one from Morthal. And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it a secret.” 

Seth pretended not to care and nodded at her request. 

“It's between you and me," he promised. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Idgrod. I hope we meet again soon.”

“Thank you, Seth," she replied with a more relaxed smile after hearing his words. “I hope so, too.”

Idgrod had already turned to leave when he called her back. 

“Idgrod! Perhaps it's none of my business, but..., in the Highmoon Hall, when you came down, you looked dismayed. May I ask why?”

Idgrod rolled over and sighed. After hesitating, she looked him in the eye. 

“Perhaps it would be better for you to hear it from me than from anyone else. I was born psychic.” 

Her confession made Seth tense up from head to toe. Something like this was not in their plans and could complicate things a lot. Psychics were said to be born under the gift of Hermaeus Mora, which allowed them to glimpse destiny. Seth forced himself to relax at the look of concern and regret on the girl's face, who was still looking at him. 

“Sorry for the surprise. It's the first time I've met someone like that," he justified himself. 

Idgrod seemed to relax. 

“Thank you. People around here don't like magic too much. So you can imagine…”

Seth looked at her with understanding. Idgrod left the ending up in the air, he imagined after understanding that he had grasped the point she intended to make. 

“This afternoon you had one.” 

Idgrod's gesture confirmed it. 

“May I ask...?”

She denied without letting him finish and Seth just shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to delve any deeper. He didn't want to arouse unnecessary suspicion. 

“I hope it was nothing serious," he said with an honesty to suit his own purposes. “I won't bother you anymore. Until another time, Idgrod," he said goodbye. 

Now he set off for the alchemy store with a sense of triumph in his chest. Although his attempt to conquer the jarl's daughter had been thwarted, the information he had gained was valuable. Every detail, every rumor and every relationship he had discovered about that place were new pieces in the game of power and strategy that had been entrusted to him. And this game had just begun.

[gaqalesqua]

A Vigilant of Stendarr gets her vast knowledge of Daedric cults from an unlikely source

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part Three

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: body horror, tentacle sex, dubcon, power imbalance

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Part Three of Dark Knowledge

Hermaeus Mora gains a secret. You make your escape.

Part Two // Part Four

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

“Now, Dovahkiin. I would like that secret.”

Knowledge for knowledge.

That is what you promised Hermaeus Mora. A deal was made, and you must follow through.

“What sort of secret?” you whisper, leaning back as if you could escape the Daedric Prince. The four tentacles that hold you up in the air vibrate as you shift your weight away from Hermaeus Mora.

“Are you allowing me the choice?” He sounds amused, and you distinctly dislike it.

“No,” you reply, knowing that giving him the decision to select which memory to take is an unthinkable option. “I will make the choice.”

Hermaeus Mora hums softly, his tentacles tightening around your limbs. You’re perhaps a few feet off the ground at most. With these tentacles around your limbs, Mora holds you close to eye-level. In this humanoid form, Mora is tall, almost seven feet.

It is such a strange thing to see a god attempt to be human in any capacity. What was twisting around in Mora’s mind that made him take this form? Why did he believe this would ease your discomfort?

“Then it is your choice,” he replies. “And I will savor whatever you wish to reveal to me.” Mora’s voice is a subtle purr. It is a tone you might hear from a lover’s lips. Is the Daedric Prince taunting you on purpose?

As if human, Mora breathes deep, the inhalation loud. But there is no exhalation, and there is no warm breath against your skin. His form expands. Ripples slightly as if in pleasure. Revulsion blooms in your chest and creeps out into your limbs.

From over his shoulders come four slim tentacles. They slide over Hermaeus Mora and reach out for you. There is no possibility of your escape, and you watch as they move closer, the tips wiggling and stretching. Then they are on you, sliding everywhere.

“Those that follow me and bend to my will do not find my intrusions painful. But since you have yet to know my true influence, I will make sure there is none.”

“How will you do that?” You don’t recognize your own voice. It is soft. Nearly inaudible.

Hermaeus Mora does not tell you with a word but with a touch.

His hand lifts, hovering just above the fabric that separates him from your left breast. The singular eye in the center of his head is focused on that spot. The Prince of Fate hesitates for a moment before closing the distance.

There is nothing human about this touch.

Hermaeus Mora squints, as if thinking, and then his movement changes to that of what would happen if this were a mortal movement. He cups your breast softly, lightly squeezing before his thumb brushes over the nipple through the fabric.

