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dalekofchaos · 4 months

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Context

Return of the Dwemer.

the Dwemer returning just as suddenly as they left. Maybe go to a city and find it overrun with Dwarves and you have to escape and get together a band of warriors from both sides of the civil war in order to save Skyrim from annihilation or join the Dwemer. As part of the dlc you would get the option of having up to four followers.

Another cool option for a small add-on would be a homebase for your followers like in fallout: New Vegas. A fort where you could send them and make it a thriving community of followers

Post-Civil War. We get to see what happens after you win the Civil War. How Skyrim thrives after Imperial or Stormcloak victory. You crush the last Imperial or Stormcloak hold outs and execute the remaining generals of the losing side. If you helped the Imperials win, you could stop a Thalmor plot attempting to put Elisif on the throne to be their puppet. You could have Elenwen removed from Skyrim and decide who ultimately becomes High King/Queen Of Skyrim. Ultimately it comes down to Balgruuf or Elisif. If you helped the Stormcloaks win. You help Ulfric eliminate all opposition to his ascension to High King and help the Stormcloaks kill the Thalmor Justiciars and eventually burn the Thalmor Embassy to the ground.

Thalmor invasion of Skyrim some time in the future. Set up for a massive battle. You go to help the Legion/Stormcloaks, you have to recruit the remaining enemy Legionnaires/Stormcloaks. Basically every follower you've had and given crazy good equipment to us there. The Blades are all there if you rebuilt them. For some plot reason you have Talos's actual personal amulet which reduces Shout cool down by 100%. You ride Odaahving over the Thalmor Flagship, followed by Duurnehviir. Storm Call. Become Ethereal and leap off your dragon, landing on the deck surrounded by the leaders of the Thalmor. Pull out Wuuthrad. Go to town.

End result is that the Thalmor invasion of Skyrim is utterly defeated and their ability to attack Cyrodiil is severely crippled.

giving the Bard's College a bigger, more fleshed-out quest and adding the ability to play instruments would be neat. You could play instruments, there could be skill books that level your bard skills or song books that would be like spelltomes where you learn new songs. For quests you could have to perform in front of various audiences.

The Forsworn. There are hints throughout the game that they are planning something big, letters found in several camps etc. But other than the forsworn conspiracy there’s not much there. A branching quest line that builds off of that quest, about retaking the Reach or fighting against the Forsworn would be cool. Could even maybe spill over into a hold of High Rock.

For the Forsworn, it depends on what you chose for the Forsworn conspiracy. If you killed Madanach(and everyone in the prison) then you hear reports of the Forsworn planning a massive attack on the Reach planning to avenge their king and retake the Reach. It's clear the Forsworn will not stop these constant attacks on the Reach, so you have to put them down.

If you sided with the Forsworn, you get to help the Forsworn retake the Reach. Displace the Nords, killing the Silverblood family and retake Markarth. Madanach replaces whomever the Jarl was but as king. The Imperials would work with the Forsworn ran Markarth, but The Stormcloaks would not, so better to only choose this path if the Imperials win the Civil War.

The Last of the Snow Elves: Lost tribe of Snow Elves seeks to rebuild their civilization. They seek out other healthy tribes, search for a solution to heal the afflicted Falmer, fight to reclaim their ancestral home, and they seek revenge on those factions still working to eradicate them. This could certainly be a fairly long and interesting DLC. We could get into political shit with the descendants of Nords who still hold a grudge, could get another Elder Scroll on the scene by finding out one of them has the ability to undo the tricks of the Dwemer, some weird time travel shit to find out more about that Elder Scroll, more about the motiviations of the Dwemer.

Post-Paarthurnax Dilemma. If you sided with Delphine, you will aid in re-establishing a new guild of warriors 'Dragonguard' by allocating resources and taking over forts across the province, and prepare an incursion into the heartlands against the false Empire and their Thalmor masters. If you sided with the Greybeards, you will start a new academy for teaching the voice, and train a league of dragon-riding warrior monks set out to extinguish the undead legions of a resurrected dragon priest - a master necromancer and the teacher of Vals Varen and Lu'ah Al-Skaven - who wants to use the buried and recently-dead of Skyrim to conquer the province for himself.

Akavari. An Akaviri expedition arrives on the shores of Eastmarch, having heard the cries of the return of the dragons. They've come searching for the Dragonborn and to join in the hunt for dragons. You venture across the province on dragon hunts with several key new characters, testing your mantle against new dangerous species of dragons in new and old re-vamped locations.

After several successful ventures and proving yourself to the Akaviri captains, they proclaim you as their new leader, and advise you to forge your own kingdom in Tamriel. If you sided with the Empire, you must now usurp their claim upon Skyrim and push the remanent of Tullius' legion out by force, for the Mede Dynasty refuses to acknowledge your new seat of power in Skyrim. If you sided with the Stormcloaks, you must usurp Ulfric's claim as high king before the moot, and convince each of the hold's Jarls, either through favour or battle, to submit to your righteous authority.

I feel like The Dragonborn becoming Emperor could be for Skyrim, what The Shivering Isles was for Oblivion. See this post on what a Dragonborn becoming Emperor could look like

The Psijic Order. Magic in skyrim doesn't really feel too fleshed out, There could be quests that give you entirely different spells instead of the usual 5 spells plus reskins. It could have you solve the mystery on why they never had much screentime.

And at the end, it could have you restoring winterhold

Dragonborn Conquest. Similar to my Dragonborn Emperor concept, but doing it for the good of the people of Skyrim.

The premise would be that the Dragonborn is sick to death of this wretched Civil War. One side is subservient to the true enemy and the other side is full of racists. The Imperials have literal criminals as Jarls(Maven and Siddgeir) Stormcloaks have paranoid lunatics and the corrupt as Jarls. Both sides have good arguments, but both cannot be allowed to control Skyrim. So the Dovahkiin decides it’s time for the people to open their eyes and take Skyrim back for the people. Nords, Imperials, Redguards, Elves, Argonians and the Khajit.

The Dragonborn’s promises

The Khajit caravans get to gain entry in the cities of Skyrim instead of being forced on the outskirts

Restoring Talos worship

Argonians gain entry into Windhelm instead of being forced on the docks

The Dunmer will receive better housing than the Grey Quarter

All citizens of Skyrim will be treated equally under the new High King

Proper Jarls to rule and govern their holds and to maintain stability, peace and justice to their people instead of ruling out of greed or power

An end to the Civil War by any means necessary

An end to corrupt families like the Black Briars and Silver-Bloods

Rebuilding Winterhold

Giving The Reach back to the Forsworn

The execution of Ulfric Stormcloak and expulsion of General Tullius and the Legion.

The final promise. An end to the Thalmor Justiciar witch hunts and kidnappings and the forced removal of the Thalmor from Skyrim

So yeah, The Dragonborn should’ve been able to become High King of Skyrim and rule for the good of the people of Skyrim. Be able to handpick the Jarls for the good of the land and been able to side against the Stormcloaks, Imperials and Thalmor.

The Dragonborn's death is inevitable, but the Daedra are scheming to keep the Dragonborn's soul after his death, while the Aedra want to reward the Dragonborn with Soverngarde.

Was inspired by this

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foxyanon · 7 months

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Zahkriisos

Summary: No summary, just notes. So for those who don’t know anything about Skyrim, I’m going to give a simple overview of a few things. The Dragonborn is essentially (in its most basic form) a hero of legend. Hermaeus Mora is a Daedric Prince (kind of like a demon) and his realm of Oblivion (kind of like hell) is Apocraphya (he’s know for being a hoarder of knowledge, hence the book named world). The title of the story gets its name from a dragon priest mask, which means Bloody Sword or Sword-Blood.

Pairing: Cultist!Masema x Dragonborn!Reader

Word Count: 2772

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

TW: Implied smut, blood, mentions of death, Dragonborn is a Breton but no other descriptors used, religious references

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Wheel of Time or The Elder Scrolls nor do I own any of the images used.

Dividers by @arcielee

Masema had been found on the shores of Solstheim by the Skaal, having washed ashore after a bad storm ravaged the island a couple years ago. He had foggy memories of his life before, but he did know he was a warrior and not from here. He was taken in by the Skaal shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, and nursed back to health, so he felt he owed it to the old man to stay and help out as needed. Even though he never felt connected to the All-Maker the way everyone else in the village did, he was still respectful of the religion and the culture. Even though he wasn’t born of the people, they still treated him like one of their own which is why the shaman decided he should help protect the pilgrims during their pilgrimage to the All-Makers stones. It was to be a long journey, one that would take months as the stones were scattered across Solstheim’s landscape.

It was at the Beast Stone, just beyond the borders of Thirsk Mead Hall, where he felt his lord’s presence for the first time. They had traveled to all the other stones and this was the last one before they would return to the village, something Masema was grateful for as he was tired of living on the road. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy spending time in nature, but the northern part of the island was all snow and ice which meant it was really fucking cold all the time. He was standing guard over the camp when he heard Lord Miraak’s voice call out from the stone before he was enthralled, the entire party starting to chant about the return of the Dragonborn and erecting shrines to their new overlord. Masema followed the orders of Miraak, first through entrapment and then of his own free will as it was the closest he had felt to any divine being in his entire existence.

