#storn crag-strider

[auto-manic]

sorry Frea

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part One

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, brief blood, horror elements, tentacles

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part One of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Part Two

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

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.

The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”

Part Two

taglist:

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

[foxyanon]

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

[sylvienerevarine]

If "Land of Ash and Heart" was a film

I was tagged in this sort of meme for A Respectable Lady's Guide to Skyrim a long time ago, and because there is something deeply wrong with me, I wanted to do it for the Solstheim sequel as well.

The Present (4.E 203)

(From center, going up and clockwise)

Jessica Brown Findlay as Sophrine Aulette, Dragonborn and chef

Milla Jovovich as Mjoll the Lioness, exasperated lesbian

Jennifer Connelly as Lydia, brain cell guardian

Mads Mikkelsen as Miraak, power-hungry despot and mask enthusiast

Colm Feore as Neloth, elderly coot

Emma D'Arcy as Frea, absolute sweetheart

Stellan Skarsgard as Storn Crag-Strider, old hippie

Elodie Yung as Serana, out-of-touch vampire

Keanu Reeves as Teldryn Sero, sexyman

The Past (3.E 428)

Haley Bennett as Sylvie, saint and menace to society

Ralph Fiennes as Carnius Magius, East Empire Company exec

Travis Fimmel as Skjoldr Wolf-Runner, Thirsk chieftain and bro

Michaela Coel as Mirisa, missionary and mead disliker

Jason Momoa as Hircine, sexiest male-presenting Daedra

David Castañeda as Captain Falx Carius, future zombie

Viggo Mortensen as Tharsten Heart-Fang, Skaal chieftain

Jake Gyllenhaal as Bathmar Bold-Lute, love interest

Maria Bonnevie as Svenja Snow-Song, extremely competent

[zuutiomi]

For the Dragonborn Ask Meme: 3, 9, 17, 24, 29!

3. How do they feel about being Dragonborn- does they identity feel right for them and did they embrace it immediately? Do they consider themselves a true dragon?

for Mikayla it was rather supprise that she was chosen to be dragonborn. However she doesn't feel right to be one,I mean power and dragon language is cool but also it bring responsiblity. She want to protect people and seeing someone dies after dragons attack ,makes her like she didn't have done enough to save anyone. But she sometimes like to chat with dragons friends (especially she loves to talk with Paarthurnax) too ,it's also some way of relief tho from main stuff.

9. Whether they are magical or not- if they were to invent a spell for their own uses, that does not already exist in Skyrim, what kind of spell would they come up with?

hmm...It's hard to tell ,she would rather modify all spells a little but the spells that she would want to invent would be some new to prank Ancano

17. What’s their style- do they tend to wear armour and if so, what sort? Otherwise what’s their average day-to-day clothing?

Mikayla doesn't really like to wear any armour ,it's too heavy even if she wear light armor. She prefer robes they are very comfortable for her,here is her average day to day clothing.

24. How did they respond to Miraak and what do they feel about him? Do they regret killing him? Did they spare him?

Ohhh this one ,when Mikayla first time arrive on Solstheim and learn more about what Miraak has done to people ,she was upset of it. However the things got worse when the Storn Crag-Strider got killed by Hermaeus Mora. If only Miraak show some repentance she would give him second chance. Also when she first time met Miraak she said to him this "There's no way you're sane, are you right in the head? you're actually make me vomit here." (inspirated by shinobu kocho's words to douma heheh)

29. What do they do post-Skyrim, once all the main quests are finished? What happens to them in the aftermath?

Oh yea after all this stuff ,she would probably stayed in apocrypha since she replace Miraak and become new Hermaeus Mora's champion.