An unknown urge, an eldritch pleasure, stirs in your core. The feeling is strange, and so at odds with what your mind is thinking. Your brain is a fire of revulsion and interest. It is intrigued and yet mortified that you are at his mercy.

One of the four tentacles slithers over and around his arm, accompanying the movement of his hand. Together, they form an unearthly dance of hand and tentacle seeking to draw pleasure from you. At first, the sensation is so odd that you don’t respond at all. But slowly, almost as if not realizing the change, your core begins to warm, and you sense a wetness between your legs.

A second tentacle appears, and it moves toward your other breast. It joins in the dance, and soon you begin to surrender, pieces of you fracturing like fragments of shattered stone. The second tentacle curls around the nipple, lightly tugging as the very tip swishes back and forth. The thin fabric draped over your body does nothing to dampen the sensation.

The two remaining tentacles delve downward, first wrapping around your calves, then venturing upward over your thighs and to the space between them. Hermaeus Mora’s hand draws away from your breast even as his tentacles remain.

“I have witnessed and recorded the mortal forms of mating,” says Mora slowly. “I have yet to put any of that knowledge to use until now.”

The two tentacles slide further up your thighs, and then branch outward, coming together between you and Hermaeus Mora’s bodies. Together, they sink down down down until the joined limbs press against your entrance.

“Look at me, Dovahkiin.”

Hermaeus Mora’s command is a blow. It is sharp as steel. There is no room for refusal. You are in his realm, and his voice holds authority here.

You glance away from the tentacles to his singular eye. While there is no mouth or nose or cheekbones to show his emotions, you still sense that he’s smiling somehow. That Hermaeus Mora is grinning with pleasure at his control over you.

Something wet brushes against your clit. It is not his horrid hand and you do not need to look to know that it is but another tentacle. Yet another appendage exploring your body. This one suctions against your clit, using its naturally, wet flesh to rotate back and forth, creating a vortex of motion that quickly pulls you to the brink of an orgasm.

The stuttering breath from your lungs earn you a deep, rumbling chuckle from Mora. It simmers, and then filters out, his shoulders heaving slightly as if the Daedric Lord is prideful of his actions.

“How does this feel?” he asks. There is a detachedness to his tone, as if he’s observing you like an experiment. But that is what you are after all. You are not the Dragonborn in Hermaeus Mora’s realm but a tool for him to hoard. There is no such thing as freewill or choices with him.

Everything is a game.

Everything is a trap.

“Your touch repulses me,” you reply, making sure your tone is biting.

“Oh. No.” Hermaeus Mora chuckles. “You cannot lie to me in my own realm, Dovahkiin. I see all. I know all.”

“Then you already know how I feel. Why ask?”

“Your venom is not nearly as deadly as you believe it to be,” comes his reply. You feel scolded, and that only makes you angry.

Your hands curl into fists. “Let me give you my secret and be done with this.”

Hermaeus Mora retreats slightly. The inky, watery flesh of his humanoid form ripples like the waters beyond this tower. But it is momentary. Quick. Like a pebble plopped into a still pool. It all returns to normal.

“You entered my realm. You came to me. You sought knowledge. Fate brought you here, and fate is what brings us together now.”

There is another light twist of the tentacle around your clit. This one pulls forth a moan from between your lips. It is unbidden, and completely surprising. It happens again, and that is when the two joined tentacles begin to push in.

The intrusion is not painful. It is actually pleasant and your body surrenders to it, feeding into the gentle, pulsing sway of them inside you. The tentacle at your clit works in tandem, the three appendages working you right back over the edge.

As you squirm, and writhe, the tentacles holding onto your limbs shift. They lift you a bit higher, and then you’re tipping slightly, legs brought upward, only to bend at the knees and be pushed toward your chest.

You’re being presenting and it is both demeaning and luscious.

Hermaeus Mora brings you closer, and then his arms are around your body, his head dipping in an act that seems far too intimate.

“I’ll have that secret now.”

Mora is right. There is no pain. The tentacles moving between your legs keeps all your focus there, even as he draws you closer to his body. You’re nearly pressed up against him. One of his arms slides up your back to wrap around your throat.

Sprouting from his head, little tentacles come rushing forward. They break over your face and meander toward your nose, mouth, and ears. You try to scream but only manage to choke around them as they enter your mouth.

“Relax,” coos Hermaeus Mora. “Let me in. Bask in my presence.”