As the Cult of Miraak grew, he moved through the ranks and eventually was the one giving orders to the new recruits from the Temple of Miraak. When rumors of another Dragonborn reached his ears, Miraak had given the command for Masema to send people to eliminate the ‘false Dragonborn’ in Skyrim and upon proof of their death, he would be rewarded. At first he sent out some recruits who were eager to prove their loyalty, but when they didn’t return, he started to get suspicious. There were reports of what this mysterious person was capable of, claiming they could slay dragons single-handed and were currently one of the more well known adventurers of the land. After the third attempt at killing this person, Masema started sending the more skilled men and women. After eight months of failure and many dead worshippers, Masema was well and truly pissed. If he wasn’t needed at the Temple, he’d go out and handle business himself but that just wasn’t possible right now. Preparations for the return of Miraak to the island took priority, so he resigned himself to sending another small group in the hopes this thorn in his side would finally be dealt with.

It was another cold day in the temple when Masema heard the most wonderful news. The other Dragonborn had sailed from Skyrim and was currently at Raven Rock, thanks to none other than Gjaland Salt-Sage, the same ship captain he “persuaded” to send the cultists to Skyrim originally. He even learned that the secretive person was a Breton, but no name was ever revealed to him. He thought things were finally looking up and that he’d be able to deliver the body of the false one to his lord, but how seldom does the fantasy match the reality.

As it turns out, this mysterious creature was working with the Skaal to remove Lord Miraak’s influence from the island. Somehow, on one of his trips away to check on a few things at the Earth Stone, this infuriating Breton got into the temple, killed all the cultists there and stole the Black Book from its pedestal. The nerve of that foreigner to desecrate sacred ground really solidified his resentment for them. Masema decided to take matters into his own hands and search out the defiler on his own, swearing to his lord he would handle matters before he set off in search of his target. Naturally, of course, this would be a monumental task as he would have to be careful to avoid the people he once called friends and his elusive prey seemed to be a master of hiding in plain sight. The only identifying thing about them other than the full set of ebony armor was the mask they wore, the ebony metal hiding them from the world. He recognized it as Zahkriisos, the mask of the dragon priest that was buried in Blodskal Barrow, an old Nordic ruin north of Raven Rock.

He tracked his query across all the island, but they were always one step ahead of him. With the help of Frea, Storn’s daughter, they slowly but surely cleansed the stones and cut off Miraak from speaking with any of his worshippers. After the second to last stone was cleansed and the false one had obtained all of the Black Books, Masema knew he needed to return to the temple and try to defend the last stone. It was here that he heard his lord’s voice for what would be the last time, telling him that all was as it should be and that his destiny was to battle the Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. Lord Miraak claimed that the fate that had been chosen for him would come to pass and that he was pleased with the loyalty and devotion Masema had shown him.

It was here that Masema was waiting for them, standing in front of the Tree Stone in his robes and mask, the last member of a once strong cult. He saw the Dragonborn glide down the hall, their cloak flowing behind them and the mask covering their face as well. He tried to determine the identity of the Dragonborn, but their armor covered them from head to toe, the ebony metal muted in appearance and fitted in the most generic of ways. The soft clanking of their boots on the stone echoed down the hall and into the chamber he occupied, steadily getting louder the closer they got. When they finally stopped several feet away, the tension was palpable as they sized the other up.

For a moment, they both stood there and stared at each other in silence, the weight of their respective destinies entwining with one another in the space between them. He noticed they traveled alone, the Black Book in their hands as they prepared for the final battle against Miraak. There was an energy that clung to them and their armor, the kind that only the favored of the gods could possess and that gave him pause. He found he had no desire to fight them, the futility of their situation coming into focus for him. He could not prevent their destiny from playing out, but he could choose whether he be another body for them or to stand aside and live another day. He chose the latter.

”I will not interfere with what fate has decreed. I shall watch over your spirit as you do what you must,” Masema stepped off to the side, head bowed slightly as he addressed the Dragonborn. The only response he received was a simple nod before the masked warrior opened the book, the tentacles of Hermaeus Mora bursting from the enchanted pages, wrapping around their form and pulling them into Oblivion with a sickeningly green flash of light. All that remained of the mysterious Breton was a spectral image, one that offered no insight to the identity of the physical person.

After what felt like an eternity of pacing back and forth in front of the stone, the book came alive and unceremoniously spit the body of the Dragonborn back out. Masema was startled at the sudden appearance, until he saw the blood dripping from a wound on their side and off their blade onto the stone ground beneath them. There was a new crack in the mask, their shoulders heaving as they pant in an attempt to catch a breath. No words needed to be said, Miraak was dead and the victor returned to the land of the living.

Wordlessly, Masema helped them up, careful not to agitate the wound as the two staggered down the dank halls of the crumbling temple. The walk to the old medical room passed in silence, the sounds of footsteps and heavy breathing bouncing off the stone walls with a soft echo. He helped the Dragonborn onto a wooden cot draped with furs before wandering towards the shelves in search of healing herbs or potions. He hears the telltale signs of the wounded Breton removing their armor, the sounds of metal and leather hitting the ground while his back is turned. When he turns around after having found a single healing potion amidst the disorganized shelf, he nearly drops the glass vial when he sees the Dragonborn for the first time.

He’s surprised to see a woman sitting on the cot, a thin wound bleeding from her hairline and the once pristine linen tunic sticking to her torso, the gash on her side bloodying the fabric. He was frozen in place, her eyes capturing his and the smirk gracing her lips indicating she is used to such behaviors. She holds her hand out, waiting for Masema to hand her the potion he holds. Even though her injuries look serious, she doesn’t push or taunt him, simply being patient as he collects his thoughts. With a shaky breath, Masema closes the distance and hands her the vial, watching as she downs it in one. He’s so caught up in being in front of such beauty that when she speaks, it startles him.

”What is your name?” She asks simply, her voice soft as she lifts her tunic and gets a look at her injury. She lifts her hand, a warm light emitting from her fingers and wrapping itself around her like an aura as she casts a healing spell that closes the wound better than any stitching. Masema watches a little starstruck as the woman literally glows for a moment, forgetting she had asked a question. When she raises a brow at him, he blushes furiously and swallows hard, having been caught gawking at her.

He clears his throat and looks at the ground, grateful for his mask hiding his face from her. “My name is Masema, Dragonborn,” he spoke quietly, fidgeting with his gloves and taking a few steadying breaths.

”A pleasure to meet you, Masema,” she gave him her name and he tasted it on his tongue, finding that the name suited her beautifully. “Would you mind if I asked your story? You are the only cultist who hasn’t attacked me outright and I’m curious as to why.”

He nodded in agreement and they proceeded to talk for hours, the candles burning low by the time they finished. She listened to his story, no judgment or anger in her eyes when he told her the truth of his involvement with Miraak. About halfway through, Masema felt comfortable enough to remove his mask and the act of trust made her smile, something so minor but it made his heart beat a little faster.

After she decided needed to leave the ruins to find food and clean up, Masema found himself unwilling to leave her side. He followed behind her after she got dressed again, letting her lead the way through the labyrinth of halls. Once outside, they both breathed in the cold fresh air, a far cry more refreshing than the stale air inside the temple. He hesitated as she started off in the direction of Thirsk, wanting to stay with her but unsure if she would want that. He looked around at the landscape, trying to gather the words to ask, but she beat him to the punch.

She was stopped several feet away, Zahkriisos held loosely in her hands at her side as the sun shone brightly behind her. ”Masema, how would you like to adventure with me?” Her question offered him the choice to walk away, but when she was looking at him like that, he couldn’t resist accepting her offer. He’d follow her to the end, to the very halls of Sovngarde and beyond if she’d let him.

She smiled and nodded, looking out over the horizon before turning and continuing on her journey. Masema breathed a sigh of relief, a smile on his face as he looked at the yellow mask in his hands. It was a symbol, a reminder of a life he was no longer living. With a sigh, he left his mask on the stone steps of the now deserted place he once called home, leaving behind one life and eagerly walking towards the next.

Masema had been traveling with the Dragonborn for several months now and he learned a lot about this woman in that time, like the reasons his assassination attempts never worked. For starters, she was the leader of half the guilds in the damned kingdom. He also learned that she only used her respective titles when outright doing business for them and wore different masks when dealing with the general population, only a select handful of her closest allies knowing her name. He practically swooned upon learning she had trusted him enough to know her identity, even more when he discovered through a friend of hers that she rarely kept traveling companions for more than a few weeks. Apparently this was to help maintain her secrecy, but since he had proven himself to be trustworthy and loyal to her, she kept him by her side.

His life finally had purpose again, serving and protecting her on their travels having made him realize that Miraak was a fraud, using his divinely given powers to assert dominion over the people he was meant to protect. Whenever he felt shame for his past actions, she was right there to tell him that his future doesn’t need to be weighed down by the consequences of the past. She did, however, prevent him from falling down the same path of reverence he once showed Miraak, claiming that she had no desire to be worshiped by the masses and that history wasn’t kind to those who sought such power. Even if she wouldn't have a following like her predecessor, Masema had no qualms being wholly devoted to her. He found her desire to aid everyone, even the poor and displaced, inspiring. It’s no surprise her kindness towards him and everyone else had him falling in love with her.

It was during one of their adventures, camped somewhere in Whiterun Hold under the stars and two moons of Nirn, when he finally confessed his feelings to her. He had felt nervous, his palms sweaty and avoiding her gaze as he stared into the small campfire. When he heard her get up and walk over to him, he finally dared to look up at her and was shocked to see her hand outstretched towards him, a silent request to take it as she stood there in the low light of the fire. He placed his hand in hers, standing up and following her towards their shared tent, his breathing uneven as she pulled him along behind her.

