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sigil-stone · 1 year

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Her heart had ceased its beating. There was no glory in this. There was no honor. There was only suffering, endless, hopeless, increasing with every moment – how dare life continue on? How dare the heart of Creation still cling to its life? Why must they all suffer for Nirn’s insistence to be?

Forced out of the Imperial City, a mage reflects on the Soulburst. (feat. @mothermara's Varyn!)

It was not an easy thing to be confronted with the full measure of one’s inadequacy.

Lythras stood, unfeeling, made small by the towering walls of the guildhall. Her fists were tightly clenched in the long fabric of her robes, white-knuckled and trembling, but she made no effort to move from her spot in front of the cot that barely supported her height. What was the point? There was nothing left. All there was in this gods-damned realm was destruction. It was here: the end of Tamriel, awash in blood and power. Lorkhan made no sign of appearing from the liminal; no hero emerged from the tides of crimson that stormed down cobbled streets. Tamriel was ending, and there was nothing Lythras could do beyond bear witness to dominion’s cruelty. When she was a child, she had prayed to the ancestors that she may know strife so that she may be better for it; how naive she had been. Her heart had ceased its beating. There was no glory in this. There was no honor. There was only suffering, endless, hopeless, increasing with every moment – how dare life continue on? How dare the heart of Creation still cling to its life? Why must they all suffer for Nirn’s insistence to be?

Varyn would hate to hear you say all this.

Varyn. Her chest throbbed painfully, and the image of her lover's face cut like a dagger through the thick air of unreality that had gathered around Lythras, and she blinked, as if waking for the first time.

She did not remember how she came to be in Devon’s Watch, if she were to be truthful with herself. It was as if there was a blurred space where the past month of her life had been; what time did she have to sit and think on what happened when the City had fallen into chaos? What time was there for anything, but to run?

What will be left, she wondered, now that she has been granted reprieve?

It was not uncommon for those who have undergone some sort of trauma to find themselves … ‘stuck’, until their minds caught up to their survival instincts. Was that this, then? That strange feeling of emerging from a deep sleep as she stood, wide awake, knowing where she was and how she got there but not quite comprehending?

She jolted at the sudden sound of something rumbling, the image of a flash of the purplest purple she had ever witnessed coming unbidden to her mind - gone just as soon as it had arrived, fading back into general blurriness as she found the source of the noise: her own stomach.

Ah. It would seem ‘proper nutrition’ had been off the table during her exodus. Breathing very slowly, she relaxed each of her fingers; they ached in protest, stuck as one may expect of an automata. She smoothed down the wrinkled fabric of her robes. Each movement took as much effort as a complex ritual; Lythras found if she did not think about and consciously choose every movement, she would simply not move.

Perhaps it would be easier, in time. As it stood for now … her stomach growled lowly again, grasping around a painful sort of emptiness from within her core.

The settlement of Devon’s Watch was … well, humble would be the gentlest term, she thought, pulling a tattered teal-blue cloak over her shoulders and stepping into Magnus’s warmth. The day was a beautiful, sunny one, though the wind had a certain biting chill to it that had Lythras wondering with a quiet sort of dread if she had been in Morrowind for longer than she had initially estimated.

No time to dwell. Pushing the thoughts to the very back of her mind, Lythras crossed the circular path, heading towards the more southern district of the town. She held the vague memory of a market that way; one of the younger mages had shown it to her on a sort of grand tour a few days after her initial arrival. She would have to thank them, when she found the will to do so.

It was easier to think outside of the Hall’s suffocating presence. Indeed, as she moved, she even found her mind quieting, too focused on each stone step she descended on the stairway. She felt the air brushing against her skin, the wind jostling her clothes ever-so-slightly; she could taste and smell something cooking, no doubt from the Watch House - the tavern that sat mightily, left-handed, at the top of the stairway. As she reached the bottom, she was overtaken by the sounds of the marketplace; boots against cobble as adventurers passed through, a distant horse’s whinny, the gentle plucking of a lute’s string and Lythras was, suddenly and without warning, paralyzed.