The tentacles playing with your clit brushes over you in a way that has your body seizing. This flattens the barrier, and Mora’s connection to your mind is instantaneous.

It is a dull explosion. Bright. Loud. Yet also incredibly calm. He moves through your memory, and you can feel it, as if the tentacles are sliding over, around, and in your brain. It is awful, and yet it feels like nothing at all.

Your lips begin to form words, words that tell him that it is your choice. That the memory you pick is one that you select. He is not to grab and pull whatever he likes.

But Hermaeus Mora does not listen to mortal wishes. He shifts through everything, and then you sense the halt—the collective pause.

“What is this?” His tone is cautious but curious. At first, you’re unsure of what Mora is seeing, but as he accesses the memory, it all becomes clear.

“So…that is what the Greybeards hoard atop their mountain. How…selfish of them.”

Shredded wings, missing teeth, and aged dragon scales flare in your mind. You glimpse the eyes of immortality and power. Hermaeus Mora sees it all too, and he clings to this memory, not allowing it to slip away.

Around the image of Paarthrnax there is dullness, one that intensifies into bright white until you’re completely thrust from your own head and back into Apocrypha.

“Your memory is…delicious.” The word curls in the air as if Mora is savoring it like a fine meal.

All the tentacles have retreated from you other than the four that originally held you. “You said a secret. That is not a secret.”

“But it is, Dovahkiin. It is a secret you keep. And now it is a secret I know.”

“But I told you I would give you one.”

“And so you did,” he says simply.

Your lips curl back, showing your teeth. Hermaeus Mora seems unbothered by the whole affair, continuing like he doesn’t care about your display of anger.

“I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.”

Your feral snarl ebbs slightly. “He—what?”

Slowly, the tentacles bring you back to the floor. They retreat suddenly, disappearing into Mora’s form.

Hermaeus Mora’s dark laugh swirls around you like his tentacles. “As a guest in my realm, you are under my protection.” The humanoid shape he molded himself into starts to melt. He begins to lean to the right, the shine of his body rippling like boiling water. The liquification of body and tentacle is horrid. Putrid. Even the eye molts.

You stumble backward, falling on your ass as Hermaeus Mora becomes liquid.

As if there are cracks in the floor, he starts to seep into the stone, disappearing into the rock before there is nothing left of him.

You don’t move. Every inch of you is cold and alert, completely startled by his sudden dissolving.

“Dovahkiin,” comes Mora’s voice and it is everywhere. “No harm will befall you. I will see to it that Miraak does not find you while you haunt my halls.”

Two Seekers drift into the small place, their hands outstretched instructing for you to follow them. You don’t want to go. This place is starting to worm its way inside you. Already, you feel Mora’s alluring pull.

Perhaps it’s because he dug around in your head. Or, worse, the Prince of Fate made you into a whimpering mess that gave in. The very thought is embarrassing, and shame rises in your stomach. You are no one’s property. You belong only to yourself.

And the words are a lie.

You peel yourself off the ground, and the Seekers float into position, one in front and one behind. When you enter the main room where Mora’s most loyal followers work, they do not even look up at you.

Did they hear you in there moaning for their god? Shame creeps in again, and you purposefully stare at the back of the Seeker in front of you. You’re returned to your cage, and you do not want to crawl inside. Now that you’re on the outside looking in, you are not a guest in Hermaeus Mora’s halls but a pet. A plaything. Something he can chew up and spit out once he’s drained you of your memories.

What will happen to you then?

Instead of resisting, you crawl back in, curling up in a tight ball. You keep your back to the cage door, gaze focused on the wall in front of you. The cage is built into it, the metal bars imbedded in the wall.

A plan begins to take shape in your mind. Slowly, you reach out, your fingers brushing at the wall. It is not as hard you first believed it to be. It’s not stone or rock but something slightly fleshy.

With the right Shout, could you rip a hole in the wall? If you manage that, where would it lead you to? Empty air? Another room? Would Hermaeus Mora know your intent before you did it and come to stop you?

Is he even capable of that?

You’re not entirely sure, and you certainly do not wish to dwell in this cage until he calls on you again. You refuse to be his puppet. The answers you sought when you entered Apocrypha are unimportant now. Miraak’s temple is heavily guarded, but you’ll take the risk infiltrating it rather than trying to seek out knowledge in Mora’s halls.

