#idolaf

[spooky-donut-ghost-house]

I never understood why The Battle-Borns treat The Grey-Manes as if they are poor

I know they're rivals and all but here's the thing

The Grey-Manes much like The Battle-Borns live in The Wind District which is basically where the upper class live save for Amren's family and Carlotta plus The Grey-Manes run the most notorious forge in the country Eorlund is considered the best blacksmith in Skyrim Eorlund makes weapons and armor for The Companions Fralia sells jewelry made by Eorlund Olfina works at The Bannered Mare the only ones who don't have jobs is Avulstein, Thorald and Vignar

Yeah The Battle-Borns run a farm but you can't expect me to believe that a farm makes more money than the most notorious blacksmith in the country who is literally talked about by every single blacksmith in the country even Whiterun's other blacksmith speaks of Eorlund and The Skyforge you really expect me to believe Olfrid's little farm who has so much competition in the hold with Nazeem, Severio Palegia, Sigurd's farm in Riverwood, Vantus Lorius down the road and Rorikstead which is said to be the most thriving farming community in the hold? I know there's like two other blacksmiths in the hold but you can't expect me to believe that Adrienne and Alvor make more money than Eorlund

[omegatheimmortaldragonborn]

Some of my favourite characters in skyrim, and why 👹

Balgruuf The Greater: i think this speaks for itself tbh, my favourite Jarl

Balimund: I don't actually know, kinda just looked at him and said "yes, he's the one." Or at least one of them anyway lmfao

Brynjolf: cocky thief with a *small amount* of issues, need i say more?

Captain Aldis: Self Explanatory. he's pretty, good personality, wants books, and lots of muscle? Yes please

Captain Gjalund Salt-Sage: idk he just smiled at my character once and it did things LMFAOOO

Captain Lonely-Gale: Father? Sorry, Father? Sorry-

Falk Firebeard: Steward whos probably a borderline alcoholic? Possibly involved in scandals? Pretty? Yes please

Glover Mallory: no.1 Smith, thief gone good, first I've found to sell Daedric stuff, what more can you want?

Halbarn Iron-Fur: personality is on point, easily lovable, one of my favourite smiths along side Glover

Idolaf Battle-Born: Dilf with an attitude, fuck yeah

Igmund: As with Balimund, I'm not even sure

Korir: if Siddgeir and Balgruuf had a child, he's them. Personality wise anyway, bit of a wanker tho

Kraldar: idk he's just there and he's sweet

Roggi Knot-Beard: Our favourite alcoholic, lovable character, ray of sunshine.

Rune: He's baby. Todd let me help him find out who his parents are i beg

Torbjorn Shatter-Shield: Dilf, I feel so bad tho oh my god, I killed Nilsine in Muiri's quest... never again. I don't need the bonus.

Ulfric Stormcloak: I can fix him

[xidolafx]

Enemies to lovers but its Idolaf Battle-Born & Thongvor Silver-Blood

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Idolaf Battle-Born, positioning Lars in front of him and Olftid: Just know, you've disappointed all three of us.

Jon Battle-Born: That’s cold, guys.

Olftid Battle-Born: And so is Skyrim. Suck it up.

[incorrectskyrimquotes]

When Avulstein pulls a weapon out, so does Eryn. She tells him she will defend herself if she has to, and the fact she pulled out an imperial sword certainly doesn't help. Though she does spit "this was a trophy".

Fralia of course, breaks it up, calms them down. Eryn sheathes her sword first, in a show of good faith. Fralia gets them both some dinner and pours them both some tea. Lavender tea, which Eryn learns she loves.

Fralia and Avulstien explain to Eryn that they're both sure Thorald, her son and his brother, is alive. They don't have any solid proof, but they just know it. And they think the Battle Borns know something, too. Why else would Olfrid make such awful comments?

Eryn agrees to try and help, but she can't promise a miracle. She's no necromancer. But... she can see the pain in Fralia's eyes, how sure they both are. And she agrees to at least find confirmation of whether he's alive or not.

Trying to be smart about this, she decides to talk to Idolaf. Fortunately, he breaks and seems much more human than he was around his father. He explains that he thought death would be easier on the Grey Manes, on Fralia. See, he's actually being held prisoner, and probably tortured. And no one ever escapes the thalmor.

Eryn thanks him, but tells him she thinks the truth, no matter how hurtful, is always better than a lie. Idolaf says he's not sure he agrees, but that he isn't trying to do anything truly cruel or evil. He says he thinks Thorald is in Northwatch Keep, which is notorious for their brutal torture. Idolaf gives her the letter about it.

Eryn genuinely thanks him, and says that she'll take the burden of telling Fralia the truth. Idolaf asks her to keep his name out of it, and she agrees. She takes the letter to Fralia and Avulstein.

Of course, Eryn agrees to go with Avulstein to rescue Thorald. He tells her where and when, as he needs to grab a couple friends for this. And she says she'll meet him there.

[smuttywriter]

Nasty business with Brynjolf - Part II

While I made a detour to the official entrance of the Ragged Flagon – so Vipir wouldn't be suspicious as to what I was doing in the Ratway Vaults – I finally got myself to stop smiling. 

Every time Bryn comes near me, I feel a sudden urge to stop worrying about every single one of my questionable choices. It almost feels like his presence lifts the dark shadows surrounding me, because I know he does not judge me. He did and never will judge anything I do. 

If anybody understands what it means to try and survive in the Rift, it's Brynjolf. Together we not only make ends meet, we find solace in each other. 