Varyn’s face once again made its home in the center of Lythras’s mind. What … had come of her, Lythras wondered? Where had she been when Tamriel had begun its slow death?

She cannot afford to think of such things. She cannot.

… but comfort is not an evil thing, she reasoned. Was it not the thought of Varyn that had given her the strength to run? Was it not her voice Lythras imagined when she thought she could go no further? Was it not the hope of Varyn’s survival that had enabled her own?

Slowly, she restarted the process she had undertaken earlier. One by one, she relaxed her limbs and breathed, gathering her wits and turning towards the sound of the lute. She could not see its luthier, but they were nearby, she was sure of it.

Her ears did not deceive her; it did not take long to work through the stream of commerce until she sighted the back of the luthier. Their head ducked low, Lythras could not see much beyond their shape and the silhouette of both the lute they carried and a spear strapped across their back.

Lythras’s heart jumped to her throat as she moved towards them. “Excuse me, serjo -”

Her voice was naught above a whisper, and she frowned at the strange stickiness that clumped in her throat. The luthier could not have heard her, not at this distance, but she saw them tense. She saw them raise their head, and with it she saw --

“- you look like a lion,” Lythras had giggled, her face half-hidden in the downy pillow. She had never quite seen this level of luxury - had never felt silk against her naked skin, or had soaps that left the smell of lavender clinging to her hair for days after. “Like a red star, in all its glory.”

“I’m supposed to be the poet here,” came the sleepy mumble in response, and Lythras fought the urge to hide her face completely as Varyn’s eyes watched her, half-lidded and loving. Oh, Mara’s mercy, Lythras couldn’t think when Varyn sounded like this, half-sleeping and rasping. Her thoughts only scattered more as the gladiator’s warm hands found the small of her back and pulled her closer.

Varyn’s hair was a mess, sticking up in this-way-and-that. Dark marks were lined down her throat, marks that disappeared under the darkness of the comforter; marks that Lythras knew mirrored the ones etched onto her own skin.

Varyn noticed her staring - she was perceptive like that, Lythras mused to herself, melting all the more for it - and smiled. Lythras reached up to run a hand through Varyn’s rose-gold halo; when her palm went to rest on her jaw, Varyn turned her head and pressed a kiss to its center -

“Do you need someth - oh. Hm.” Something passed in the luthier's eyes; not quite 'recognition', but something close to it.

Lythras could not move, could not think. Distantly, she thought she might have felt something warm and wet rolling down her cheeks, but she didn't feel ... anything.

Varyn stared back, though she was deep in thought from the looks of it. The lute she held was - was different, Lythras realized. Had hers been lost in all the chaos? Had she lost anything else? Was she alright? Did anything hurt her? The questions began again and Lythras could not ask a single one of them.

“There once was a man from Balmora,” said the gladiator, strumming a chord of her lute. And she smiled. “Who sought out all manners of wild flora. Though he went very far, he got stuck in some tar, and found his last hope in the tail-end of a guar. He pulled with all his might - victory within his sight! - but the guar would not go without a fight. In the tar he did flail, though his strength did not fail, but with a mighty yank off came the guar’s tail!”

Varyn beamed at her then, and Lythras - oh, gods, who was she kidding?

Lythras laughed.

#lythras (oc)#varyn (oc)#my writing #the elder scrolls #tes #< more tags than i usually use on my silly little posts but it took longer than i'd like to admit to write this

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eraserspiral · 7 days

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snippet sunday

...actually on a sunday? thank you to @lyzelky and @kittenintheden for tagging me <3 wip excerpt from chapter four of the fall below, in which (stray cat) astarion ponders (stray cat) lythra.

no pressure tags for @gilded-glitter @slothquisitor @wetcatspellcaster @bloodinwine @aevallare @lobstermatriarch and anyone else who wants to share a wip :)

#snippet sunday #on a sunday #groundbreaking #durgestarion #lythra.oc #my writing #the fall

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capnkirk17 · 9 months

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LYTHRA MANARA🔥🔥🔥

#new goober just dropped #homestuck #oc #art

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mt-musings · 23 hours

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The Last Silverboughs

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Read on AO3

Halsin chest heaved as he stared around the cell they’d managed to shove him in, trying to calm his racing heart.