[illumiera]

Hello, I'm barging into your inbox to give you a big ⭐ and a chance to ramble about that part of your fic you want the most! 💕 And I ask your director's commentary about a scene of IFNF (chapter 4, where something bad happens before it gets better), I'm sure it made you cry just as it made your readers, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

from the fanfic writer director's cut asks—feel free to send one in or reblog so I can ask you!

thank you so much, Gigi!! 💖

⭐: One of my favourite things to do in i fear no fate is to sprinkle in little echoes and callbacks between Miraak and Elentari—to have one of them say something, then the other say it later (or earlier, depending on how timey-wimey we get) in a totally different context with a new meaning, like this exchange in chapter one:

“I have spent thousands of years in Apocrypha,” Miraak bites back, “and I have exhausted everything—everything but you.” He lowers his voice. “Dii rinisil,” he says, almost reverently. “The equal to my soul.” It's instinctive, the way she tries to claw back the ground she's losing to the dragon inside her. "Our souls may be equal in form, but I would never do with mine what you've done with yours!"

compared to this in chapter three, about three months later and four thousand years earlier, since this is Ellie meeting a Miraak who's just learned what he is:

“You’re… like me,” he manages once he’s drunk his fill. “Blood of the dragon.” It's... disorienting, to say the least, to hear words she does not understand and yet comprehend them anyway. But he is speaking to her as he has always spoken to her, in the language of her soul; it's just that now, she can answer him. "Yes," she says with a little smile, "I'm just like you."

the Elentari we meet in the first chapter is... not impressed with Miraak and his nonsense. she feels a strange pull to her fellow dragon-soul, and she really, really doesn't want to have to kill him, but she will if she has to (i.e., if he doesn't shape up) since it's what destiny demands of her.

but by the third chapter, she's seen more of him, she's realised he's most likely the person she's been dreaming of for at least two years, and above all, she knows that he's capable of good—after all, he gave her the third word of Bend Will so that Storn Crag-Strider wouldn't have to die, and then he straight up told her to stay away from Apocrypha so she'd get to live, even if it directly led to more of Apocrypha's corruption claiming him.

he's her same-soul, and now, she's prepared to admit it, to own it.

okay! now for my director's commentary on The Scene That May or May Not Have Made the Author Cry in the fourth chapter, if I haven't already rambled enough! (I've stuck it below a cut, just in case anyone isn't a relentless spoiler-seeker like me...)

so, one of my headcanons for Atmora is that most major events (betrothals, marriages, deaths, etc) in a person's life took place outside, beneath the eyes of the gods—especially deaths, which would be under the open sky so that Kyne, the Kiss at the End, could lead the souls of the departed to Sovngarde or the Forest of Dreams. back then, a dying Atmoran would be wrapped in their best furs and carried out onto the snow, where their fellow villagers (or warriors, if in the aftermath of a battle) would tell them stories of Sovngarde to comfort them until they passed on.

so, when Miraak says this as he lies dying:

“’Sili. Tell me,” he interrupts her in a thready half-whisper. “Sov… Sovngarde.”

—he's asking for a version of this last rite, one he might well have seen conducted during his childhood in Atmora and Bromjunaar. in this moment, he knows that he's about to die, and he wants to do so as a man, an Atmoran man, not as a dragon.

he doubts he'll get the chance to go to Sovngarde or the Forest of Dreams; instead, he intends to make good on his promise to Ellie to "haunt [her] as she would have haunted [him]"—to be with her in her dreams if not in the waking world, since his soul and everything that makes him him will go to her.

thankfully, though, Ellie being the stubborn little creature she is has very different plans, even if it means dragging his spirit back to Nirn herself. 😤💖

[mazurga]

Storn Crag-Strider's fate

[inksplit]

[nostalgic-breton-girl]

There is no end, there is no beginning, there is only the river.

Just as the Harstrad tumbles from the mountains, and the Iggnir – in times long past – from shore to distant shore, so our river finds boldly its course; so their waters are ever replaced, and ever fall as snow upon the source, so our river repeats, and is undying. That is life, and death, in one: there is no end, there is no beginning. And so all is one, and we must know that we are with the land and all which is a part. To dust you shall return, say the newcomers. As life you shall remain, say we, more hopeful.