As soon as I enter, I make my way straight to Delvin. After all, I still have some questions regarding that fishing job in Whiterun. I can't believe he makes me steal from Idolaf Battle-Born. Everyone knows Idolaf is my favourite Battle-Born. 

In fact, Idolaf and I are friends, which makes finishing the job even harder. But I learned quite early that personal emotions better not get in my way. 

So I will do it. 

It's how that troubles me. 

As I pass Dirge, he steadies himself and looks me directly in the eyes, his expression indifferent. 

“Even if you're one of us, you better not cause trouble”, he scoffs.

As I'm about to comment on his bitterness, I catch sight of Bryn sitting next to Tonilia. Seeing me makes him smirk, and he doesn't take his eyes off of me while he takes a big gulp of his mead. 

I begin to think of everything else he could gobble that way and start getting lost in my thoughts. 

Suddenly I realise Dirge still standing in front of me. “Stay out of trouble, or there's gonna be trouble”, he says as he crosses his arms and walks away.

I shake my head. 

Does Dirge really believe I give a fuck about what he thinks of me? 

What did catch my attention, however, is that Bryn is seated next to Tonilia. 

The way she smiles and touches his arm as soon as he says something remotely funny reminds of the fact they both once had an affair – long before I joined the guild. 

I glance at him, slowly rolling my eyes. For a second I'm sure I caught him off guard, but he quickly peeks at Tonilia and then shrugs his shoulders, while he smiles. 

He knows I'm not a jealous woman, but sometimes I believe that's what he'd like me to be. So I'll let him have it this time. 

Certain that Bryn would take the bait, I refrain from flashing him a second glance and walk straight to the cistern. I don't even bother talking to Delvin, the questions I need answered surely could wait a few more moments. 

Abruptly, I sense him following me.

As I reach the hidden corridor between the Ragged Flagon and the cistern, I turn to face him. 

He doesn't say a word. Instead, he examines my face, before his gaze slowly trails down to my body, eventually returning to meet my eyes. 

As his eyes trace the silhouette of my body again, I lean my shoulders back and enjoy watching him. 

He steps closer to me and I take a step back, trying to figure out what his next move might be. As I feel the wooden door behind me pressing against my back, I raise my right eyebrow at him.  “Again?”, I tease.

His fingers touch the door merely millimetres next to my shoulders, while he leans forward. 

“Didn't we have unfinished business together?”, he whispers in my left ear.

I feel his cheek brush mine before he takes a step back. 

“We do”, I agree breathlessly. “But rats are a rather hideous audience don't you think?”

“I arranged a room in the Bee and Barb”, he says. 

Then he finally wraps his arms around my waist. 

“Sounds dreamy”, I stutter, as I feel his lips delightfully igniting my neck. 

Even though I know I shouldn't lose myself in his embrace right now, I rest my hands on his shoulders.

“I – I should concentrate on the job I need to get done”, I mumble, although I desperately don't want this moment to end. 

“A'right, lass”, he whispers, his hands not yet leaving my waist. “But you take good care of yourself over there. Those Battle-Borns aren't messed with easily.”

His concern brings a soft smile on my face. “It will turn out just fine, don't worry about it.”

“You're probably right”, he utters with a low smile. “Oh and about that unfinished business - I'll await you at midnight”, he adds. 

[lorkhans-left-ball]

oh idolaf is a fake ass bitch huh

[quicksilverdrabbles]

Morana: *staring at the gates of Whiterun from the stables, noticeably maskless and anxious*

Xelzaz: *was unable to find her mask in the river* And so come the consequences of your own actions.

Morana: Shut up..

Kaidan: *worried* We don't have to go into Whiterun today, Morana. We can put it off until we can get you a replacement.

Morana: *frowning as she writes in her notebook, mouthing the words while she does* We have stuff we need to do in Whiterun. Getting another mask will take too much time.

Inigo: ... It is strange seeing how you act under the mask, my friend. Not unwelcome, but unfamiliar.

Morana: Oh. *turns to Inigo* Do I make a lot of faces? I'm sorry, I'm not used to having to manage my expression..

Inigo: Hehe, it is fine.

Morana: .. Let's just go. Get this over with and get out of the city before too many people notice.

~

Team Dragonborn: *walking past the city guards at the gates*

Whiterun Guard: *nods at them as they pass into the city*

Whiterun Guard (2): ... Hey, that was the Dragonborn's group, wasn't it? I didn't see her.

Whiterun Guard: D'you think something happened?

Whiterun Guard (2): And who was that Dark Elf with them? Had a sick look about her.

Whiterun Guard: Maybe they're escorting her to the Temple of Kynareth. They do those sorts of odd jobs often enough.

Whiterun Guard (2): Ah, maybe.

~

Immediately after they walk through the city gates

Idolaf: Hm? Oh, it's you lot again.

Kaidan: Idolaf.

Idolaf: Who's this?

Morana: *trying to walk past Idolaf without having to speak to him*

Idolaf: *stepping in front of her* I asked who you are, lass. I don't just let anyone in my city.

Taliesin: Who she is is none of your business, human.

Lucien: Please stop calling people that.

Idolaf: I'll ask her whatever questions I deem necessary. Any suspicious characters are a danger to Whiterun, and she's about as suspicious as they come.

Inigo: I wonder if you are making such accusations because she is a Dark Elf. You do not have to be a Stormcloak to be a racist bigot.

Idolaf: Say what you will, Khajiit.

Morana: *rolls her eyes, mouthing a repeat of his words mockingly*

Idolaf: Huh? Are you mocking me, Elf?

Morana: *eyes widen, staring at him in shock* Shit.