Breaking through will create noise, and you don’t even know if your Thu’um has returned to you. Hermaeus Mora did not take it away, but he did manage to silence it for a time. When does that expire? Can he reset the clock once it’s up?

Running your tongue over your teeth, you consider your options, and settle on a quiet Shout.

“Feim,” you speak into the air.

You’re pushed into the ethereal form, and though it is temporary and lasts for only a handful of seconds, your Thu’um is back.

Shifting until you’re facing the wall, you sit up enough that you’re not crammed into the small space. You scoot across the stone until your back presses against the bars. Steadying your breathing, you inhale, and then release an unrelenting force of power.

“Fus Ro Dah!”

The force of your Voice batters against the soft wall. Some of it gives, but most of it bounces back and smashes into you. The back of your head bangs against the bars and you slide to the floor, clutching your head, groaning. Through parted fingers, you glance at the wall.

It’s still standing.

You laugh and it sounds like drowning.

This is mad. This is insane. Crazy.

Is Hermaeus Mora’s control finally taking hold? Did his tentacles that moved inside you slip a bit of his influence into your body. He grew no appendage like a mortal man, nor did he finish like they do.

But Mora is a god. He is not bound to the laws that the races of Tamriel are held to.

Your spread out on your hands and knees, shifting your body across the floor like a Mudcrab until you reach the wall of your enclosure. Running your fingers along it, you test the portion of the wall where your Thu’um made contact. It gives a bit, and you flex your palm, pressing.

Some of that fleshy wall gives, until a small portion of it falls away. It isn’t large, and not big enough to put your hand through. Using your nails, you start to scratch and pull at the material, more of it falling away. The texture is almost gelatinous, and as the hole grows bigger, you’re able to stare into it.

Through the hole you glimpse towering spires and connecting bridges. You shift position, glimpsing the murky water below. A lone tentacle breaches the surface, slithering up from the depths, squirming around in the air as if seeking something. Maybe is senses you, and this is Mora’s way of silently instructing you to cease.

Yet, there is hope.

There is no deep drop or immediate fall. You glimpse bars. Black metal like your cage? At least, that is what it appears to be. You can’t reach it to find out, but it does look to be the same. You claw at the wall again, this time with renewed energy.

More of the fleshy material falls into the cell or outward. The hole grows larger as you pull more of it away. The smile that spreads across your face is a feral one. From behind you, beyond the archway that leads into the room holding your cage, comes the distinct screech of the Seekers. They heard your Thu’um, and you are running out of time.

With renewed vigor, you rip and tear, not caring is you split nail or skin. All of that can heal. Your freedom is the most important thing.

The screeching becomes louder, striking down to your heart, sending your limbs into an agitated, frantic spin as you try to make your escape route wider.

A hurling, rippling force of air slams into your back. It shoves you forward against the wall. When you make contact, it bends outward. Another rippling force of air follows the next. The wall gives a bit more.

You turn your head toward the room. Two Seekers float just beyond the bars, their face mandibles flaring with agitation. Their hands extended outward, and you put all your pressure against the crumbling wall.

Together, they release another wave, and you grin in victory.

The wall gives. You fall backward.

And roll out into the curved embrace of those black metal bars.

There is a peace for a few seconds. And that metal shifts, revealing not bars but tentacles. Sudden horror of the implication flows into you like a thunderstorm. The tentacles wiggle. Bend outward. Unfurl.

There is only air. A hover before the descent.

Then you’re falling.

Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

Part Two // Part Four

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats

[p-artsypants]

I’m pairing up Kwamis with the Aedra and Daedra. The ones I have left are Duusu and Hermaeus Mora. Duusu’s concept is emotion while Hermaeus Mora is all about Forbidden Knowledge. Dare I make Duusu take on the role of the lord of forbidden knowledge? Or should I make up someone for the role? 

This likely has no bearing on anything.  

[slimy-eye]

If anyone wants to read some Sheogorath content, I wrote this back when my Sheo blog was still active :’). It’s just a collection of one-shots with various different types of Sheo, including dark, sinister Sheo and kind, merciful Sheo. I like to think my writing isn’t terrible, so if you’re bored, maybe give it a read and leave a comment? <3 Also, I don’t really write anymore, but I’ve been thinking of starting a Mora fanfic of a similar fashion, so feel free to send me asks with your one-shot ideas (and if you send it anon, please send an alias that you want me to credit for the idea)! As well as any tips on how I could improve my writing if you think it’s not the best. I don’t mind criticism! 