And that proliferation of life is all about us, returning, renewing, reminding.

I shall not forget when darkness fell; when Herma-Mora – whose power is in words! – brought silence, when I thought all was lost, gone, that we and the All-Maker had at last failed; that this terror had taken from us what we valued, what was our centre and our everything. And had taken from me what I loved the most dearly in the world...

No: to doubt would be to falter and fall. Now I do not doubt; and it is difficult to remember what were my thoughts, directly afterwards. Difficult: for precision, for sense is lost in a mire darker than Apocrypha itself, for when silence fell it was as if the world had fallen, for in my heart there was no love of our Maker, no hope for His return, only hatred, bitter hatred, loss unfathomable. And I should have known that there was no end, no failing, no death: but something was gone, but I yet felt the many repulsive eyes of Herma-Mora upon us, upon him; the constant, paranoid glare of an incoming tyrant.

Tyranny, then: tyranny, and suspension.

Even the Iggnir failed, in times long past. It was the great eruption in the southern lands which dammed its course, even from so far away; the old tales sing of it, wide waters from shore to distant shore, uncut, indomitable; the old tales sing of it, and our ancestors’ crossings, whether by ice, or wading through cold currents; those who went south, saw it pour into the bay, to the sea, where it would continue its unfailing journey. And then came the mountain and the ash, and nothing remains save a trickle, desperate, dusty, sputtering.

My river, my dear beloved All-Maker, had failed as the Iggnir, failed to the most monstrous creature, and I was lost.

And in those days, when I wondered what might be made of this world which remained – which did not flow, which did not renew and return – I walked southwards, sometimes, and saw this last despairing remnant of the Iggnir. One might cross it in a jump; this river was not worthy of the songs of old, just as this world had failed our most fervent prayers.

How long I spent beside the river, I do not know: but when I at last returned from thoughts darker than Herma-Mora’s cloak, I saw, come to drink from the stream, a snow-goose. So startled was I by living creation, that I did not move; watched it, desperately; saw it bend its neck to drink, delight in the cool water upon its beak, perceive me in the dust.

I had never seen a more compassionate expression, nor a gentler, nor a more understanding – not upon a bird or an animal, not even upon a person. Not upon a person: save for one. And this comprehending goose leant me his smile, and his calmness, and his deep abiding love; and when I was drunk on this kindness, on this memory, he looked once more at the Iggnir, and upon me, and flew away, quite untethered. And I was bathed in warmth, a warmth I had not believed should ever return; which I had thought was lost; which had been taken by Herma-Mora, more wicked than the howling storm-winds – storm-winds, which had dropped, and gone into nothing, and now I saw that, and now I saw him.

And as life you shall remain, say I: more hopeful.

[not-your-lifeline]

realization

[babyblueetbaemonster]

I finally decided to do the Dragonborn DLC main quests

The Temple of Miraak & Waking Dreams --- Dragonborn DLC

"You have no idea of the random power a wandering Dragonborn can get!"

The Fate of the Skaal --- Dragonborn DLC

Should I explore Solstheim after the quest told me to? Maybe? But I'm a adventurer exited to see the new world, you can't stop me!

At the Summit of Apocrypha --- Dragonborn DLC

Miraak is like "Full power! Our battle will be legendary!" and I was like "I forgot to leave my things at home! I'm carrying too much to be able to run again!"

For some unknown reason after I yelled at stones, everything became dark and darker everyday. At first I thought my game broke, but when I go back to other save everything is bright again. After I finished the final quest the brightness return to normal. I think the game really want me to do the final quest.

[theandrogynousdragon]

Random Thoughts I Have About My Last Dragonborn Character which I’m telling all of you just because. You’re welcome XD 

Ruaidri is a morning person by learned necessity, in that I mean if given the chance he Will sleep until noon, but clan life started at dawn so that’s when he’s used to getting up. It takes him about a good hour and some breakfast for him to stop impersonating a draugr though. 