Kaidan: *standing behind her, crossing his arms* I don't know what you have against my companion, Battle-Born, but I suggest you walk away now before I get angry.

Idolaf: Hah! No way, not now that this little one has insulted me.

Morana: *walks past him, avoiding his attempt to grab her arm*

Kaidan: Oi, Morana-

Inigo: Wait for me, my friend!

Taliesin: *grabs Idolaf as he tries to chase her* If you wish to continue your pursuit of my raven, you will find out very quickly what actually happens to prisoners and offenders of a Thalmor Justiciar. Do you want that, Battle-Born?

Idolaf: I-I-

Taliesin: That's what I thought.

~

Morana: *hiding crouched behind Carlotta's stall, covering her face with her hands* Gods just kill me now.

Lucien: Oh, there you are! What happened, Morana?

Kaidan: You scared me, I thought he hurt you when I wasn't looking-

Morana: I forgot I wasn't wearing my mask.

Taliesin: What on earth does that have to do with this?

Morana: *lifts her head up, cheeks flushed red* I.. Find that I make a lot of faces at people that irritate me. And I mock them when they can't see. I'm not used to having to stop my expressions.

Lucien: I suppose you could say you have a horrible poker face, haha.

Morana: *deadpan stare* Ha.

Farkas: Ah, there they are.

Kaidan: Farkas, Vilkas! How are you gits?

Vilkas: Better than your frostbitten arse, I'd say.

Kaidan: Oi!

Farkas: Hello, Morana.

Morana: ...? You guys know it's me?

Vilkas: Aye. Your scent hasn't changed, despite your lack of mask. Vanilla and honey.

Farkas: And river water. That's new.

Morana: I jumped in a river.

Vilkas: Ha! I'd love to hear that story. Care for a drink, friends?

Xelzaz: Maybe later. We've a few errands to run first.

Kaidan: Actually that gives me an idea. Farkas, Vilkas, d'ya mind tagging along with us for a bit? Idolaf's got it out for us right now and I'm really not in the mood for his bullshit.

Farkas: The Battle-Born whelp? Count me in.

Vilkas: Aye. Lead the way, raven.

Morana: *nods* We can stop at Jorrvaskr when we're done. Thank you two.

Farkas: Don't mention it.

~

Morana to Idolaf:

[kookaburra1701]

Fic Lines! The Wives of Shor

I was tagged by @dirty-bosmer, @sylvienerevarine, and @mareenavee! Uh, I have many, many (so many fics on the go, so I chose Wives of Shor (unpublished WIP) because then I have technically three fics to choose from.

A line from your fic that makes you laugh (from Moth to Flame)

In caves like this it was nothing new to see fleeting movements at the corners of his vision, only to turn his head and find nothing. But two pale-blue glowing dots appearing in the middle of what had appeared to be a blank wall were something new.

"...Kaidan?" Lucien was looking at Kaidan, seemingly unaware of the strange phenomenon over his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

A line from your fic that makes you sad - (from Moth to Flame) I published this is a previous WIP Wednesday, but pretty much any time Kaidan thinks about Brynjar makes me sad.

Repeatedly Kaidan tried to still his thoughts and center himself, but every time he attempted to begin a breathing exercise, his thoughts would turn to Brynjar, and a sharp pang of guilt would lodge in his chest.

A line from your fic you're proud of (from Moth to Flame)

The waters of Lake Ilinalta were smooth as glass, broken only by the occasional ripples of a fish breaking the surface. Fog hovered over the depths of the lake, obscuring the opposite shore as the first rays of sunlight turned the eastern sky pink. A pair of thrushes sang from the underbrush, and were answered by another farther down the lake shore.

The haunting call of a loon, muffled by the mists, echoed over the lake as Kaidan walked towards the water's edge.

A line for your fic you think could have been better - (from Moth to Flame) since this is still a WIP, I'm hoping the true form of this line will reveal itself to me. It's very stilted.

"Gods, everyone was there. The General, Jarl Ulfric…even the Thalmor Ambassador. If even one of them did not escape, the war is going to get complicated very quickly."

A line from your fic that makes you want to punch a character (from Moth to Flame)

"You're one of the Riverwood levies, aren't you? The Battle-born family paid that armor you're wearing, will pay for its replacement, and pays part of your war-wages. As head of that family, I'm telling you to do what your jarl commands."

Hadvar's face darkened, but his tone was coolly civil. "I'm not a levy, sir. I took my oath before the war."

"So then my family's coffers paid for all that and your Legion training in Cyrodiil!"

A line from your fic that makes you go 'aww' (from Moth to Flame)

Kaidan laughed quietly, the ale making it easier to find the mirth in the statement. "You fret about the rabbits I shoot. You don't like anything or anyone being hurt."

"You're not just anyone, Kaidan."

A line from your fic that's full of symbolism (from Kaidan Peregrine)

Lucien’s body felt like it was burning him where skin touched skin, but Kaidan pressed eagerly into that warmth, now feeling as if there was a chance he might not be doomed to eternal chill.

A line from your fic that contains an Easter egg - (from Moth to Flame) Lucien is not actually squeamish about Arvel's body, it's one of the hints that Wives of Shor takes place in the same continuity as another WIP, What Waits 'Round the Corner

Lucien was standing as if rooted to the spot, staring at the face of the dead Dunmer, his own skin matching the paleness of the spiderwebs that formed the bandit's death-shroud.

"This must be that bauble the shopkeep was yammering about." Idolaf withdrew his hand from the Dunmer's belt pouch and held up a cunningly crafted gilt dragon claw.