[talrayne]

Ascension of the dwarves

Ascension of the dwarves by Calcelmo.

Forward: To start with, the proper names for these "dwarves" is still, in fact, "dwemer", meaning "deep elves". Like my previous writings, I use the term "dwarves" on the cover due to the prevalence of the incorrect term. Secondly, I use the term "ascension" for lack of a better term, as the dwemer didn't believe in godhood. This will be explained later.

Now that that's out of the way, this book marks a recent breakthrough I've made regarding the dwemer and as such, I felt it made little sense to include it in my previous observations. This breakthrough is due to linguistic discoveries I've made in the ruin of Nchuand-Zel beneath my home of Markarth. Inside this ruin, made safe enough for scholars under trained guards and mages provided by the college thanks to the effort of a uniquely skilled sell-sword, a very unique display was found. 

It was a tree from the surface.

While surface foliage is not uncommon in these ruins due to the inevitable destruction that allows flora the basic requirements to grow, this one was unique, as it was purposely grown in a prominent location with a tablet of dwemer writing displayed with it. We had recovered the tablet shortly before a spider infestation, which in turn preceded a falmer incursion, preventing us from further study. Once the defenses were activated, due to the actions of the aforementioned sell-sword, a new expedition provided me with my most valuable artifact: a translation of the dwemer tablet in the original falmer language.

You see, I had previously translated the falmer language (from before they lost their sight and became feral monsters) but I was unable to translate the dwemer language because there were too few similarities. The translation of the dwemer tablet was thus: "and so it was today your people were given passage to our steam gardens, and the protections of our power.

Many of your people had perished under the roaring, snow-throated kings of Mora, and your walls were broken, and we heard you, and sent out machines against your enemies, to thereby take you under.

Only by the grace of the dwemer did your culture survive, and only by the fifteen-and-one tones did your new lives begin.

We do not require thanks, for we do not believe in it. We do not ask for gratitude, for we do not believe in it.

We only request you partake of the symbol of our bond, the fruit of the stones around us.

And as your vision clouds, as the darkness sets in, fear not.

Know only our mercy and the radiance of our affection, which unbinds your bones to the earth before, and sets your final path to the music of your new eternity."

This explains much more of the dwemer culture and their relationship with the falmer, than anything I've discovered before. The part in particular that caught my attention was the mention of these "fifteen-and-one tones". While I had the idea that it might be part of their numbering system, the pattern of the statement seemed to indicate something else. These were not elves that worshipped, and yet this statement sounded almost the same. It wasn't until I overheard a conversation about a missing priest overseeing our Hall of the dead nearby and a theory of daedric sacrifice that I made a connection.

Before this whole rebellion and the war preceding it there were nine divines. However, they were also frequently referred to as the "eight and one" referring to the divine that was the cause of these wars, Talos, the human that ascended. While I don't take part in the politics around it, I mention this because of the similarity of the phrase. Something else if note is the number of daedric princes : sixteen, or potentially: fifteen and one.

This led me to an area of study so different that my nephew thought I had gone mad. That is, until I discovered the link. You see, the dwemer didn't view the daedra as gods to be worshipped. They accepted their existence, but didn't see them as superior beings.

My theory is that the dwemer saw the daedra not as beings, but as a form of sentient energy, similar in a way to our schools of magick and that these "tones" were their version of magick. This would explain their use of soul gems without souls and their uses of flame and electricity that seems to have no source.

With this base theory, I've been trying to decipher which daedric lord it's the referred "one". Could it be Hermaeus Mora, the likely "tone of knowledge"? Or Mehrunes Dagon, the "tone of energy". A particular theory of mine is Malacath, the "tone from outside", as the dwemer may have actually ascended, becoming the collective "tone" that makes up a daedric prince. We may never know for sure, but I will gladly spend the rest of my life learning everything possible about these mysterious dwemer. I refuse to let this mystery remain one forever.

[dalishkadan]

day 14 fic, and one i had actually been planning to write for a while now, way before kinktober. but it fit so well with the prompts, i couldn’t resist. :D

[opaquemasque]

Three main thoughts went into this:

1. What would happen in the afterlife if the Dragonborn really did become the champion of every Daedric Prince he encountered?

2. If one Dragonborn could ascend to Godhood, why can’t another descend to Demonhood?

3. I would totally flirt with every Daedra if I had the chance to do so without being murdered.

Hope you enjoy!