No words were said, their lips finding the others in the darkness of the tent and hands pulling at laces and straps of their garments. Masema laid her back on her bedroll, taking his time to learn her body even if he couldn’t see it. His fingers traced over old scars, his lips following close behind. He licked, kissed and bit her skin, leaving physical marks on her the same way she had done to his soul. He doesn’t know how long they stayed wrapped in each other, just know that it wasn’t nearly long enough. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the sounds of her soft breathing as she rested her head on his chest the most wonderful thing he thought he’d ever experienced. Masema sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Creator and the Divines for giving him a chance to find redemption, feeling a sense of certainty spread through his veins at the idea of aiding the true chosen of Akatosh.

Taglist: @valeskafics @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @whitedarkmoonflower @gemini-mama @alexagirlie @thenameswinter99 @mrsarnasdelicious @synintheraven

#masema x reader #masema dagar #masema #Dragonborn!reader #skyrim

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 7 months

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Yet another wild crackship between my LDB and some Skyrim dumbo, but this time it's General Tullius, and it actually gets madder from there

Look, a lot of this surprised me too. It sure surprised @elder-dragon-reposes and yet it makes sense and that's the strange beauty of it

ao3 | masterlist

He could be forgiven for not seeing her at Helgen. Between Ulfric's capture and the following dragon attack, Tullius had his hands full with escaped prisoners and a town in ruins. Not to mention Elenwen's attempts to take over his execution. One half-elf caught in the crossfire was below his attention at the time. When she came into Castle Dour, a cold wind in her wake as she spoke about fire and death, he had no choice but to pay attention to her. Especially when she brought up things like "peace" and "ceasefire." This Last Dragonborn was out of her mind.

Yet somehow, she led him into an agreement to meet with the Stormcloaks at High Hrothgar.

Tullius isn't quite sure he likes that. She's as double-edged as any Thalmor diplomat with her words. As noble as her intentions appear on the surface, he's not sure he can trust her.

At High Hrothgar, the Last Dragonborn, Leara, leads both sides into an agreement where no one gets what they want, but no one is worse off, and she plans to trap a dragon in a castle.

She . . . plans to trap a dragon in a castle.

Tullius knows he was sent to Skyrim to tame the rebellion, but no one ever prepared him for how maddening the people of Skyrim were. No one is as maddening as the Nords' hero. Tullius cannot understand her. He's not sure he wants to, all things considered.

The Legate is amused by his consternation. He knows this even without her saying anything. But Tullius is worried. This Leara has the power to sway Skyrim in whatever way she chooses, and if she joins the Stormcloaks, then he has a feeling that the Empire might lose more than Skyrim before all is over.

He keeps an ear out for the Dragonborn's movements. His spy network throughout Skyrim is extensive: If she breathes in Windhelm's direction, if she says anything about the Civil War, then he'll need to be ready. This woman has slain dragons. He doesn't want to see what she'll do to a legion of mortal men. Tullius needs to be ready.

Tullius is not ready when Leara walks into Castle Dour again, armorless and prim as she waltzs into his war room. Legate Rikke greets her, but Tullius pretends to give half an ear. He looks like he's going through reports, but he's trying to keep an eye on the anomaly in the room.

Legate Rikke and the Dragonborn talk quietly together. And then the Dragonborn leaves and Tullius finally puts down his paperwork. Legate Rikke is frowning.

"What did she want?"

The Legate's attention snaps to him.

"She wanted to know about our support from Cyrodiil, sir." "Support?" "She mentioned your inability to negotiate a peace settlement, General."

Tullius recalled that. He'd told the Dragonborn he couldn't do more than accept Ulfric's surrender. But why did the Dragonborn want to know about the Imperials' ability to negotiate with the rebels? Didn't she already get her peace treaty and trap her dragon?

Tullius cannot wrap his head around her. Everything his spies have reported paints her as kindness. Even the coldest Nords seem to thaw around her. But Tullius can't base his understanding of such a power player like the Dragonborn on reports and a handful of interactions. He'd have to speak with her himself.

The Winking Skeever is busy when he steps in. A few heads turn, but otherwise, no one pays Tullius any particular attention. The Dragonborn isn't difficult to find, either: She's at a corner table with her nose buried in a dusty book.

Tullius makes his way over to her.

The Dragonborn is surprised to see him but still invites Tullius to sit at her table.

"I assume this is about my discussion with your legate earlier."

She's perceptive. But Tullius already knew that.

"Do you always discuss politics in a bar?"

At his question, the Dragonborn offers a little half-smile, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"Do you?"

No. Honestly, Tullius couldn't recall the last tie he even visited a bar or tavern other than while traveling. Perhaps he was working too late, but between the Civil War, Elenwen, the dragons, and (maybe) the Dragonborn, he couldn't afford to slack off. Why else would Tullius chase the Dragonborn down to the local inn?

"Have you read much about Skyrim?"

Her question surprises him.

"War commentaries mostly. Military history."

The nod of her precise head is measured as if she expected that response. Marking her page, she closes her book and shows him the cover. It's some thick tome he's never heard of, but the knotwork dragon design around the edges breathes of old Nordic craftsmanship.

"As Dragonborn . . . [she pauses for a long moment] . . . As Dragonborn, I am highly invested in the preservation of the Empire and Skyrim."

She chews her lip.

Tullius almost asks if she's about to join the Legion. He can't deny that he'd hoped that would be her ultimate decision, but sitting here across from the Dragonborn as she was now, deliberating over words and tapping her book's cover, Tullius knew she wasn't about to swear fealty to the Emperor.

When she continues, she speaks slowly.

"General Tullius, would you be willing to help me? I need to reach out to people in the Imperial City about a peace summit, and I don't know where to begin."

A peace summit?

"I take it Ulfric didn't put you up to this?"

Her frown is surprising.

"No, he didn't. I asked him."

The Dragonborn asked Ulfric if she could talk to the Empire about a peace summit?

Before he could ask what in Oblivion that was supposed to mean, the server brought a tea service to the table. Just as quickly, he was gone.

"Would you care for a cup, General? I'm afraid all they have is lavender honey." "I . . . would like that--" "Leara."

She supplied. Her lips quirked.

So Tullius found himself ensconced at a table in The Winking Skeever and discussing different politicians and diplomats back in the Imperial City with the Dragonborn – Leara. He's halfway through his second cup when she admits that she's trying to find a peaceful resolution to the Civil War that could please everyone. He calls her a hopeful idiot, but she smiles.

"You can't please everyone." "Well, I don't think I can please the Dominion, but I can tie them in legal knots."

Leara wiggles her fingers at him, her rings glittering in the candlelight, and Tullius finds himself speechless.

If the Dragonborn – Leara – can tie the Thalmor up with a loophole, how imminent would their retaliation be? Tullius is at once intrigued and put off.

She was mad.

"Here, you'll want to write . . ."

But by the Divines, he was going to help her anyway, wasn't he? If Leara could talk Ulfric off his warpath, then maybe there was something to her hair-brained scheme.

Tullius sees Leara a few days later. She's been to the Blue Palace and the Bards College, she tells him when he meets her again at the 'Skeever. She's combing through maps and treaties, drafting letters, and making lists. Her mind is running at speeds Tullius can't comprehend, and yet she keeps looking to him for advice.

As Leara stirs a lump of sugar into her snowberry spice tea and peruses another list, Tullius wonders if she did this with Ulfric when she went to ask him to consider peace.

Her penmanship is as poised as the rest of her. He cannot see her against the harsh stony backdrop of Windhelm, amidst the snow and vitriol. She's too civilized for Skyrim. She's almost too civilized for Cyrodiil, but Tullius won't think of that.

He doesn't have a chance to give it much thought anyway when she's asking him about neutrality and the terms of the Concordat.

It's late when Tullius leaves her the second time. As he leaves, she's carrying a stack of papers upstairs. She has a hopeful lift in her step.

Tullius almost smiles.

Almost.

The next morning, Legate Rikke drops a new report on his desk. It's from Captain Aldis.

"What's this, Legate?" "There was a break-in, sir." "And we're concerned with this, because?"

Legate Rikke's jaw tightens, her eyes are wide. Whatever it is has unsettled her.

"It was at The Winking Skeever."

She sighs. Heavy. It's a familiar frustration.

"General, I believe that the Thalmor were exercising their Concordat-given rights."

A pit settles in Tullius's stomach.

"They took the Dragonborn, sir." "On what grounds?" "It doesn't say. sir. It doesn't even mention the Thalmor at all. But you know–"

Tullius doesn't hear the rest of the sentence because he realizes his mistake. He should never have discussed the possibility of an armistice with Leara in a public room. Who overheard her? Who saw Leara's notes and lists and books? Who ratted her out to the Thalmor?

Tullius's fist clenches, his knuckles pale. The one person with a Divine's chance in Oblivion to bring a favorable resolution to the Civil War and the Thalmor took her like every Talos worshipper the Empire was supposed to turn a blind eye too.

He paces around his office. Legate Rikke has left him alone, and now all Tullius can do is think and walk. Turn. Think and walk. Turn. The cycle repeats throughout his office. He only suspects that the Thalmor took Leara. Without concrete proof, he can't accuse them or he'll risk something far more uncomfortable than paperwork. But if he does nothing, then every hope for peace in Skyrim vanishes in the Dragonborn's wake.