Blinking and swallowing Lucien averted his eyes from the body and took the claw from Idolaf, color returning to his cheeks as he examined the artifact.

At least he can put aside the squeamishness for the glint of gold. He might just make an adventurer yet, thought Kaidan.

A line from your fic that's shocking (from Wolf at the Door)

The metal in Kaidan's hands was now white hot, the acrid smell of singed leather made his eyes water as his gloves began to burn - but still he held on, muscles knotting like ropes against the force trying to overcome his grip.

For a brief moment he was prevailing; then Auriel's Bow shattered into countless glittering pieces.

A line from your fic you want to talk about more - (from Moth to Flame) I learned how to write in Dróttkvætt meter to give Jon Battle-born a proper skaldic song to sing. Ho boy is English not meant for kennings.

Doom-smoke rose from drake's corse Death-struck by Ir'leth's hand! Blood spilled red and boiling By Whiterun watchmen strong! Swords fine-honed as hawk's claw Hew'd deep through scale to bone. War-fell'd Tsun bids welcome Whalecross'd Shor's Hall awaits!

I tag @nientedenada, @thana-topsy, @greyborn2 @gilgamish

[thana-topsy]

"Dreamers"

The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Hadvar/Ralof Chapter 4/5 Word count: 3712 Read it on AO3 ------

The Whiterun barracks were cramped, smelling of sweat and grease, with the lingering metallic tang of dried blood. The battle of Whiterun was almost a week past, and Hadvar was itching to leave the mangled mess of the city behind. An Imperial victory rang hollow when there was death and destruction everywhere he looked. 

There had been no civilian casualties, thank the gods, but the damage done to the buildings and outer walls had been immense. The poor elves who owned the Drunken Huntsman had their establishment burned to the ground, and Hadvar wasn’t entirely sure which side had incited that.  

All Stormcloaks that had survived the battle had been taken prisoner. Hadvar had frantically searched the faces of the captured soldiers as they were paraded past in shackles. There was only one that mattered. 

It felt like the breath had been punched from his lungs when he finally saw him. 

Ralof was almost unrecognizable at first. Not because of any wound or deformity, but because Hadvar had never seen him wearing such an expression. Defeat. Shame. It was like a different man wore his old friend’s skin—replaced him with some hopeless and hollow creature. 

The fate of the prisoners had been undecided for a full day and full night. There’d been talk of execution, but even the most vindictive soldiers seemed to agree that it would have been imprudent at the very least. Skyrim had lost too many brothers and sisters over the past four years. Hadvar still feared it, though, plagued by a nameless emotion as he lay awake at night in the crowded barracks among the moans of the injured. But, in the end, the Empire had pardoned the ex-Stormcloaks… at a price.

“Yeah, they’ve got them all working the quarry just north of here,” said one of the other soldiers over a dinner of stale bread and greasy stew. “I hear Idolaf is driving them into the fucking ground.”

A round of laughter followed as Hadvar’s stomach hardened, ruining his appetite.  

“Serves ‘em right,” agreed another. 

“I hope they work the skin off their hands. Teach the damn traitors what it actually means to take care of Skyrim.”

“They should have just been off’d. Can’t trust a traitor. Who’s to say they won’t do it again?” 

“There’s been enough bloodshed, brother. Enough for my lifetime, at least. Let them do what’s honorable.”

Hadvar set the remains of his dinner on his bedside table and left the barracks.

The winter air stung his face as he stepped outside, his breath lingering in clouds of steam. It was barely past dinner time but the sky was black as pitch, the stars winking coldly overhead. Reconstruction had halted for the evening, all progress frozen beneath a thin coating of fresh snow. The massive front gate was still splintered down the center from the battering ram used to break into the city. The fact that the Stormcloaks had even made it past the first portcullis spoke to their tenacity.   

And it was all for nothing. 

All the death, all the destruction. 

Then… they lost. 

Hadvar tried to imagine what it must feel like—tried to imagine if the tables had been turned and it was him in shackles, working in the blistering cold, mining rock to rebuild the city he’d razed. The hopeless expression Ralof had worn swam into view in his mind’s eye.  

“I hear Idolaf is driving them into the fucking ground.”

His friend was a traitor. He was serving his time. It was better than the executioner’s block. But…

What did retribution look like? How much more suffering would justify the weight of his crimes? 

“Hadvar.” 

He jolted at the sound of his name, spinning on his heels. Legate Rikke approached, still in full armor. He automatically straightened his posture, saluting her formally. “Legate.”

“At ease. What are you doing out here? You’re not part of the night watch.” 

Hadvar exhaled, relaxing into an informal rest. “Needed some fresh air.”

“Not much fresh air to be found out here.” She winced and looked away. There was a shallow gash across her cheek. “Just the smell of fire. And blood.” 

Hadvar said nothing. 

“It’s not over yet. We march to Windhelm on the morrow with as many men as we can muster.” She turned to face him again. “However, I want you to remain here in Whiterun.”

“Sir?” 

“We need our people to oversee the reconstruction. People we can trust.” She shifted. “And I have a task for you.”

Hadvar straightened his back, lifting his chin. “I’m at your command, Legate.”

“We need last-minute intel before we leave. And I think you’re the best one to retrieve it.”

“I don’t follow…”

“Our march on Windhelm needs to be direct, efficient, and with as few casualties as possible. Our scouts know the major Stormcloak camps between here and Eastmarch, but we have blindspots in our route.” She pulled a canister from her belt and held it out for Hadvar to take. “I need you to help fill in the blind spots.” 

“...How?” 

“Interrogation.” 