He grew up illiterate, because the reachfolk are oral storytellers, so he never really needed to learn how to read until he became an adult and left the reach to investigate rumors about a living family member. Attempts to learn to read are not initially successful due to discovering he has dyslexia, and trying to read the words gives him headaches. 

He doesn’t feel very comfortable sleeping inside (he feels trapped) and will prefer to sleep outside in a tent if possible. Ru also tends to sleep on his side with his sword in easy reach. 

A quick way to get on his shit list is to insult his mom or his sisters. Mara have mercy on your soul if you talk shit about his family in front of him, because chances are very good he’s going to deck you. 

Ruaidri is also very deeply religious, as a result of the trauma he experienced during the sacking of Markarth and living as a refugee for the majority of his childhood. He worships Hircine as his chief deity and has a lot of respect for the entire reachfolk pantheon as well. He will say the ritual chant for the dead for almost any opponent he faces, because he feels it’s important that their souls are put to rest, regardless of personal differences. The only person to whom this compassion does not extend is Ulfric Stormcloak. 

Ulfric Stormcloak personally murdered Ru’s mother, and Ruaidri has sworn an oath of vengeance for it. He refuses to give Ulfric the ritual chant specifically because he wants Ulfric to suffer after death as a wandering spirit. 

Ruaidri has a lot of anxiety related to food insecurity and displays disordered eating behaviors due to growing up as a refugee. For several years after the sacking of Markarth, his clan decided that the warriors should be fed first, because they needed them to be strong if the Nords attacked again. The clan’s adults also accidentally implemented a concept of “earning food” among the children, which severely affected Ru to the point that he still follows that “rule” as an adult. He is not, however, doing this consciously, though he does recognize that it calms him to take inventory of his food supplies, but not why this behavior is calming. 

He will also eat food that is unsafe, i.e., undercooked or containing mold, simply because the idea of “wasting food” is completely abhorrent to him. 

Ru has a mild allergy to clams. This does not stop him from enjoying them, as he assumes that clams are supposed to “taste itchy”. 

Ruaidri cannot use healing magic on himself, and even going to the College of Winterhold has not helped figure out why that is. 

He doesn’t have much of a concept of personal space and is very affectionate and tactile with all his friends. 

Ru tends to run warm, and a sure sign of illness is checking if his hands are cold. 

He has nightmares about the Markarth Incident and the Stormcloaks. 

He talks in his sleep in the reach language. 

He is both polyamorous and bisexual, and the concept of “the sanctity of marriage” just sounds boring to him. 

Ru’s dragon name is Ruthahdrii, which means “hunter whose soul is full of anger”. 

He sometimes struggles with differentiating his dragon soul from his human wants. 

He tries to save Miraak. 

Ruaidri originally seeks out the Dawnguard because he thinks they’re a group of Meridia worshippers. 

He cannot stand the scent of rosemary mixed with lavender, because it was his mother’s favorite incense and she was wearing it when she died. 

He tries to save Storn Crag-Strider. 

His favorite scent is apple mixed with clove, because it reminds him of autumn in Karthspire. 

He tries to save Savos Aren, and Ancano. He is not successful with either. 

[elflivesmatter]

FIRST, LAST, EVERYTHING - PART 1.

pairing: unnamed fem!dragonborn x miraak

content warnings: canon typical violence

i have been working on this for a week. yall better appreciate it.

apocrypha . . .

"you think he'll let you walk away? even if you manage to leave this place, do you think he'll let you live?" she asked, stumbling to her feet. the gash in her side was screaming in pain but the dragon inside of her refused to give in. she readied her sword, preparing for an attack.