Everything had gone wrong—Aradin and his band of mercenaries had been far greener than they’d led him to believe and there had been far, farmore enemies than they’d anticipated. Half the group he’d come with was dead or close to it and he hadn’t a clue if a single one of them had managed to make it out of the camp alive.

And even still, he was no closer to finding the Nightsong.

He couldn’t expect help from the Grove—they weren’t fighters, not anymore, not after their number had been decimated a century before, when the mantle of First Druid had been unceremoniously dropped on his shoulders.

A century, and he’d still yet to find a cure for the Shadow Curse and he found himself caged once more, just like when he’d been a brash young druid.

Perhaps he was still the same sort of fool.

Everything hurt and she was covered in shards of stone, half buried in rubble. All she could smell was blood and vicious Night and everything was so deafeningly silent.

She was alone, in the pitch darkness, utterly and absolutely alone.

She’d killed them. In her fear and incompetence, she’d killed them. She let out a ragged, silent sob as she began to claw her way from the stone. Maybe, just maybe she was wrong, she hadn’t—

Lythra woke with a start, sitting straight up. It was still early, the sun barely cresting over the horizon, the soft sound of snoring filling the camp.

Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming too fast. She clapped a hand over her face, forcing herself to calm, to slow her heart and her breath.

It had been a long time since she’d dreamed of the tunnel, of being half-buried alive, of the hours it took to pull herself free, of—

She dug her nails hard into the skin of her thigh, stopping the train of thought. It wouldn’t help, wouldn't change anything.

Nothing would. She got up from her bedroll at the edge of camp and crossed to the little stream, splashing water over her face. She took a couple steadying breaths before shifting to look back, surveying her newest traveling companion with distrustful interest.

It wasn’t every day you met an undead, necromantic priest. Course she wasn’t quite sure exactly what he was. He seemed powerful, which usually meant some sort of Lich, but he also didn’t feel remotely evil enough. Truthfully he didn’t seem evil at all, just kind of judgy in a bored sort of way.

She sighed, sitting back on a flat rock as she stared at him.

“Good morning. Did you sleep—well, do you sleep?” She asked, fumbling as he stared at her with those haunting eyes.

“No.”

“No you didn’t sleep, or no you don’t sleep.”

“No-o.”

“Alright, well fuck me, I guess,” she hissed to herself before clearing her throat, raising her voice enough to carry. “Do you need anything? We haven’t found a lot of stuff, but we have some spares. Maybe some pants?” She asked, looking at his ragged robes. Who knew how long he’d been in that tomb—had he been asleep then? Had he been awake?

“No.”

She heaved a sigh, swearing under her breath. “Godsdamnit.”

His eyes flashed, and she flinched unconsciously back at his reproach.

“Sorry,” she said, reflexively.

“You would do well not to invoke their ire.”

“Who? The gods?”

“Yes.”

Lythra bit back a snappish response. She highly doubted a single god gave a shit about what she was doing, except maybe Lolth, and that was only to ensure she suffered for her lack of devotion.

Vindictive bitch.

Withers stared at her, almost like he could read her thoughts. She narrowed her eyes, thinking really hard about a trio of fluffy purple spiders dancing across the beach, each wearing a different fancy hat. He didn’t react which either meant he couldn’t read her thoughts, which she preferred, or he had no sense of whimsy, which would be disappointing.

“Alright, well, um—enjoy the staring, I guess. I’ll check back later.”

“Do as thou wilt,” he said, back to his usual tone of disinterest. She sighed and shook her head, climbing back to her feet. It was still early, but a few of the other seemed to be waking. Astarion’s tent was noticeably empty, though where he’d slunk off to was beyond her. Gale crouched by the fire, coaxing the coals back to life. He had an assortment of ingredients they’d managed to forage the day before laid out next to a few cooking pots.

“Good morning,” he replied cheerily. He was in markedly better spirits than the night before. She forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look like it and took an apple from the pile.

“Morning,” she replied, taking an overlarge bite of the fruit.

“Talking to our new skeletal friend, I see. He is a fascinating enigma. Anything interesting come up?”