Hadvar’s face went cold. He looked down at the canister in Rikke’s outstretched hand then back up at her face. “Legate, I’m… honored that you’ve come to me with such an important task, and I mean no disrespect, but there are certain lines that I have to draw. For my own sanity. After the past three years—”

“Interrogation does not mean torture, Hadvar,” Rikke said. “I know that hasn’t always been the case in the past.”

Hadvar swallowed and took the canister from her, opening one end to find a curled piece of parchment inside. 

“It’s a map. The main roadways between here and Windhelm. We need to know what camps we might encounter, where to avoid, where to expect an ambush, and anything else pertinent.” 

“And where will I be obtaining this information?”

“From one of the prisoners. Ralof of Riverwood.” 

Ralof’s name licked the inside of Hadvar’s lungs like a cold fire, turning his tongue to dust. “What makes you think he’ll cooperate?”

“I’ve arranged for his freedom if he does.” 

Hadvar couldn’t help but bark a bitter laugh at that. “Ralof would not betray his men for his own freedom. He’s far too righteous for that. Too stubborn.”

“So convince him,” Rikke said. “You have until sunup.” 

—

It was into the sleeping hours when Hadvar finally arrived at the quarry twenty minutes north of Whiterun. His preparations had taken longer than he’d anticipated, but hoped it would be well worth it. If all else failed, he’d be able to spend one last evening in the company of his old friend.  

The prison camp was dark and quiet, the silence broken only by rattling coughs and loud sniffing. Hadvar grimaced from behind his helm, squinting as he held his torch aloft and followed one of the guards. The men and women were all loosely shackled to their beds, bound together by one long chain. It rattled and clanked whenever one of them moved.

“Ralof of Riverwood,” the guard said as they stopped at one of the beds. “On your feet.” 

Ralof was curled on his side facing away from them. “For what?” he growled without turning over.

“On your feet, traitor.” 

Hadvar winced but said nothing, watching as Ralof slowly righted himself. He glared at the guard, then Hadvar. “Whatever you want with me, I’m worthless to you. I promise you that.”

“Just do as you’re told,” said the guard, clamping metal manacles around Ralof’s wrists before unlocking the ones around his ankles. “Off you go.”

—

“Where are you taking me?” Ralof asked, his voice little more than a gravely wheeze beneath the howling wind. 

Hadvar didn’t respond, continuing to lead him silently from atop his horse. 

The Whiterun planes were bathed in cold moonlight, the ground hard with frost and dappled with snow. The night was silent around them, broken only by the sound of Hadvar’s horse snorting at the shadows. 

Before long, the flickering light of Hadvar’s campsite could be seen over the crest of the hill. Ralof perked up, lifting his head and walking a little straighter. 

“What’s all this?” he asked.

Hadvar still refused to answer, leading them over to the edge of the camp. It was situated beneath an overhang in the cliffs, cut back into the earth and away from the elements. He’d found the site the week prior when he and a few other soldiers had scouted the perimeter of the city in preparation for the siege. There’d been remnants of a fire pit and an old lean-to. It had probably been home to highwaymen at some point, now abandoned. Hadvar had toiled for nearly two hours in the darkness to whip the camp back into shape. Now, the fire crackled in the freshly dug pit, padded bedrolls beneath the lean-to, and a chest full of food and gear. 

“Did the elves take your tongue? Eh? What do you want with me!” Ralof barked. 

At long last, Hadvar dismounted, tying his horse to a post and turning to look at Ralof. He unfastened his helmet and pulled it from his head, resting it beneath his arm. 

Ralof’s expression turned to shock, his jaw going slack. “Hadvar? What—?”

“Are you hungry?” 

Ralof just stared at him, his expression clouded with suspicion and disbelief. “I’m… What is the meaning—?”

“Are you hungry?” Hadvar repeated. 

“Of course I am! But what in the name of Talos are you doing!?” There was an edge of panic to his voice.

Hadvar gestured to the log by the fire. “Sit. Let me make you food. Then I’ll explain.”

Ralof remained where he was for a long moment, staring at Hadvar with wide eyes, a myriad of emotions shifting across his face: shock, frustration, fear. But eventually he shuffled stiffly over to sit beside the fire. 

“You offer me food, yet still I’m bound.” He jingled his manacles for emphasis. “Speak to me Hadvar, I’m begging you.”

It had begun to snow, though they remained sheltered beneath the overhang. Hadvar continued to diligently heat their food over the fire, saying nothing. It wasn’t that he was trying to torture Ralof with silence, just that he didn’t know what to say. Rikke had too much confidence in him. 

“My company sets out for Windhelm tomorrow,” Hadvar said finally. He figured including himself in the upcoming siege might work in his favor, even if he was technically ordered to stay behind. “We’ll be storming the Palace of the Kings. Putting an end to this damn war.”

Ralof was silent, his gaze never leaving Hadvar’s face.

“I need your help.” 

“Fuck you.”

Hadvar sighed and began to ladle hot stew into a wooden bowl. 

“Is this some piss-poor attempt to butter me up? Get me to let my guard down?” Ralof let out a bitter laugh. “There’s no world between here or Oblivion in which I’d help you.” 

Hadvar handed him the bowl. Ralof just stared at him, wearing an expression of undisguised malice.

“You want the truth, Ralof?” Hadvar said, still holding out the bowl for him to take. “I never expected you to help. You’re as stubborn as an ass, and I told them as much. But they said they’d pardon you if you gave us any intel you could. Your sentence would be cut and you wouldn’t be stuck in that work camp for gods know how long.”