"i am dragonborn - "

"but not a god. even we are bound to their will."

the image of storn crag-strider flashed before her eyes, the endless tentacles of herma-mora violating every crevice of his body to take the secrets of his people.

nocturnal, reminding her that she expected service in exchange for protection.

molag bol demanding sacrifice.

even she was bound to their will.

"you slayed the world eater, what could you be bound to?" miraak asked. if she could see his face, she would see confusion.

"it is through hermaeus mora's will that we fight today! it was akatosh's will that i slew alduin! they control the fates of man and mer. it is arrogance to believe even we are anything but players in their petty games."

she grimaced in pain, the wound in her side demanding her attention. if she made it out of this fight alive, she would to find some healing potions and get some medical attention. she wasn't sure the skaal would welcome her back - she'd probably have to go back to ravenrock.

"enough talk." miraak raised his hand to her, his fingers glowing with magic.

before either of them had a chance to move, however, an inky black tentacle erupted from miraak's chest, the first dragonborn screaming in agony.

"stop it!" she shouted, but it was as though the god willfully ignored her. of course he did. she grit her teeth, steadying her nerve. with the last of her strength she swung her sword, slicing the tentacle in twain and causing the god to let out an unearthly screech.

miraak fell to the ground in a heap, and the last dragonborn limped over to him, disregarding the writhing mass behind her.

"listen to me. there are many gods, many men and many mer. but right now, in this moment, there are only two of us. and i'm going to need you to trust me. right now and for a bit of time after. i need you to trust me."

his response was a haggard wheeze.

"i'll get you someplace safe."

nocturnal. i can't fulfill our contract if i die here.

the world fell away around her, consumed by darkness until her body fell to the ground.

they were no longer in apocrypha.

they weren't even in solstheim.

it took her a second to to recognize her surroundings, a familiar hiding place for people like her.

for nightingales.

[faolan-red-eagle]

 🍻+ “ is there anything you regret ?” brandy x ru

He frowned, setting the tankard down with care. "Regrets? Dear one, I have many. But if I had to... pick something, I would say that I regret most the lives I could not save, in all my travels. Ancano, Storn Crag-Strider, Kodlak Whitemane, Susanna, my family most of all. It doesn't matter that I was a child then, I have always felt... guilty, that I didn't do something, that I didn't try." Ru mustered a wry smile, "not the light-hearted answer you were hoping for, was it?"

[firehawkcultist]

In your head canon, where do the Dragonborn and Serana get married?

A) Temple of Mara in Riften 

B) Temple of the Divines in Solitude

C) Auriel’s Chapel or anywhere else in the Forgotten Vale

D) Fort Dawnguard or Castle Volkihar (depending on your faction)

E) Dragonsreach in Whiterun

F) The Greathall in the Skaal Village on Solstheim

G) The Raven Rock Temple on Solstheim

H) Somewhere else

Also who’d wed the two in your book?

1) Maramal, Priest of Mara

2) Rorlund, High Priest of the Divines

3) Erandur, Priest of Mara

4) Knight-Paladin Gelebor

5) Dexion Evicus, Moth Priest

6) Paarthurnax

7) High Queen Elisif or High King Ulfric (depending on your side in the Civil War)

8)  Arngeir, Elder Greybeard

9) Frea or Storn Crag-Strider, Skaal Shamans

10) Elder Othreloth, Priest of the Tribunal

11) Someone else

[the-hoarse-bard]

The door hidden behind the coffin lead to some kind of dining room. Frea immediately pointed out a mismatched segment of the wall, and speculated there was some way to open it. She pointed me toward the kitchen, she set to searching the dining room itself.

I grabbed a hunk of goat cheese and some wine from the pantry to snack on while I searched. This day just keeps going and it’s barely noon. The switch was easy enough to find, despite being behind an out of the way door. I guess the cultists were counting on us getting stuck at the coffin room so much they didn’t bother hiding this one well. I pulled the lever out and twisted it, and Frea called from the other room, “That did it! Good work!” I returned to her and we continued deeper.