“He doesn’t want pants,” she replied with her mouth full. Gale made a choking sound that might have been a horrified laugh.

He wasn’t bad, really, until he got talking about the Weave and high magics and all that shit. Then her stomach started doing that uncomfortable sort of swooping she got right before she puked, and it wasn’t really Gale’s voice she was hearing, but her mother’s scheming and plotting and whatever cruel new magical experiment she had in store—

“Lythra? Are you quite alright?”

She shook her head, pulling herself from her thoughts. “Sorry. I—I just got lost in thought. Still waking up, I guess.”

“No worries. You’ll be right up to snuff after a spot of breakfast.”

She just smiled and nodded, eyes flicking over to the trees at the edge of camp just as Astarion pushed his way through, looking almost startled to find other people awake.

“Oh—hello.”

“Good morning,” Gale said brightly. “We’ve got the early bird crew here.”

“It certainly seems so,” he replied, nose wrinkled slightly at the thought.

“What were you doing out in the woods?” She asked, watching his face carefully.

“I—well, I was checking our perimeter, darling. It wouldn’t do for a stray pack of goblins to come murder us in the night.”

“A good idea, I’m glad you thought of it! I must admit I was a bit to caught up in my melancholy last night to start thinking of logistics, but I have a good feeling about today. I bet if we find that Grove those rangers were talking about they’ll have someone who can help.”

“Yes, well, just trying ti be helpful,” he said with a charming smile, his eyes flicking over to her face. She stared back, impassive. His jaw twitched in irritation. She just finished off her apple, spitting out the seeds and tossing the stem into the fire.

Astarion stared at her disgustedly. “You’re not supposed to eat the whole thing, like some beast. Honestly, are you sure you’re not some sort of wildling?”

“Why does it matter?” she retorted. She knew better than to waster food, had survived on little enough.

“It’s not civilized!” He said, far more irritated than she would have guessed. She stooped and grabbed another apple, polishing it on her sleeve.

“Oh,” she said, nodding as if his words were some sort of revelation. Then she bit directly into the bottom of the apple, staring him dead in the eyes.

“Oh, aren’t you just a lark,” he sneered, shaking his head before stomping off back to his tent. She just grinned after him, thoroughly enjoying his annoyance.

Astarion watched as Lythra leapt from the small hill they’d climbed before stumbling upon some sort of goblin raiding party. She cut down the fighter closest to her, her movements graceful and perfectly balanced between her two blades.

It was an odd sort of fighting style, one he didn’t recognize, not the typically brutish duel-wielding of martial fighters, nor the sort of efficiency of movement he favored with his own daggers.

Another irritating mystery.

She was an utterly infuriating creature, all the more so for her unpredictability. If only she was the sort of dullard her piss-poor manners suggested, then at least he’d know what to expect, how to play his hand.

At least she was competent, he thought as he fired an arrow at one of the worgs attacking the mercenaries at the gate. He’d initially pegged her as a weakling, until she smashed her forehead into his nose with all the grace of a yeth hound. As if wandering the unwashed Wilds wasn’t enough, he also seemingly had to depend on the most feral moon elf he’d ever met as his benefactress.

The gods were ever creative in their cruelty.

Still, they dispatched the goblin contingent without too much trouble. They followed quickly after the mercenaries, the gate slamming down behind them.

He could hear shouting just inside and found the merc from the gate practically foaming at the mouth in anger as he screamed at the old tiefling commander.

“There are children here, you fool!” the commander yelled.

“We was running for our lives.”

“You led them straight to us! And you let them take the druid too! Unbelievable!”

“Druid? There was no druid with that lot,” Lythra interject, striding forward to the two incensed men.

“We’d all be dead if you stalled any longer,” the merch spat at the tiefling, completely ignoring her.

“My duty is to this camp!”

“Well, godsforbid you risk your precious tail. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Foulbloods ain’t known for courage.”

He watched her bristled at the slur. She glanced between the tiefling and the merc, noting the way his fist curled, preparing to strike the older man. She lashed out quicker than a viper and cracked him across the jaw, sending him crumpling in a heap.