Ralof made no move to take the bowl of food, his expression unchanged. 

“But I agreed to try to talk to you anyway. Not because I thought you’d actually help or give us intel or what-have-you. But because I figured, why not? This may be the last time I get to see my old friend. So here I am. Please take the damn bowl, my arm is getting tired.”

He could see Ralof’s jaw clenching and unclenching, but after another drawn-out moment of silence, he finally reached up and took the bowl. 

“Damn you, Hadvar,” he said, sounding more exhausted than angry. “Damn you and your honeyed words.” 

“You’ve been around thick-headed Stormcloaks for too long, Ralof. My words are as plain as unsalted bread.”

To Hadvar’s surprise, Ralof actually managed a weak laugh. “Aye…” He lifted the bowl to his mouth and gulped down a few bites before wiping his lips against his dirty forearm. “So what do these Imperial bastards expect me to know, eh? I’m no general.”

“You’re the highest rank that survived Whiterun. And they want to know what to expect on our march to Windhelm. Ambush sites, Stormcloak camps. Enough blood has been shed. They want to prevent needless loss on the march. These would be areas to avoid, not to seek out.”

“Is this what they told you?” Ralof asked, raising an eyebrow. “And you believed them?”

Hadvar sighed with a shrug. “I want to believe them, yes.”

Ralof shook his head, then tipped the bowl back and slurped down the remainder of its contents. He smacked his lips and smiled unkindly. “Thank you for the food. You can take me back to the camp now.”

“Ralof, please. Is there nothing you can tell me? Nothing at all?”

“No.” 

Hadvar slumped forward, holding his head in his hands. “I just want it all to end.”

“You’re a fool for believing that this is the end of anything. This is the beginning of more suffering, more subjugation at the hands of the elves.”

“No, it’s not! Skyrim could never fight the Dominion without the help of the Empire! Don’t you get it? The Empire is our ally, not our enemy!”

“You’re wasting your breath, Hadvar.” Ralof tossed the wooden bowl onto the ground. “As I said, I’m ready to go back now.”

“Do you remember when we were seventeen?” 

The question seemed to catch Ralof off-guard. He squinted across the fire. 

Hadvar took a deep breath, his gaze unfocused as he looked into the crackling embers. “It was high summer. We’d visited Helgen because you were obsessed with that one girl whose name I forget. You always dragged me along with you, even when I didn’t want to go. And then you’d ditch me to go be with whatever-her-name-was. Except for that one night. You came and found me. And you…”

Hadvar glanced up to meet Ralof’s eyes. His expression was hard to parse, the hollowness of his cheeks and eyes cast in deep shadow, undulating with the flicker of the firelight. 

“I would think about that night,” Hadvar continued. “And how I wished I could travel back in time and relive it over and over. And I just—” He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes with a frustrated growl. “I just wish we could have been on the same side, Ralof. Gods help me. I’m so sick of it all.”

Silence followed. Long and pregnant. The snowfall had stopped, and the planes beyond the shelter of the overhang were pale blue beneath the moonlight.  

“Ingrid,” Ralof said at long last. “Her name was Ingrid.” 

“Uhg.” Hadvar let out an undignified sniff, wiping the wetness from the corners of his eyes. “Right. Ingrid.”

“She was jealous of you,” Ralof continued. “That’s why she always stole me away.”

Hadvar let out a watery laugh. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“s’true.” 

Hadvar’s laugh sounded too young to his own ears. He suddenly felt like a gangly teenager all over again, parading around in oversized armor, putting one foot in front of the other because that’s what he was told to do. Keep moving, soldier. And dream of the day when the war will end. 

That day was dawning. The war was ending. 

Why didn’t it feel like a victory?

“There’s… nothing for me to tell you, Hadvar. Nothing.” Ralof leaned against his own knees with a tired sigh. “You won’t encounter any ambushes or rogue camps that they haven’t already stamped into the ground. But what they will find is a city full of men and women who are ready to fight. And a king who bows to no one.”

Hadvar sat unmoving for a long moment, letting Ralof’s words roll through his mind. Then, he got to his feet and walked over to unlock Ralof’s manacles. 

“Thank you for your cooperation. You’re free to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Ralof, rubbing his wrists. “You’re going to take me back to that camp and I’m going to serve my time.”

“Don’t be foolish. Idolaf is mad with power and driven by vengeance. He’ll work you harder than you’ve ever worked in your life.”

“Aye, and I’ll be working alongside my brothers and sisters in arms. As it should be.”

“Damn you, Ralof!” Hadvar spat. “Damn your fucking pride.”

“It’s not pride, old friend. It’s honor. A Nord’s honor.”

Hadvar paused, hazarding a glance at Ralof’s face. He had that look—that righteous determination. He’d gone and romanticized his own imprisonment, spinning it into a tale of sacrifice and duty. There was no dissuading him. With a heavy sigh, Hadvar sat down next to him on the log. They stared into the dying fire together, the world as silent as the grave around them. 

“I remember that night,” Ralof said, barely above a whisper. “When we were seventeen. We drank mead on the watchtower. You led the whole tavern in song.” He exhaled, and it might have been a laugh, might have been a sigh. “I was in love with you, you know.” 

Hadvar’s heart slammed into his throat. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his expression drawing into a snarl as he continued to stare into the fire. “Why? Why tell me that now?” 

“Because I’m a coward.”

Hadvar snapped to look at his friend, heart still pounding. He didn’t know what to say to that. Ralof was many things in his mind, but never once would he have considered him a coward. Never. 