As we continued, the usual Nord style stonework gave way to odd sculptures that vaguely resembled the head of that strange giant thing I had faced in Apocrypha, but with less tentacles sprouting from their mouths. The horrid fishy eyes gave me the shivers, but Frea didn’t seem to be fazed at all, so that was comforting.

At last, we reached the sanctum of the temple. Two long paths leading up to a shrine of some sort. We could see quite a few Draugr and skeletons along the way. Frea drew her axes, and was about to charge in, but I held her back and pointed out several rockfall traps hidden in the arches over the path, and a set of tripwires across the stairs that likely activated them.

I signaled for Frea to stay put, and I crept around to the shadowy area off the side of the path. I managed to stay hidden until I was at the tripwire. I waited until one of the more powerful-looking Draugr drew near, and I drew my dagger. I reached down, and cut the tripwire. The boulders tumbled down, crushing all three of the Draugr, and smashing a few of the skeletons as they rolled down the stairs. I called out the all clear to Frea, and we headed on to check out the shrine.

We found not much aside from a very unnerving statue. I immediately saw the resemblance to the encounter I had with Hermorah in Apocrypha. Too many eyes, and too many tentacles. Frea posited that whatever knowledge caused Miraak to turn on the dragons, he probably got it from Hermaeus Mora. The daedra had all kinds of knowledge at his disposal, and had been a thorn in the side of the Skaal since time immemorial. I told her that even in his more positive view among the Khajiit, he was an ally one should be careful with. He aided our mother Azurah yes, but he is a spirit to be feared for his dominion over the tides as well as the realms of the mind.

Neither of us wanted to spend much longer in the presence of the horrible statue, and we quickly exited through the torch-lined hallway behind it. Even if the torches resembled fish heads, they were far less unsettling.

As we came to the end of the hall, I saw a very familiar looking book. Once again, I felt compelled to read it. I stepped forward, picked it up, and opened it. I felt the same falling through slime sensation that I had before, and I distantly heard Frea call out to me before I blacked out.

I found myself back in Apocrypha. This time I wasn’t alone, though. A man in strange garb, I assume Miraak, was there, flanked by a quartet of those odd ghastly tentacle creatures. I was behind them, and seeing an opportunity, drew my dagger. To my surprise, Miraak whirled around and fired a lightning bolt at my chest. I felt every muscle in my body spasm, and I fell onto my knees, dropping the knife. He sauntered over and punted my dagger into the inky waters, away from my grasp.

Miraak crouched down, and spoke in a voice I had heard in my dreams lately, “Who are you to dare set foot here? ... Ah, you are dragonborn... I can feel it. The dragon blood in you... And yet, you have done little aside from slay a few dragons. You are weak. You have no idea of the true power a dragonborn can wield!” He stood, inhaled, and shouted ‘Mul Qah Diiv’, two of the words were familiar. They were the same ones I had learned from the walls back on Solstheim.

A shining spectral armor encased him, and he spoke to me again, “This realm is beyond you. You have no power here. And it is only a matter of time before Solstheim also belongs to me. Soon, my thralls will finish building my temple, and I will finally be able to return home.” He turned to one of the tentacle creatures, “Send her back where she came from.” With that, he turned and mounted the odd dragon he had been standing near when I entered, the pair of them flying away into the smoky green sky. The tentacle creatures surrounded me, and blasted me with some kind of energy that made it feel as if my entire being was breaking apart. Soon, I blacked out again...

Suddenly, I found myself back where I had been. Frea shook me, asking if I was alright. She said I had read the book, and then something had happened, it was like I was there, but also not. She could see me, but also see through me. I assured her I was fine, and told her of what I had seen in Apocrypha. Her face turned concerned, and she said if Miraak was returning, then this was much more serious than just her people being enslaved. All of Tamriel was in danger. She then offered to take me to her village, he father, Storn Crag-Strider, would know what we must do. I told her it was a great plan, and we headed out.