Tullius stopped in the middle of his office, standing at a crossroads. Was it possible to ascertain that the Thalmoor abducted Leara and to request her freedom without bringing Elenwen down on his head? Probably not. But . . .

Tullius recalled the wide eyes, the fear swimming in the teary blue when Leara was faced with Elenwen at High Hrothgar. At the time, Tullius didn't think much of the Dragonborn's aversion to her. Most people hated the Thalmor Ambassador on a good day. But the terror that flickered in Leara's face before she grew cold and distant and manipulated the entire table to her own ends came back to him.

No, Tullius knew Elenwen personally had the Dragonborn. There was a history there he couldn't see, but it peeked at the edges of his vision in brilliant horror.

Elenwen had Leara, and she wouldn't let the half-elf go lightly.

If Leara could cheat an entire room of warring politicians and soldiers while ensuring a truce, then Tullius could sure as Hell try to manipulate Elenwen.

Sitting at his desk, the General ruled out any official Legion channels. Those would be tied back to him and ruin any chance Leara had of negotiating her armistice. Something under the table, then.

Mercenaries were messy. Robbing Elenwen would take a different hand. He grimaces and drafts a letter.

General . . .

The messenger hawk returns the next evening. Tullius doesn't want to think about why the hawk returned so quickly. He just hoped his charade would hold.

(Writing Galmar Stone-Fist of all people to encourage a Stormcloak raid on Northwatch Keep was something Tullius knew he could never live down if it got back to any of his superiors in Cyrodiil. He couldn't trust that General Stone-Fist would take an anonymous tip at face value, but as Leara soliloquised late that last night,)

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

It's four long days of giving only half his attention to his job before an Imperial scout reports that the Stormcloaks attacked the Thalmor fortress of Northwatch. When the Legion got there, nothing was left but smoldering ruins.

"They had a dragon, sir."

Tullius didn't want to know how they had a dragon, but he was optimistic that it meant Leara made it out of there alive.

With the Stormcloaks, but alive.

He sleeps through the night for the first time in over a week. When Tullius wakes up, he wonders how he could turn to the rebels to save the Dragonborn. Effective, yes, but it went against everything he was supposed to represent.

But she's alive.

She would be dead or worse off if he hadn't done it.

Tullius uses that thought to bolster himself through the coming weeks.

Then, a letter addressed to Tullius comes by way of Whiterun of all places. He recognizes the slender script curling his name across the paper. It's a short letter asking him to retrieve her belongings from her room at the 'Skeever. Two things stand out to him: The first is the thank you. Tullius cannot tell what Leara means by it because he knows that Stone-Fist didn't know who sent the tip about Northwatch. And yet there's a tearstain on the parchment, small and alone as if any others were quickly dashed away after the first one fell. The second is that all her books, papers, the things she worked on for her peace talk were all hidden in a panel behind the bookshelf in her boardroom.

Tullius didn't even think of Leara losing all her work. He was more concerned about getting her out. He was more worried about her than anything else.

Tullius buries his face in his hands.

This was a familiar feeling. It'd been years since the last time he felt like this.

Although, Tullius gave himself a wry smile, he doubted he'd have betrayed the Empire for the Countess of Anvil's cousin.

Tullius goes early the next morning to retrieve Leara's things, hidden or otherwise. A member of his spy network is tasked with getting the parcels to a Lydia in Whiterun. Then Tullius watches as every connection he has to the Dragonborn disappears out the doors of Castle Dour.

It's back to the everyday humdrum of war, then.

Until, some months later, a familiar half-elf comes into Solitude. Now, she's accompanied by a dark-haired Nord woman in heavy armor. Her stormy expression and hawkish eyes remind Tullius of Rikke at times. Leara introduces her as Lydia, her housecarl. Then Leara is handing him a folio of papers.

"I've been corresponding with some of the Elder Council. I'm planning a summit in Whiterun."

He takes the folio from her.

"What's this?" "My draft for a permanent peace treaty. I thought that since you helped me, you'd like to peruse it. Of course, I need to get it to Jarl Elisif when you're finished."

That Leara is offering to let him be a part of her peace treaty isn't lost on Tullius. He sets the folio on the table but leaves his hand on top, protecting it.

"I can come back for it tomorrow." "I'll get it back to you tonight."

Legate Rikke coughs, obviously. Tullius adds,

". . . we can discuss it over dinner, if you like?"

Leara's smile is full.

"I would like that."

They don't end up talking much about the draft. But Tullius gives Leara some of his favorite brandy after their dinner of roast lamb and stewed vegetables. Her giggle is light and airy, and her hand is cool like spring water when he takes it across the table.

Perhaps he drank more than he should have, but liquid courage was a reassuring friend.

At the end of the night, Leara, tipsy and yet all grace, presses a petal soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. She pulls away.

His hands slide up her arms, callused fingers catching on the soft linen of her sleeves. And he pulls her back and kisses her, full and properly on the mouth.

Leara tastes of tea and winter and something floral and frosted. There's more than magic in her mouth – there's music and mercy. If Tullius wasn't drunk before, he finds himself intoxicated on Leara.

She strokes his face, smiling, always smiling, and then backs away. Her eyes are bright and liquid and as deep as Lake Rumare. In the low glow of golden orange firelight, she is beautiful.

He loves her.

He doesn't say it, and soon she's gone, slipping through doors into the night. An angel passing from the room.

The next day, he finds that she left him her address. It had been a long time since Tullius even tried to write a love letter. They were never his strong suit, but Leara had a way of inspiring madness in him. He wrote her.

And Leara wrote him back.

Again and again and again.

Tullius doesn't expect for his presence to be needed when the summit is called in Whiterun. The Empire has its own group of delegates to negotiate the terms of Skyrim's division. But still, Elisif the Fair says that General Tullius has been asked to attend. The young queen seems as if she can't quite believe it, but she was often wide-eyed and overwhelmed as it was.

(Maybe Julia was right. He should listen to Elisif more. But pretty soon, it was likely Tullius would never see the Queen of Solitude again.)

Leara is there in Whiterun, laying out the terms of the Armistice with the light and delicacy he'd come to expect from her. How many others here knew she was anxious that things would crumble apart, that things would come to blows, and that the war would escalate for all her efforts to temper the fire?

Ulfric's face is a dark stormcloud, but somehow the Jarl of Windhelm appears to hold his tongue around the Dragonborn. He watches her, defers to her, and in return, Leara smiles at him.

Tullius is simply in an advisory position for the Imperial delegates to mine information on the state of the Civil War and the Imperial Legion. He never speaks to Ulfric, and seldom to Leara during the weeklong summit. But he sees the Jarl speak to her between sessions. Leara is quiet and nods. Her eyes are faraway and thoughtful.

Tullius remembers that when she first brought the idea of the summit to him, Leara mentioned that she convinced Ulfric to agree to it. For the first time, Tullius wonders how Leara went about winning Ulfric Stormcloak to her side.

His chest burns.

When the Armistice is signed and Skyrim divided in two–

"Divided, you can finally be united."

Leara said.

–there is a feast. Leara is in demand all night. Tullius watches from the sidelines, some Cyrodilic brandy in hand as he watches one person after another flit around her, bees buzzing around a blooming rose. After a while, Tullius gets up and retires to the quiet of the Dragonsreach porch.

He isn't out there long when the doors open again. From the dark stairwell where he sat, he saw Leara flit by, orbited by Ulfric.

Tullius's hand tightened on his glass.

"You must be relieved that's over." "I'm glad we could reach a resolution."

She deflected Ulfric's concern with a wave of her hand.

But Tullius knew the truth: She was terrified of the summit. She was terrified she'd fail.

"What will you do now?"

Leara's question broke through Tullius's thoughts.

Ulfric shifted.

"There's much to do. Skyrim hasn't been in a state like this since the Second Era. I'll need to work quickly to bring stability to the east before we can truly reap any of tonight's rewards." "You have a busy schedule, Jarl Ulfric! [her laugh is musical] Even when my work ends, you still have so much to do!" "Leara . . ."

There's a hesitation in Ulfric's voice that Tullius never would have imagined from the man who Shouted High King Torygg apart. Leara's responding,

"Yes, Ulfric?"

is careful.

"I was hoping that you would come to Windhelm with me. To help me." "Help you? As an advisor? Certainly, but–" "Not as an advisor. Not . . . as you're thinking. Leara, surely you must know what I feel for you." "Oh."

If Tullius didn't fear being caught, he'd have stormed from the porch. Or over to Ulfric and pushed him off. Or something. His blood was rushing in his ears.

Certainly, he and Leara hadn't truly defined what it was between them. This week was the first time he'd seen her since kissing her that night in Solitude, and in this week, they'd hardly been alone together long enough to discuss anything beyond the summit and the usual pleasantries.

But her letters were candid and funny and full of ideas. Her mind spilled across the page in curling and shifting lines.

Tullius knew then that while he had Leara's mind, there was every possibility that Ulfric had her heart. She was as divided as Skyrim was.

"Ulfric–" "While Skyrim was at war, I knew I couldn't give you the attention you deserved. But now that we can have some peace, I wish to ask you for your hand. Leara, you ignite a fire in my chest that burns my heart when you are near. Please do me the honor of agreeing to marry me."