“I’ve lost so much over the last four years. I might even say that I’ve lost everything. What’s left to lose? I might as well say it.” Ralof sighed, and glanced sideways at Hadvar. “Plus, I’m going to be stuck in that prison camp. So I can confess anything I want, free of responsibility. That’s why I’m a coward.”

They lapsed into silence again. The fire crackled. Hadvar ran a hand over his face and along his jaw, mind churning. 

Ralof picked up his discarded bowl off the ground, wiping the dirt off and picking at the wood grain. 

“I was in love with you, too,” Hadvar finally squeezed out. Still am, he kept to himself. “Why didn’t either of us do anything about it?” 

Ralof sighed, still absently bushing dirt off the bowl. “Because we were young and stupid. Probably thought we had all the time in the world. But we didn’t. We never do, eh? We’ve just got whatever’s happening right now.”

Hadvar gave a jerky nod. 

Neither of them moved. Hadvar’s horse pawed at the ground. The wind whistled across the planes. 

Then, in a flurry, they both turned and crashed together for a too-rough kiss. Ralof dropped the bowl. Hadvar was on his knees, grasping Ralof’s prison tunic in both his fists. Ralof’s hands were in his hair. He smelled like sweat and oil and earth; his mouth was warm. This kiss was nothing like when they were teenagers. It was violent and desperate. It cou. 

Ralof pulled Hadvar’s lip between his teeth, groaning. The noise sent heat flooding into Hadvar’s cock. His heart slammed against his sternum like a war drum. He wanted everything. Everything. Anything he could take, he wanted it. Right then and there. Because when else was there? 

They managed to make their way over to the bedrolls that Hadvar had set up. Maybe he’d known this would happen. Maybe it had been a subconscious wish. Either way, it was too cold to undress, but they ground against each other under the furs, beneath the lean-to. Hadvar could feel Ralof’s cock, hard against his thigh, his own leather pteruges riding up around his waist. Both of them were filthy and exhausted, but it didn’t matter. They kissed and bit and sucked with silent determination, but Hadvar failed to hold back a whimper when Ralof stuck his hands down his smalls and grabbed him. 

This was most likely not what Rikke had in mind, Hadvar couldn’t help but think as Ralof jerked him off with a rough twist of his wrist. He came quicker than he had ever thought possible, biting down on Ralof’s earlobe with a shuddering moan. 

With shaking arms, racing against his own impending exhaustion, he shifted onto his side, pulled Ralof’s back against his chest and reached down into his friend’s trousers. Ralof hissed and curled his hips into Hadvar’s grip. His cock was hot and thick, and under different circumstances Hadvar would have given anything to wrap his lips around it. Instead, he jerked it slowly beneath the roughspun fabric of Ralof’s pants. Too slowly, judging by the way Ralof bucked and grunted, trying to speed things along. Hadvar bit into Ralof’s shoulder where it curved to meet his neck, and his friend let out a rattling gasp. 

“Biter,” he said. The only words they’d shared since they’d begun. 

Hadvar just hummed against Ralof’s skin, increasing his speed, pulling Ralof to the edge, only to back off—they had until sunup. Ralof cursed and bucked, reaching back to claws at Hadvar’s hip, throwing his head back.

“Please.”

Two words between them, now.

Hadvar held his hand steady, let Ralof pump into his fist, and he soon spilled across Hadvar’s fingers with a breathy exhale, hips stuttering to a halt. 

They lay silently for a long moment, breathing hard. Hadvar could feel his own spend drying against his thigh. He didn’t care. They were already filthy. What did it matter? 

“Run away with me,” Hadvar murmured against Ralof’s shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere warm. Hammerfell. Let’s go to Hammerfell.”

It was a fantasy. He only half-meant it. Reality was the cold, frozen ground and the sun that would surely rise in the morning, red as blood.

“No, Hadvar,” said Ralof, still gripping Hadvar’s forearm. “I’m going back to that camp. And you’re going to kill the man who should have been our king.”          

[aardvark-123]

~Excessively Twee Skyrim Headcanons: Whiterun Edition~

Irileth is an honourary big sis to the entire Whiterun guard brigade. Commander Caius is only a little bit jealous of the respect she commands among them.

Despite her usual miserable attitude, Saffir managed to give her daughter Braith one decent piece of advice: The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. This led Braith to try to woo Lars by making him an apple pie.

Picture Braith, red-faced and scowling terribly, holding out a pie for poor Lars. "J-just eat it, you stupid milk-drinker! I need you to be strong so you can fight back... or something! Would you prefer horker and ash yam stew?! I-I don't care if you'd prefer horker and ash yam stew!"

Whiterun has a population of 512,830 if you count the farms and meaderies in the Greater Whiterun Metropolitan Area.

There never seem to be any vampires in Whiterun. There have been an alarming number of reported werewolf sightings in the city, mostly from drunkards and people up late, yet no actual attacks. It is said that creatures of the night dare not come to Whiterun because they know the Companions are there; make of that what you will.

There's a fancy clothes shop in the Wind District. Ysolda and Olfina have managed to try on every item of clothing in there without actually buying anything. "Babe, that tunic looks soooooo vanilla-plus on you! Is it really less than two thousand polygons?!"

Ulfberth War-Bear is a talented blacksmith, although he specialises in repairs and making custom pieces rather than forging an endless stream of iron daggers. He sometimes takes commissions.

Sigurd, who works for Belethor at the general store, has always wanted to make a difference in the world. Although he isn't in a position to do great deeds, he tries to help people wherever he can, be it by helping fix people's houses after a dragon attack or giving Lucia a blanket and some food. He fancies Alfhild Battle-Born, but he's accepted that she and Idolaf are happy together now, so that ship has sailed.