She kicked him hard in the ribs for good measure. That, at least, made him laugh.

“Well—that’s that I suppose. I’m Zevlor,” the tiefling said, shaking his head as if to remove the display from his mind.

“Lythra,” she said with a nod, not a hint of that shit-eating smirk she’d tormented him with this morning. “What’s going on?”

“We’re refugees, from Elturel. We’re trying to make it to Baldur’s Gate.”

Elturel—well it was no wonder they were trying to get as far away from that place as they could manage. He doubted Elturel had any place left for Tieflings after the Descent. Of course whether anywhere else did was as much of a mystery. He made a face as she asked about whatever wretched ritual the druids were conducting—as if it mattered half a toss. What should they care if they kicked all the Tieflings out? Surely, the wriggling worms behind their eyes took precedence. He needed to find a way to control it, before it turned him into a disgustingly slimy mind flayer.

Though it would still be preferable to returning to Cazador.

He huffed a sigh as she finally found out where they could hunt down a healer and finished talking to the old bastard. He slunk along behind her, wrinkling his nose as he fell into step next to her. She smelled of campfire smoke and blood, though there was something intoxicating about the scent, more than its usual allure.

“You’re bleeding,” he spat, the words almost an accusation.

She glanced down at her arm, where a blade had sliced clean through the leather of her sleeve to her flesh.

“Huh. Guess I am,” she replied, seemingly unbothered. Astarion pictured throttling her until that stupid face of hers turned blue. Of course, with his luck the freak would be into it and he’d be back at square one.

Not only was she supremely unbothered by bodily harm, she seemed to feel the need to stop and talk to and assist every wretch they passed. He didn’t care if a trio of idiots set out into the wild to almost definitely get murdered by goblins—that was their right, as morons. He also couldn’t care less about some little tiefling child being punished by the druids—if she was a poor enough thief to get caught by a bunch of hopped-up tree huggers, she deserved what she got.

But nooooo, she had to stick her neck out for the little criminal, and promise to aid the tieflings’ departure from the Grove.

And now she’d managed to get poisoned by the second-rate healer, as if they didn’t already have entirely too much to deal with.

Well, if anyone was going to have the pleasure of killing the vicious little thing it was going to be him. He lunged forward, slashing his dagger across the wretched woman’s neck before she could turn on the rest of them. Lythra just stared dumbly at the body for a long moment, her skin taking on a sickly, grayish hue. Gale crossed to the stone door and shut it, lest any of the other druids wander in unbidden.

“Ooooh, they’ll notice that,” she said finally, voice faint. She wobbled, her legs giving way just as the nasty little healer had taunted. Shadowheart darted forward, helping her to settle on the ground. Gale gingerly picked up the branch the healer had used, face darkening.

“That’s Kelemvor’s Kiss. It’s—well,” Gale said off, looking away.

“She needs—oh, it’s got to be a powerful antidote. I don’t—“ Shadowheart broke off looking around frantically, as if she expected a box labeled ‘Lethal twig antidote.’ Both she and Gale turned to the stone table covered in al sorts of alchemical nonsense, flipping frantically through books. Lythra huffed a pained laugh.

“What could possibly be funny about this?” He spat, glaring at her.

“It’s Kelemvor’s Kiss,” she said, still chuckling.

“So?”

“Withers—he told me off this morning. Said not to invoke the gods’ ire. Ha! Cryptic bastard—at least he’s funny.”

“You really are losing it,” he said, turning to rifle through the healer’s pockets.

“It’s the elixir of Silvanus, its a reduction of theriac brewed with mugwort. Shit, it needs some sort of blessing. I don’t suppose you know any of Silvanus’ blessings, Shadowheart?”

“It’s not my area of expertise.”

“What’s it supposed to look like?” Astarion asked without looking up. Gale consulted the book once more.

“A dark olive green with a sort of golden shimmer to it.”

“What about that?” He asked, tossing a greenish potion to Shadowheart. It had a vaguely divine feel about it. She nearly fumbled it and gave him a scathing look before popping the cork and giving it a sniff. She turned toward Lythra, who had somehow gotten paler, a sheen of sweat coating her skin, her breaths shallow, her eyes closed.