There's silence. Long, drawn-out silence. Somewhere on the plains, a wolf howls. Its cry echoes the pain in Tullius's chest.

"Ulfric . . ."

Leara's voice is choked, emotional but she is forcing it down.

"Ulfric, you're very dear to me, but I can't marry you."

It was only Ulfric's loud,

"You can't? Why?"

That covered the sound of Tullius's brandy glass slipping to shatter on the stone stairs.

Leara hesitated.

"I can't give you my heart because it belongs to someone else. I can't take it back." "Who?"

Leara quieted.

"Please, Leara, if you won't marry me, then allow me the courtesy of knowing who I lost you to!" "I–"

Leara choked.

Tullius's heart sped up as his hands shook. He was as anxious as Ulfric to hear her answer.

"You won't like it." "Who is it? Galmar? I know he was the one to pull you from that Thalmor pit."

Divines. That would just be the cherry on top of this entire fiasco, wouldn't it?

"No, not . . . It's . . . General Tullius."

The silence that followed was more deafening than any that proceeded it. Even from the darkened stairwell, Tullius could since the thunder around Ulfric, rumbling silent and yet violent.

"You won't marry me because you're in love with Tullius?" "If that's how you want to put it, yes, that's it." "Leara – I, he . . ."

For once, all of Ulfric's fine speeches seemed to fail him.

"Please don't be upset."

Leara's voice is as soothing as the first spring rain, as far apart from Ulfric's hurricane as possible.

There was a rustle of skirts.

"You are a very important person to me, for more than you can possibly know, but I can't give you the love you want. It's not mine to give you." "But Tullius–" "Has been so vital to me during these last several months. We would not have this peace if not for him. I needed him." "I need you." "I know, but I've given you all I can. I can't give you any more."

Tullius peeks around the corner far enough to see Leara on her tiptoes. She whispers something in Ulfric's ear, then presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek. Tullius ducks back just in time to be hidden as Ulfric turns and leaves the porch. The doors shut behind him with a whisper of finality.

"You can come out now, General."

Tullius's knees are stiff as he gets up from the steps. Leara is waiting for him in the middle of the porch, her red hair a dark contrast against the white gold of her skin and the pale ivory of her gown. She's aetheric in the moon and aurora lights.

"I hope you finished your brandy before the glass fell."

His neck grows warm with embarrassment.

"Is that how you knew I was there?"

Leara's coy smile was her only answer. Yes, then. Well.

"Ulfric Stormcloak proposed to you." "Yes, he did." "And you turned him down." "Yes, I did. " "Why . . ."

Her hand was on the side of his face. She was perhaps a hairsbreadth taller than him, maybe an inch, but her hand felt so small against his face that Tullius couldn't help but reach up and clasp it with his own for fear that it slip away.

"I thought you were eavesdropping." "Well, I wouldn't say that–" "And, therefore, would know why I turned Ulfric down."

Tullius tries to swallow, but his throat is tight. Leara's hand is cool against his skin, and he takes comfort in that.

"You love me." "Yes, I do."

Her smile is radiant.

Tullius's hand slips from Leara's, but then his arms are around her waist, pulling her into him. She is slim and cool and everything a flower in winter might be. He buries his nose in her neck, amidst the frost and flowers.

"I love you."

She doesn't reply. She only tightens her arms around his torso. They stand there in the quiet of the night, away from the celebrations but togehter under the stars.

Later, when Tullius returns to Solitude for the last time, he packs his things for the return to the Imperial City. He takes his bags to the docks.

And there Leara is waiting for him, Lydia her housecarl in tow. She smiles at him, full and vivid.

"You're late. My trunks are already on board. Right, Lydia?"

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"All eleven of them, my Thane."

Tullius chuckles, quiet.

Leara's hand finds his, and he helps her up the gangplank of the Imperial Naval ship. It would be a long voyage, but Leara had never sailed before, so that would be their mode of transportation back to the Imperial City.

"What will we do when we get there?"

Leara's question is teasing and free of the burden of being Dragonborn and peacemaker. There were still the Thalmor to worry about, but after the ruin of Northwatch and the signing of the armistice, Tullius hoped they'd think thrice before going after Leara again.

"I'll buy you expensive teas and you'll drain my accounts on tea and books."

Her giggle rang out amidst the sounds of the ship preparing to leave the harbor.

"Oh yes, that must be why I've gone and married you."

Tullius pulled his wife to his side and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Must be."

It couldn't possibly be that she was the most maddening thing in the world and she drove him mad by proximity.

Madly in love.

What nonsense.

fin

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taiyyna · 1 year

Text

I was rewatching Polygon's Unraveled series when I stumbled into the "grandfathered in" in the Skyrim book report:

I initially thought that BDG coined it and then BLeeM used or rediscovered it, but then I google searched and found out that it is an actual legal clause.0o US legal system continues to amuse me.

P.s. I don't think that this tidbit of info matters to anyone except me, but I always feel delighted when my two favorite dorks collaborate or happen to use the same odd expression, I guess.

#the ravening war #brennan lee mulligan #brian david gilbert #unraveled #polygon

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ironwoman359 · 11 months

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A Thief's Gamble - Ch.5

The Renegade from Cyrodiil

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights Fic Masterpost

Fic Summary: Brynjolf is certain that the only way the Thieves Guild will return to its glory days is by bringing in new, talented members. Unfortunately, Mercer doesn't agree, and it's not like Brynjolf's latest attempts at recruiting have gone well. But when he meets a stranger in the marketplace one morning, he's willing to take the risk and bring her on board....only time will tell if his gamble pays off.

Chapter Summary: Brynjolf learns that Ariene has been hiding who she really is, and he is forced to confront her before she endangers the Guild.

Content: Brynjolf POV, Thieves Guild quest spoilers, game typical violence.

Ships: Brynjolf x Dragonborn OC (slowburn)

Word Count: 3,857

Check the reblogs for a link to read on AO3!

--- --- ---

Sometimes, Brynjolf wondered what his Ma would think of him today.

She’d wanted him to join the merchant’s trade when he was a lad, but he’d refused, complaining that he didn’t want to spend his life stuck behind a desk filling out paperwork and speaking with boring noblemen. He wanted to do something exciting with his life.

He’d always been a schemer, inventing wild tales to scam the other kids out of pocket change and sweets, and as he grew, so did his ambition. His targets grew bigger and his plans became more elaborate, and soon he caught the attention of others who operated on the shadier side of the law. He made some new friends, acquired some new skills, and before he knew it he was being offered a position in the Thieves Guild.

Finally, he had the life he’d always wanted, far away from the daily drudgery of ledgers, bookkeeping, and his Ma’s boring expectations.

Thirty years later, as he sat at his desk keeping books, balancing ledgers, and reading correspondence from boring noblemen, he was certain that she was looking down from Sovngarde and shaking her head at him.

It turned out that running a Guild required just as much paperwork as being a merchant. And while not all of the contacts he kept were boring noblemen, sometimes he thought that actually made things harder.

Merchants didn’t have to encode half their messages to keep the guards from discovering their movements, and shopkeepers didn’t have to keep two sets of ledgers, one with real figures and one with numbers that were faked.

Sometimes, Brynjolf regretted being so eager to prove himself to Gallus and the other higher ups. While he did prove that he was an exceptional thief, he’d also proved that he had a good head for numbers, and more and more of the Guild’s administrative work was passed on to him, especially after Mercer took over the Guild. He still managed to keep his more interesting skills as sharp as his daggers, but there were definitely days when he felt more like a merchant than a thief after all.

Today was one of those days.

He’d been cooped up in the cistern for what felt like ages, reading over reports from his agents across Skyrim. It was important for the Guild to keep a finger on the pulse of what was happening in each hold, and while most of their clients had dried up, Brynjolf had managed to ensure that his contacts still sent him news about any notable changes in the country.

The most concerning news was the rumors of a dragon attack in Helgen. Brynjolf had received reports on what had happened near the southern border, but it had been right before the situation at Goldenglow had escalated, and he hadn’t paid much attention to the rumors. There were, after all, more pressing matters to deal with.

But now it seemed that Helgen really had been destroyed, and that not long after there’d been another attack in Whiterun. Only about a day later, by the accounts he was reading. He was only receiving the report now because his contact had feared traveling across the Rift with dragons on the loose.

Brynjolf wasn’t sure what to make of the idea of dragons. He had initially thought the reports about Helgen were written in some kind of code, but once he’d disproven that theory he’d simply written them off as mere rumors. This latest report from Whiterun implied otherwise though, and Brynjolf couldn't help but think back to the stories his Ma had told him as a boy, about dragons and fire and the end of times.

Still, despite the existential threat that the return of the dragons posed, he found something else in the report from Whiterun to be even more surprising.

He was sitting at his desk, staring down at the letter in disbelief when Delvin walked up to him.

“Brynjolf, you’re never gonna guess who I just got a message from.”

Brynjolf blinked, then shook his head.

“Sorry old man, what was that?”

“You got wax in your ears or somethin’?” Delvin asked. “I said I just got a message in from Whiterun, and you’re never gonna guess from who. Olfrid Battle-Born himself. Says he’s heard we were active in the city again, and that he’s got a job for us. We haven’t had a break like this in months.”

“We haven’t,” Brynjolf muttered, more to himself than to Delvin, and the old man snapped his fingers in front of Brynjolf’s face.

“You awake in there, Bryn? What’s got your head in the clouds?”