Ria is a certified Eager Beaver. Aela the Huntress once talked her into carrying all her things "for exercise" when they were out exploring. Kodlak once talked her into mopping all the floors in Jorrvaskr "for two-handed weapon practice". Uthgerd once talked her into polishing her armour "for armour-polishing practice". Lydia once took her out to lunch and helped her re-string her bow.

Farengar Secret-Fire was sulking for days over not getting to see the dragon at the watchtower.

[omegatheimmortaldragonborn]

Character Study: Idolaf Battle-Born

Because I'm tired of seeing how quickly people kill him off, let's see if I can get myself to understand why you would OR show you why you shouldn't.

Feel free to request a character study in my ask box! It will help me keep track of them!

Neurological traits & Personality

There's a good chance he's neurodivergent, please bare with as I'm using my own experiences with this.

This isn't to say this is how all ND people act, although I shouldn't have to clarify that

He has a strong sense of justice - we see this with the imperial legion, he's a very strong supporter

He seems to lack the ability to feel empathy - eg. When talking to Fralia at the market (this isn't to say this applies to all ND people, as some experience quite the opposite)

While this could be just the voice acting, his voice lacks emotion (which i personally struggle with)

He doesn't actually seem to hate the Gray-Manes, only their choice in support. There's no dialogue in game where he insults or "drags" any of the family members. While yes, he can say he wants to throw Avulstein in jail, this can be linked back to the strong sense of justice

THORALD!!! He was looking into it himself, and if your speech is high enough you can persuade him to tell you. While his reasoning is blurry, it can be presumed he asked about because of concern. He mentions that they used to be friends, no doubt close too.

He knew the risks of asking about him, and he tells us he was told to mind his business but kept pushing for an answer

He believes letting the Gray-Manes think Thorald died would've been easier than telling them that no, he's alive, held captive by the Thalmor, in a place where you don't ever come out, and probably being tortured. - sense of Justice AGAIN

He gives you the letter anyway, too!

The market scene reinforces the lack of empathy theory, and the strong sense of justice, because he clearly cared enough about Thorald to go asking about him, had his answers (worse case scenario ones too) and came to the conclusion she was better off not knowing.

I think people tend to forget he grew up around the Gray-Manes too, so he's going to know their character alot better than the DB ever will.

Fralia already seems heartbroken over him going missing, which is probably why he made the decision not to tell her.

Often considered prideful, for example - would rather bend his knee to Ulfric than ask Eorlund for help. Again though, he grew up with the Gray-Manes and so them not picking the same side he did probably hurt like a bitch. (Sense of justiceeee)

Parenting

This part is the only part where I can fully understand why people may not like him as Lars is still being bullied.

There may be multiple reasons for this

Lars hasn't told him - very unlikely though since Alfhild (Idolafs wife) knows about it but he may just be closer with her

Has a more traditional approach to it, and tries to get him to stand up to her, which is most likely as it seems to be a common theme throughout Nords in general that you handle your own problems.

He has spoken to Armen and/or Sapphia about Braiths behaviour, but nothing came of it. Which to be fair is also a decent possibility, as someone who has been bullied most of my school life, typically parental intervention never really helps 💀

Other than that, he seems to try a decent amount. He tries to keep Lars out of trouble with the guards (climbing Dragonsreach cannot be legal 💀🤣), and Lars is outside most of the day too so he probably encourages him to play with the other kids in the hold. (Maybe not braith but yknow)

Anyway, if there's something I've missed feel free to leave a reply, I'm happy to try and explain them some more! :> not that I'm expecting anyone to see this like who actually scrolls Idolaf's tag 💀

Me, I do :)

[xidolafx]

Idolaf is a miserable bitch and i love him

[azurafanclubpresident]

How am I even suppose to know who the hell you are, Idolaf????

[incorrectskyrimquotes]

Eryn, originally, only tries to report on the attack and the slaying of the dragon. Mostly, she just wants to tell Balgruuf that these things can be killed. After he pushes a bit, she mentions that she absorbed power from it.

After Hrongar and Proventus argue, Proventus apologizes to Eryn, explaining that she's about the same age as his daughter, and naturally he'd worry that some random group of old men want her at the top of an isolated mountain. Balgruuf calms him and explains what High Hrothgar actually is, and why she must go there.

But, before that... he names her Thane of Whiterun. Eryn doesn't ask, because Balgruuf said it like she should know what it means. So... she asks Lydia, her new friend apparently. Lydia calmly explains it, and offers to become a sort of bodyguard for her.

Eryn declines, saying that's not necessary. But she's more than happy to have a friend! She heads back out to Whiterun, looking up at High Hrothgar. She can't help but agree with Proventus. It's... weird that a group of old men have "summoned" her and that she "can't" refuse them.

Well... sure she can. And she just might. She heads down to the bannered mare, only to find two men - one of them being Idolaf! - harassing an old woman.

"Hey!" Of course, she immediately interjects. "What in oblivion are you two doing?! Get out of here!" After Olfrid calls her and the old woman some fun words and stalks off, Eryn glares at Idolaf. "Harassing an old woman? What's the matter with you!" Idolaf looks like he wants to say something, but he just follows his father away.

The old woman, who introduces herself as Fralia Grey Mane (suddenly, some things make sense to Eryn), thanks her. Eryn asks what in oblivion was that about? Fralia invites her in for supper, and to talk in the safety and privacy of her own home.

[shadowtigers]

Skyrim SE - Idolaf Battle-Born v. 2