“Here, this should be it,” she said, carefully tipping the potion down her throat. It was a few more moments before she opened her eyes, breaths evening. Shadowheart leaned forward, checking her vitals.

“I think—I think that did it. Though perhaps you should rest, now.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice too breathy still. “We need to—we need to move the body before someone sees it. Shit,” she swore as her legs still refused to support her.

“Astarion and I can handle it, surely. You just take a breather,” Gale said genially, and she nodded, though he saw unease creep onto her face before she dropped her eyes to her lap. Astarion glared at him, displeased to be volunteered, but stooped anyway, grabbing her ankles and leaving Gale with her very bloody shoulders. They fumbled about for only a second for somewhere to stash the corpse before he recognized the hidden door in the back of the chamber for what it was and the circlet as its key. Then it was simple enough to hide her in the clouds of noxious gas in the room behind the door, and for Gale to magic away the puddle of blood.

Shadowheart met them at the door.

“We should rest, for the night.”

“Is it not working?” Gale asked, brow furrowing.

“It—it is. Just, slower, than it should.”

“Could it be the tadpole?”

“No—I think it’s something else. I—she’s smaller, and it was a lot of poison.”

“Poor thing,” Gale said sympathetically, glancing back at where Lythra was seemingly drowsing. Astarion, however, kept his eyes on the cleric.

She wasn’t exactly lying, but it was clear enough she wasn’t telling the whole truth.

What, then, could dull the effects of the Great Tree Hugger Himself’s own blessing?

As if he didn’t already have enough to worry about.

#halsin #bg3 #drow tav #astarion x tav #named tav #gale dekarios #shadowheart #slow burn

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mothermara · 1 year

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forgor to post this but @scrib-jelly's oc lythras :3 she's varyn's bestie (romantic)

#my art #ocs #varyn (oc)

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theitcharchives · 9 months

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Me thinking I made the surname Myrth up then found out it is the name of a liquor, of a sea in ASOIAF and the surname of actual real people

was about to go through the same experience with Lythra but I'm skipping this one lmao

#writeblr #writing problems #taste of copper #helppp I really thought I was making up unique original naming conventions #and usually I look up words I think I'm making up to see if it's true but I just got arrogant with myrth I suppose #not changing it but humbling myself

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idoiatry · 3 months

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# KNOWYOU'RE NO SAINT...

@ weesbny ♪ bisexual ♪ any prns* ♪ filipino!

« in order of preference: fem, neu, masc »

𖹭 masterlist 𖹭 rules 𖹭 others 𖹭

hi, i go by yvangeline (yves)! you might also know me as geode, jelly, or lythra ^_^ this is a writing/fandom blog! please check rules before requesting anything, thank you!

★ REMINDERS... †

≈ dni if: typical dni criteria, proship/comship, zionist, tradfems, terfs, overly christian, just here to be rude and a nuisance, etc.

≈ this is a SIDE BLOG! my main blog is @/cloudcher! if you follow here, i'll follow you back using that account.

≈ check out #໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১: yva.txt for rambles and #꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹: yva writes for my writing ^_^

≈ check out my rules for my fandom list hehe

≈ i am part of a system! dni endos and nontraumagenic systems >_<

≈ i support palestine, sudan, congo, and the philippines!

≈ i am anti ai art and ai just stealing jobs in general! don't feed my works into ai please, thank you

#divider by adornedwithlight #໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১: yva.txt #⋆.˚⚝𖦹✮๋࣭: yva's storage #꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹: yva writes #looking for moots #ensemble stars #across the spiderverse #jjk #haikyuu #the guy i was interested in wasn't a guy at all #twisted wonderland #dungeon meshi #alien stage #fear and hunger #honkai star rail #genshin impact #hades the game #stardew valley

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petrachoir · 1 year

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Filling Frenzy [YCH] - Pomegranate

My strudel Lythra would like to showcase a YCH! An 8 frame animation consisting of munching! This would cost $20! Can be any species :3 She is a Strudel belonging to Midveil, a fairy like closed species by Loppyrae! Strudels have food themed fillings, and I thought it would be fun to show her munching her filling: pomegranate

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peacefiresky-archive · 5 years

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Lythras didn’t feel it at first.