Brynjolf just passed the Whiterun report to him, and pointed at the last paragraph that he’d been reading and rereading for the past several minutes.

Delvin huffed, but took the paper and read aloud:

“A final note: word is that you’re making moves in Whiterun again. Be aware that the jarl has appointed a new Thane to his court, an imperial by the name of…Ariene Anneius? It is unknown at this time how amenable she is to persuasion, or whether or not she will seek to take Justice into her own hands. Proceed with caution.”

Delvin lowered the paper and stared at Brynjolf.

“I know,” Brynjolf said, his mouth a grim line as he took the page back.

“Why on earth would a Thane join up with the Guild?” Delvin wondered aloud. “Could she be tryin’ to take us down? Gather evidence against us?”

“I wondered the same thing, but if that were her goal then she’s seen more than enough to incriminate the lot of us. Instead, she just…keeps doing jobs,” Brynjolf said.

“Besides, if a Thane were to try and take us down, why would it be one from Whiterun?” Delvin added. “We haven’t had a strong foothold there in years, and it’s only because of her that our reputation is gettin’ stronger in the first place. Maybe she wants somethin’ from us? A cut of the action in exchange for her silence?”

“Maybe…” Brynjolf trailed off, something Delvin said sticking out in his mind. “Except…wait a moment.”

He pushed a stack of papers aside, digging through the older pile of reports until he found what he was looking for.

“Except she’s not from Whiterun. I knew I’d heard that last name somewhere before. Look,” he said, passing over a crumpled note bearing the Imperial seal.

Delvin took it and read aloud again.

“Wanted: Renegade Imperial Soldier Ariene Anneius. It is believed she is headed for the northern border with Skyrim. Likely armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone. If spotted or captured, inform the nearest Imperial outpost.”

He let out a low whistle and passed the note back to Brynjolf.

“This came in around three weeks ago, but I didn’t give it much attention.” Brynjolf said. “By the time I saw Ariene in the market and offered her a job, I’d already forgotten about it.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“No wonder she was so nervous about Maven knowing her name. Maven’s ties with the Imperials are well known, if Ariene is on the run from the law in Cyrodiil…” he trailed off as another thought came across his mind. “Hang on. If she’s a wanted renegade, then-”

“How on earth did she end up gettin’ named Thane of Whiterun?” Delvin said, completing Brynjolf’s thought. “Jarl Balgruuf is a man of honor, so much so that it makes things difficult for us on occasion. He wouldn’t just award a wanted criminal the highest position in his court without a damn good reason.”

“Whatever the reason, I don’t think we should send anyone out there to meet Olfrid Battle-Born just yet,” Brynjolf said. “Not until we get some answers.”

Delvin nodded in agreement.

“And how do you intend to get those answers?” he asked and Brynjolf grimaced.

“The only way I can. I’ll have to ask the lass myself.”

— — —

Brynjolf found Ariene in the training room. He stood in the entryway, hovering just out of sight and watching her with renewed curiosity.

She stood in the center of the room, her bow drawn and an arrow knocked at the string. She took a deep breath, then in one smooth motion she lifted the bow up, pulled back the string and fired, not even waiting to see where the arrow landed before reaching back and drawing another. Over and over, she let the arrows fly through the air, her movements quick and fluid and her face a mask of cool concentration.

Brynjolf edged closer, tearing his eyes away from her to look at the targets, each with a mass of arrows clustered around the bullseye. Not a single shot had flown astray, and his mind drifted back to her wanted notice.

Possibly armed and dangerous, DO NOT ENGAGE alone.

“How long are you planning on skulking there in the shadows?”

Brynjolf tensed, but Ariene’s tone was light and playful, and as he turned his attention back to her, he saw her bow was lowered, the quiver empty at her back. She was smiling an easy smile, and Brynjolf took a deep breath.

“How long did you know I was there?” he asked, stepping into the room, and Ariene smirked.

“The whole time. You’re not as stealthy as you think you are, Brynjolf,” she said, and Brynjolf raised an eyebrow.

“Or maybe you’re just more observant than the average mark,” he countered.

Ariene laughed, and Brynjolf found a part of himself wishing that he could just ignore the mysteries of her past and enjoy her company for the sake of it.

But he knew that if he did that, he’d never quite trust the lass again, and that would be far worse in the long run than whatever fallout would come out of this confrontation. Better to face the issue head on while he still had a chance to.

“Got a problem, lass,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even. “Was hoping you could give me a hand.”

“Sure,” Ariene said, stowing her bow over her shoulder and looking at Brynjolf expectantly.

Silently, he pulled the folded wanted slip out of his pocket. He passed the paper over to her, and carefully watched her reaction as she unfolded it. Her shoulders tensed and her eyes darted around the room, lingering for a moment on the daggers on Brynjolf’s belt before settling back on his face.

“The criminal organization have a problem with criminal pasts now?” she asked, a challenge in her tone.

Brynjolf couldn’t help the half smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth at that, and he shook his head.

“No, lass. And I’d be a damn hypocrite if I said otherwise. Your past is your own business, so long as it doesn’t affect the rest of the Guild.”

“So what’s the problem? Have you decided the price on my head is greater than the amount of gold I can make you?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Brynjolf said. “You’re not the only member with a bounty, and the Guild never would betray one of our own for coin. The problem is this.”

Brynjolf pulled out the Whiterun report, and Ariene narrowed her eyes. She grabbed the paper and scanned it quickly, and when she looked up, her expression had gone stone cold.

“I still don’t see the issue,” she said evenly, and Brynjolf scoffed.

“Then you’re not as good a thief as I thought you were. We’re all entitled to our fair share of anonymity, but this? This is something I needed to know about, especially before I let you take a job in Whiterun.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation-” Ariene began, but Brynjolf cut her off.

“You don’t owe me an explanation for how or why you’re wanted by the Imperial government. That’s not my business. But secretly being a member of a Jarl’s court? Even if it’s in another hold, that could affect the Guild in any number of ways. And that means that it is my business.”

“You make it sound like it’s some crazy conspiracy,” Ariene growled. “Maybe I just like my privacy.”

“A normal thing for a thief to say; a very odd thing for a Thane to say,” Brynjolf countered.

Ariene glared at him and he tensed, fighting the instinct to reach for his daggers. Her quiver was empty; as deadly as she could apparently be with a bow, the weapon was useless to her now. He glanced quickly at her belt, where her own dagger sat in its sheath. He’d never seen her use the weapon before, and had no idea whether her skill with it matched his own. Even if he couldn’t stop her alone she’d likely be bottlenecked in the cistern, but he’d still prefer to keep his blood inside his body, thank you very much.

Still, Ariene made no move to attack him, or to try and escape. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and kept her glare trained on him.

“Who says I even wanted to be a Thane?” she demanded. “Why would I come to Riften in the first place, break the law multiple times and crawl through a sewer to join a failing Guild if I was set for life in another hold?”

At that, Brynjolf forgot his apprehension and glared right back at her.

“That,” he said, his voice low. “Is exactly what I’d like to know.”

Ariene sighed and turned away, walking over to the archery targets. She began pulling the arrows free and Brynjolf tensed, but she still made no hostile movements. She stowed the arrows back in her quiver and glanced back at Brynjolf, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re not going to be satisfied until you get an answer, are you?” she asked.

Brynjolf folded his arms.

“I’ve had questions about you since the first day you showed up here,” he admitted. “But there’s a difference between personal curiosity and business. This isn’t about me, lass. It’s about the Guild.”

Ariene leaned up against a bale of hay that one of the targets was standing on and gave him a long look. Silence hung heavy in the air between them, the tension in the room a nearly physical thing before she let out a breath and looked down at her boots.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you here?” Brynjolf said immediately.

“Here in Riften, or here in Skyrim?” she asked, then she shook her head. “No, I suppose that doesn’t matter. The answer is the same either way. I’m running.”

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow at that.

“Running?” he repeated, and Ariene rolled her eyes.

“Well, trying to, anyway. It seems no matter where I run to, I find something else to add to the long list of things I’m running from.”

She looked distant for a moment, and Brynjolf waited for her to continue. After a spell, she shook herself, and held up her wanted page.

“I’ve been on the run from the Imperial Legion for nearly two months. I tried to cross the border into Skyrim a few weeks ago, but I got tangled up in an ambush that the forces here had set for the Stormcloaks. I was captured, and very nearly executed.”

Her expression was casual, but there was a detectable tightness to her voice, and despite everything, Brynjolf couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for her.

“They execute folks for deserting now?” he asked, and Ariene huffed.

“For deserting, for illegally crossing the border, for what I did before I deserted, maybe for all of it wrapped into one, who knows. It doesn’t matter anyway. I escaped Helgen and-”

“Wait,” Brynjolf interrupted suddenly. “You were at Helgen? When?”

Ariene grimaced.

“If you’re asking that, then you already know the answer.”

“So you saw a-”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Believe it or not, I’d be dead now if it weren’t for that dragon. I was able to slip away during all the confusion, with the help of one of the other prisoners. We laid low with some relatives of his for a day or so, but the price for their hospitality was a message to Jarl Balgruuf about the dragon attack. I took the message to him and was going to just move on, but he offered me a contract to retrieve an item from an old barrow in the mountains. And as much as I didn’t want to waste my time dancing on a jarl’s strings…well, the Imperials took my money, and all my gear. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“You don’t expect me to believe he named you Thane because you ran one job for him,” Brynjolf said, and Ariene rubbed her eyes.

“No. No, he named me Thane because right after I returned from fetching the artifact for his wizard, there was another dragon attack.”

Brynjolf’s eyes widened at the implication.

“Are you saying that…you killed the beast?” he asked in disbelief.

Ariene gave a wry smile.

“Not alone, no. But my contributions to the fight weren’t insignificant. I’m sure you noticed, but I’m a hell of a shot.”

Brynjolf nodded, a smile of his own tugging at the edge of his lips despite himself.

“When the battle was over, my, ah, prowess was noted by the other guards, and that is when Balgruuf named me his Thane. I left the city not long after.”

Brynjolf stared at her, trying to wrap his head around the revelation. He’d assumed the lass was capable in combat– she’d made it out of Goldenglow, after all– but taking down a dragon…that was something else. No wonder the jarl had ignored her criminal past and given her a title. A thought occurred to him then, and his brow furrowed.

“There’s something I still don’t quite understand, lass,” he said. “After all of that, why leave Whiterun at all? Why come here?”

The smile slid from Ariene’s face, and she fiddled with the hilt of the dagger at her hip.

“Whiterun was never my planned destination. And Balgruuf…” she sighed, and a look somewhere between a smile and a grimace crossed her face. “He’s an honorable man, for better or for worse. If an imperial officer tried to capture me there?” she shook her head. “I can’t be certain he’d refuse them.”

“So he doesn’t know about your criminal history?” Brynjolf asked, and Ariene shrugged.

“I’m not sure what exactly he knows, but to be honest, it doesn’t matter. Regardless of whether I’d be safe from arrest there, I’m not too keen on spending the rest of my life carrying out the orders of yet another man who thinks he can use me for his own gain.”

She tilted her chin up and looked straight at Brynjolf.

“Like I said,” she said evenly. “One more thing to run from.”

Brynjolf read the challenge in her eyes, but he held her gaze.

“And that running took you here, of all places,” he said. “Why?”

Ariene raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not as though I planned it. I ended up in Ivarstead, and had no desire to go back around the mountains, so I headed east instead. I’d planned on spending a day or two in town here to scrape up enough money to hire a carriage north, but then–”

“Then I offered you a job,” Brynjolf finished. “At this point I’m surprised you said yes. It sounds like following orders isn’t high on your list of favorite activities.”

“Maybe not,” Ariene admitted. “But you didn’t give me an order, you gave me an offer. One that was my choice to accept. Besides,” she added with a half-smile. “You were right. My pockets were pretty light on coin. And in my experience, larceny is the quickest cure for that particular ailment.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “You’re not wrong there, lass.”

There was a beat of silence, and Ariene shifted her weight so that she was no longer leaning against the hay bale.

“So…” she said carefully. “What happens now?”

“Now?” he repeated, and she nodded.

“That’s it. You gonna run me out of the Guild or hand me over to the Imperials now?”

Her voice was light, but she carried a tension in her body like a coiled spring, still ready to run or fight at a moment’s notice. Brynjolf watched her for a long moment, then he shook his head no, and she blinked in surprise.

“I said it before, lass. We don’t turn in our own for gold.”

“But if I lied about my background–”

“Look. The only thing that worried me was the question of your allegiances,” Brynjolf explained. “If what you’ve told me is true, and you joined the Guild because you honestly wanted to, no ulterior motives besides getting rich? Then that’s no longer a concern of mine.”

Ariene nodded slowly.

“My allegiance has always been to myself, first and foremost,” she said. “Never to the law, either in Cyrodiil or Skyrim. But the Guild’s done right by me, which is more than I can say about the Legion, or…anyone else, really. So I intend to keep doing right by the Guild, as long as it’ll still have me.”

Brynjolf inclined his head to her, letting an easy smile slide onto his face.

“And we’ll keep doing right by you, as long as you do the same for us,” he said.

Ariene nodded, then looked at him for a moment, her expression thoughtful.

“There’s more you want to know, isn’t there.”

It was not a question, but a statement; one they both knew was true. Brynjolf’s mind was turning over all the information she’d given him, throwing up dozens of questions in response.

Why had Ariene fled to Skyrim after deserting? What had she done that made the Imperials so determined to hunt her down? Hell, why had she, who bristled at authority and walked her own path wherever she went, joined the Legion in the first place? What was she– someone who could hold her own in a fight against two dozen men and take down a dragon– really running from?

Each question fought to jump forward to the tip of his tongue, but Brynjolf pushed them all down with another smile.

“Like I said, lass. This isn't about me. Unless there’s something else that would affect the Guild, there’s nothing more you need to tell me.”

“That,” said Ariene, giving him a pointed look, “was not a no.”

“Aye, it wasn’t,” Brynjolf agreed with a chuckle. “Sharp as ever, aren’t you lass? But I meant it. Your business is your own, and my curiosity is mine. You’re under no obligation to satisfy it.”

Ariene regarded him for a moment, then a smile– small and more than a little cautious but there nonetheless– spread across her face and the tension finally bled out of her posture.

“Well,” she said. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll tell you the rest of the story…if you don’t mind telling me a story or two about yourself in return?”

Brynjolf grinned.

“You know lass? I don’t think I’d mind that at all.”

--- --- ---

Previous: Ch.4 - Bedlam and Burglary || Next: Ch.6 - Unhindered Insights

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took awhile! Things have been busy at work and I haven't had a lot of energy lately, BUT I'm back at it and more excited than ever about where this story is going! Hope you enjoyed a peek at our Dragonborn's backstory! Please reblog if you liked it, it'd mean a lot to me! <3

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skyrim-forever · 16 days

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Chapter 2 is here! MDNI as this has smut. Snippet under cut.

“I’m afraid I have to get up. I failed to finish my reports yesterday.” Theodora moved closer to him, bodies pressing against each other.

“Must you?”

“I must.” He placed a few kisses behind her ear, the part of her neck that always drove her wild. He’s cruel she thought. The word still rang in her ears from the night prior love . He had never called her that before, nobody had called her that. Men had called her many things, beautiful, wretched, divine, disgraceful. But he had called her love. Is that what it was? Was that even an option for her anymore? An option with him, out of everyone in Tamriel? All the men she had known and it was him who would say that to her.

He gets up and she feels the weight shift in the bed. “You’re welcome to stay, however. My guards are away on an investigation. They won’t be back for a few more days.” She had begun staying the nights but would often dip out in the morning, waking him to stay goodbye before running away like a thief in the night. She supposed it had been so long since she was with the Guild she could hardly be called a thief anymore.

“I’d like that.” He smiles at her, in the process of putting his trousers on. He donned his robe, but wasn’t in full uniform when he sat at his desk, chest exposed and Theodora found her thoughts of turning back to lust as she watched him.

#tesblr #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim fanfic #oc: theodora #ondolemar #ao3 link

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theropoda · 9 months

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did not know there was a book in skyrim abt witness accounts of red year and i feel almost disappointed because we live in a world where we have a real life example to draw from on what a meteor crash of that scale would be like in the eyes of a human (tunguska event) but it doesn't mirror that at all. obviously not the writers fault cause how tf is some video game writer on a deadline supposed to know about an obscure event like that? but also. Missed Opportunity.

one particular detail of an eyewitness statement that sticks with me a lot, is of a farmer who was sitting outside 40 miles south of the impact and saidthat after he saw the sky be "ripped in two" he felt an incredible burning heat and felt like ripping off his clothes, as if they were on fire.... and that's from 40 miles away. god. that and the unimaginable sound that several testimonies reported, like thunder or cannons firing..

#t #tes #fact continues to be stranger than fiction. or more interesting to me in this case

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da3drat · 14 days

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skyrim book report was so funny haha in 2019 and now I have opinions about the real barenziah

#me in 2019: why would anyone read all the books in skyrim lol #honey uve got a big storm coming.#i want to make brian read the 36 lessons

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caelichythcat · 8 days

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thumbs up for serious

#bdg #brian david gilbert #polygon #unraveled #I read all 337 books in Skyrim so you don't have to #skyrim book report #2018

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skyrim-said-that · 1 year

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also while we're all here, im doing skyrim book report and i need ideas for the covers. i just finished the reports for 2920 volumes 1-3, so if anyone has any idea what a good idea for the covers might be that would be very helpful

#angies asks #skyrim book report #ill reblog the old one to jog everyones memories

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wellthebardsdead · 11 months

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Clockwork Heart pt33

Part 32 here

———

Nerevar: You told them your name?!

Wyrm: *hiccups softly as he cries into taliesins robe, the group now safely back together at the winking skeever*

Taliesin: *gently holding his partner safe in his arms* He was cornered! by Rulindil of all people! What did you want him to do? Incriminate himself by being caught turning invisible? Believe me he wouldn’t be the first person tied to the rack for doing so.

Voryn: *offering Wyrm a cup of tea to try and soothe him* Neht, be gentle with him, he’s lucky to have made it out alive.

Nerevar: *sighs and sits down* you’re right… it could have gone a lot worse.

Caryalind: No blood, no other witnesses apart from Rulindil too. Elenwen will have a hard time pinning anything on you friend… if she’s even alive after how much wine I watched her consume… oh gods maybe she was dead?

Nerevar: she certainly looked it as Ondolemar carried her away… Did you hear her call him ulfric as well or was I just hearing things?