She was half-way down the road to Balmora when she realized her shoulder was... off. As if something were sticking out of it. That was when the pain hit like a rockslide.

Ah, fuck.

She winced, the adrenaline wearing off. The pain was - oh, gods - deep and throbbing. She could feel something sticking out of her shoulder, moving painfully with each stride she took. Still, she couldn’t afford slowing down. No, Ra’Zhid could still very well be on her tail.

She grit her teeth and continued forward, feeling herself grow dizzy. No, not like this. She was fine. She’d be fine. She wobbled on her feet, nearly veering off the footpath she was running down before correcting herself. Focus on... something. Anything.

But all she could feel was the deep, aching, sharp pain of severed flesh and muscle and --

When she woke, she was lying in the bed of a familiar, tiny house. The faint smell of Skooma and the sweet tang of moon sugar clung to Caius and all he owned like a well-worn coat, and for once, Lythras found herself grateful for the scent. She breathed a deep sigh and tried to push herself up, only for a sharp pain to shoot from her left shoulder down her spine and arm and side and ow, fuck. She stilled with a quiet, pained hiss. She realized then that she was wearing a loose, very much oversized black shirt that was clearly Caius’s, and her shoulder had been expertly bandaged. Though she’d need some fresh ones soon, if the faint red splotch bleeding through the fabric was anything to go by.

“Try not to move, please.” Caius spoke with his usual semi-sarcastic tone. He always reminded her of what she imagined an eccentric uncle would be like. And yet, there was an undertone of worry - something she hadn’t heard since...

“What happened?” The grogginess of her own voice startled her.

“Well, you evidently got your itch after you were cured of Corpus.” Caius hummed, grabbing a deep purple liquid in a bottle. “A member of the Guild found you laying in a ditch, clutching some ornate Dwemer artifacts, and brought you to Habasi. She brought you to me.”

“Ah,” Lythras sighed. “Vayrn?”

“Out buying healing potions. Here, drink this - it’s not Skooma, don’t look so suspicious - good.”

“I didn’t worry her much, did I?”

“She was only as worried as you would be if we found her unconscious in a ditch with a throwing knife lodged in her back.” Caius took the empty bottle and set it on the night table beside the bed. “The potion’ll help with some of the pain.”

“...I’ll buy her some flowers,” Lythras mumbled, making a much more careful and slow attempt to sit up a bit. “Something nice to apologize.”

“Apologize by not putting yourself needlessly in danger. You’re part of the Mages Guild - why not do some jobs for them when you get overwhelmed?”

“Because they treat me as they would a child. With the Guild, they respect me, they treat me as an equal --!”

“At this point, I think it’s too dangerous. Take my advice. Join a safer guild.”

“Caius -”

“Lythras, look, these prophecies demand -”

“To Oblivion with the prophecies! I just want to be able to live my own damned life here in Morrowind! I never said I would take the prophecies less seriously --”

“Lythras. I’ve been recalled to the Imperial City.”

“...You’re leaving?”

Caius sighed, grabbing a chair and pulling it to the bedside. He spun it and sat backwards, his chest to the back of the chair facing the nightblade. “There’s been some concern about the succession. The emperor’s health is failing, and there’s some concern about my sugar... I thought about refusing the recall, but they have some of my family in the Capital.”

Lythras couldn’t help the small smile that formed on her face at that. Somehow, even after knowing him for nearly a year, she never pictured Caius with a family. “What’re they like?”

“Hm?”

“Your family.”

Caius paused, his brows furrowing for a moment, perplexed by the question. Then, quietly, he said, “My siblings and their children. Real sweet folks.”

“How long since you’ve seen them?”

“I’ve been here in Vvardenfell for... about a decade.”

“I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.”

Caius smiled a sad sort of smile. “I hope so. I leave in the morning, and I’m leaving your recovery to Fast Eddie. There’s some final orders I need to discuss with you...”

#tw: description of wounds #Just In Case #ch: lythras

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