Caryalind: Oh no I heard that too~ I think if any threats come our way I’ll just say I’m conducting an investigation on reports of a star crossed love affair between her and the leader of the rebellion~ I imagine she’ll jump out of her robes trying to backflip out of that situation… *shudders* ugh, there’s an image.

Taliesin: Elenwen and ulfric- oh gods that’s though to make me taste bile in the back of my throa- Wyrm?

Wyrm: *shifts in his lap taking the tea cup with a trembling hand and having a sip* d-did I get enough information?…

Taliesin: *gently holds the cup with him, voryns hand lingering under it too* shhh steady darling.

Nerevar: *glances at Wyrms bag before pulling out the dossiers and looking through them* one on Esbern… One on Delphine, one on ulfric, and one on- the Akaviri?

Kaidan: The Akaviri?…

Nerevar: *opens it up and reads through it quietly his face growing more and more stern with each sentence* … *looks up at Kaidan and holds it out to him* you need to read this…

Kaidan: *stares at him and the book nervously before taking it* I’ll. Um… I’ll be in my room. *nods to the group and walks out quietly, closing the door as he leaves*

Caryalind: what was in the book?…

Nerevar: *sighs* a report. On the genocide of the Akaviri settlements in skyrim…

Everyone: *silence*

Nerevar: *picks up Esberns dossier* but, apart from that, nothing on the dragons as expected. Esbern however, is in riftens ratway. Just like we’d suspected… *looks at Wyrm as he sets the book down and picks up his ale* …You did great Hla Aka…

Wyrm: *smiles a little through his tears at the praise before looking up at taliesin* …Can you tell me about your nickname now? Piper?

Taliesin: *nearly drops the tea in shock and coughs* wh-when were alone maybe.

*a few hours later*

Caryalind: *unable to sleep listening to soft cries and voices from the room next to his. Kaidan weeping mournfully that he could be the last Akaviri in skyrim, that he may never find what happened to his mother. And nerevar and inigo comforting him through his pain… pain caused by his father, his family, and the senseless violence and cruelty they’d spread across nirn* … *sighs and gets up to see if the bar is open, hoping another glass of wine will knock him senseless enough to fall asleep numb* gods Caryalind, what have you gotten yourself in- *stands there in silence spotting a trail of silver hair sliding down the stairs* …to. Wyrm?! *hurries down after him, pausing only for a moment contemplating running to get help or running after him, deciding the latter as the best option* Wyrm where are you going?! *runs from the stairs into the tavern to see the small dunmer already heading out the door, completely barefoot and only in his long night shirt, and very much, still asleep* WYRM!!?!!? *books it after him, sliding over a table and staggering out the door trying to figure out how he can move so quickly despite his height. Only to nearly scream in an almost falsetto as he spots the dunmer lifting a manhole cover in the middle of the street* WYRM WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! *falters for a moment debating to go get help, only to nearly faint watching the dunmer simply drop into the sewer* WYRM!!!! *hurries over wondering why now of all times there’s nobody around to help except him* oh gods oh gods Wyrm don’t move I’m coming do- *blinks watching as a green butterfly suddenly flits right by his face, landing on his shoulder before fluttering off as a purple butterfly flies up and lands on his nose before flitting away as well* what in oblivion?… *looks down in the sewer again* …what was in that wine?!

*a few hours later*

Taliesin: *running out of the inn* He can’t have gone far!!

Nerevar: He was laying right beside you how did you not notice him moving?!

Taliesin: Oh I don’t know it might have something to do with the severe sleep deprivation you put us through this past month getting us here!!! Maybe ask your husband why he didn’t wake up to Wyrms sleep walking like he normally does instead of yelling at me!

Nerevar: Don’t you dare blame voryn for this!

Kaidan: Have none of you focking noticed that thalmor prick is missing too?! He’s obviously run off with him!

Inigo: but his bag is still here and-

Voryn: *trying to find any connection to Wyrm through the heart, the mountain, the dream sleeve, anything* WILL YOU ALL SHUT UP!!

*silence*

Voryn: thank y-

*scraping of metal on stone and the exhausted gasping of a very, very worn out high elf*

Caryalind: *pushes the manhole cover away and pulls himself and a still fast asleep Wyrm out of the sewers, along with a strange chunk of amber and a rather ordinary but very big sword in hand* A-a little help? Please?

Taliesin: Wyrm! *pushes past everyone running to the pair, immediately taking Wyrm from the prince and holding him tight in his arms* love?

Wyrm: *only gives a soft hum in response, hugging the odd sword and it’s scabbard close as he sleeps soundly, the blade nearly twice the length of his body* hmnn…

Voryn: *helps Caryalind out of of the sewer along with nerevar and inigo* by the gods what happened? You look like you’ve been through oblivion and back?

Caryalind: *covered in venom, the pigment of a rainbow of butterflies, and sporting a number of cuts and bruises* I think I- I think I literally did. You can go down and see for yourself I- I need to sit down. *falls back passing out into inigo’s arms from both blood loss and exhaustion*

Inigo: My friend?!

Nerevar: *grunts lifting the taller elf up* Let’s get them inside an- *stands there bewildered as Kaidan suddenly takes the prince from his arms, holding him so carefully and gently* Kaidan?

Kaidan: I’ve got him… you focus on Wyrm… *turns and walks off into the inn*

Everyone: *looks at each other perplexed before looking at Taliesin then at Wyrm as a humble monarch butterfly flits down and lands on his head*

Wyrm: *sneezes and jolts awake* W-wah?! Huh?!

*a few days later*

Wyrm: *well rested and twirling about in the new mage robes he’d purchased as the group heads down to the solitude stables, the fabric cleverly hiding not only the leather armour fitted beneath it, but allowing him access to easily remove and move his prosthetic arm* are we headed to riften first then? Or riverwoo-oh! *jumps a little as he bumps into nerevar and gets trapped in a hug*

Nerevar: *equally well rested and in a much better mood along with the rest of the group* Riften. I want to get there before the thalmor do and the less we have to interact with Delphine the better. My heads only just stopped hurting.

Voryn: mine as well. *leans over giving him a soft kiss before giving Wyrm a hug too* and the longer we can stay out of trouble the better.

Inigo: yes but things are always interesting when we get into trouble~

Caryalind: *healed up but still a bit sore, still trying to comprehend the sheer insanity he’s witnessed after his first day with the group* I’ll say.

Taliesin: *chuckles and clears his throat* you get used to it after a while your highness. How are you holding up?

Caryalind: Mentally? Physically? Emotionally? Because I feel close to falling apart with two of them. Other than that, brilliant.

Wyrm: *looks back at him as neht and voryn usher him along* Im sorry about the other night, throwing you into the deep end and all…

Caryalind: *smiles* don’t apologise my friend. I ran away from home to help in any way I can, I knew it wouldn’t be easy or predictable, but it’s still a lot to take in. It’s the most excitement I’ve had in well, my whole life! Besides, it was very entertaining making Elenwen fall apart~

Wyrm: I- o-oh yes that too but, I meant… the sleep walking…

Caryalind: Ah, that, yes. That was something truely unexpected. From what Voryn and Nerevar told me I take it it happens often? *pauses watching inigo pull a large white stone out of his bag before running up a hill towards a shrine of Meridia*

Wyrm: *nods* y-yeah, it happens a lot. After I absorbed the soul of lorkhan I blacked out and walked all the way to Helgen from saarthal in my sleep, in my dream I saw the birth of creation and the council where lorkhans heart was sundered from his body and shot into the sea where it became red mountain. Then after that, almost every time I dream I start walking into trouble… that night though, I was… following sheogorath I think? He wanted to play more games with me and when I finally reached him he turned into another prince? He was big and looked like he was made out of glass. He was very nice and gave me that sword. *points to the blade on Caryalinds back*

Caryalind: *recalling nearly getting killed by gigantic bugs, spriggans, saints and seducers and a lunatic only in a helmet and his underpants as Wyrm pulled the sword from one of the strange roots whilst completely unharmed and fast asleep* …Well I’m glad one of us had a pleasant time at least. *blinks watching inigo return holding a glowing sword like nothings amiss, nobody even noticing he’d run off*

Taliesin: Speaking of that giant sword, are you considering training with it your highness? And abandoning your promise to train your dagger skills with me? I’m hurt~

Caryalind: What? Me? Ha! Gods no can you imagine me trying to swing this around? Besides who would be willing to train me when I’m barely proficient with a dagger?

Kaidan: *coughs suddenly piping up a little from the back of the group* uh, I could teach you a few things… as a thanks for saving our Wyrm and all, yeah…

Inigo: Awww! Kaidan has a crush on youuuuu~

Kaidan: IM GOING TO WAX THE FUR OFF YOUR TAIL! COME HERE DAMN YOU!

Inigo: *takes off ahead of the group* hehehehehehe~

Wyrm: *smiles watching them go* im glad, everyone’s in a good mood again.

Voryn: *smiles down at him then at nerevar lovingly* me too dear. Let’s… take our time getting to riften… I’m sure Esbern will be fine.

Nerevar: *nods smiling back at him, completely masking the overwhelming dread in his stomach as he spots the strange masked figures lurking beyond the tree line in the distance* Yeah, for now, let’s just worry about us.

#Wyrm dragonborn #Caryalind skyrim #inigo skyrim #Kaidan skyrim #skyrim taliesin #nerevar #voryn dagoth

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