waughin-jarth

[waughin-jarth]

Did You Know: Although Alval Uvani normally only gives a few quick angry comments, an additional full minute of Alval ranting about his magical powers and cream corn was recorded but won't play? Here's a video showing his normal dialogue, and then his normally inaccessible ranting right after.

[waughin-jarth]

Thinking a lot recently about the constant comparison of Oblivion to Skyrim, particularly claims that Oblivion is superior in every way strictly by virtue of quest length and the greater grandiosity of the organizations in Oblivion, and I think there's been a fundamental misunderstanding of what's actually going on with Tamriel during the time period of Skyrim. Even though it's like...one of the core concepts of the main storyline.

Putting most of this under a cut for length, but I just...I think people misunderstand what's going on here. This is not a "One Game Good Other Game Bad" post, it's an analysis of a major, key difference in story basis between the two that I think gets lost in the (frankly asinine) argument about which is superior.

See, everything in Skyrim sucks. Every organization you can align yourself with is falling apart. Literally every single one.

That's the point.

To summarize:

The Companions (equivalent to the Fighters' Guild) are about a dozen strong, literally cursed, and their most beloved leader gets murdered very early in the storyline.

The College of Winterhold (equivalent to the Mages' Guild, not to the Arcane University) has seemingly only been saved from collapsing into the sea because a master of Restoration fused himself with the structure itself when the Sea of Ghosts tried to tear it down a little under a century ago and his presence is constantly physically "healing" the foundation.

The Thieves' Guild has lost the favor of every possible patron deity, having been outright cursed by Nocturnal after one of her Nightingales murdered another and stole the gift she offers her champion, while the boon that the organization's founder claimed from her in ages past (the cowl) is missing.

The Dark Brotherhood has been all but completely dismantled, the Night Mother's tomb in Bravil having been raided and struggling to persist without a Listener for over a decade; the bodies of the Night Mother's children have been lost and she's essentially being smuggled from region to region in an attempt to find a safe place to continue operations.

The Empire itself has been kneecapped, forced into a traumatic treaty by a fascist regime determined to strike the beliefs and culture of anyone not Altmer off the face of the planet; the Thalmor have gone so far as to torture and radicalize the figurehead leader of the Nords in order to use their own nationalism and superiority against the Empire, sparking a civil war that will further weaken the Empire and allow the Aldmerri Dominion to destroy it wholecloth.

This extends out into the rest of the world, too! We have confirmed existence of Hist-deaf Argonians. The Dunmer are floundering to recover after the quadruple-whammy that is the fall of the Triumverate, the destruction of Vivec City when Baar Dau finally made impact, the Red Year, and the Argonian uprising. The Bosmer are literally endangered due to habitat loss following a super-isolationist cultural shift due to wars with the Khajiit and Altmer. The Void Nights were devastating to Khajiit culture and population in ways that have yet to be fully explained.

The world is falling apart. Everything is dying.

And then Alduin shows up.

We all kind of talk about Alduin carrying on as World-Eater through the course of the Skyrim storyline like it's him being a piece of shit, since he'd started it ages ago and was just displaced in time to land on the Last Dragonborn's head in the Fourth Era, but I don't think that's the case.

Based on the state of things, I think Alduin arrived right on time. I think it's the end of the world. The only reason he "should" be stopped is because the Last Dragonborn has the capacity to stop the world from ending in a more down-to-earth sense than just defeating Alduin: they can't save everyone, but they can "fix" every single organization that's holding "the world" together.

They can align with the Imperials and keep the civil war from further crippling them, keeping the Empire from being too weak to push back against the Aldmerri Dominion.

They can save the College of Winterhold, the only group in the right place at the right time to stop the Eye of Magnus from opening, and in doing so make sure that the Psijics are able to put it somewhere nobody else can find it.

They can lead the Companions, cure the curse for those members who don't want to run with Hircine after death, which bolsters their spirits enough to keep doing what they can even when everyone else is trying to kill each other. A single neutral martial force in the middle of a civil war.

They can regain Nocturnal's trust for the Thieves' Guild, restore the Nightingales, and in doing so they can return the luck that was stolen from them as punishment for Mercer Frey's transgression. They can even reclaim the Crown of Barenziah and award the guild with a paragon to increase their newly-regained luck.

They can hear the Night Mother, becoming Listener for the Dark Brotherhood to restore the balancing force of Sithis in the world, purify the most broken Sanctuary the Brotherhood has ever had, and finish a story set into motion way back in the Third Era—Emperor Titus Mede II is murdered under the order of a Motierre, a descendant of a mark the Brotherhood specifically kept from dying during the Oblivion Crisis.

The Last Dragonborn can't do anything outside Skyrim—there's nothing they can do for the Argonians or the Bosmer or the Khajiit, and they can only do very little for the Dunmer via work in Solstheim—but they can work with every single guild or guild-adjacent group, strengthening the Empire to stand against the biggest threat to Tamrielic culture since the First Era, and in doing so they can make it so the world isn't ready for Alduin to eat it.

The Hero of Kvatch exists when Tamriel, and presumably Nirn as a whole is in the prime of its life, that's what makes the Oblivion Crisis such a big deal. This is a world that isn't ready to give up, it still has the strength to fight, it just needs someone standing at the head to direct it. The Last Dragonborn comes into the story when everything is falling apart and nothing really feels worthwhile, when it's hard to see why the world is worth saving. They have the chance to prove that there's still some life left here, that the world isn't too far gone to save—Alduin arrived right on time, it's the Last Dragonborn's job to change that.

I can see how coming from Oblivion to Skyrim would feel disappointing and hollow, but I'm pretty sure that's literally the point of the story.

Oblivion tells you the world is worth saving because it's got so much left to live for, even with the odds stacked so high against it. Skyrim asks you whether a world that's dying is still a world worth saving, and it's up to you to prove that it is.

[waughin-jarth]

[waughin-jarth]

when i was playing ime i had that pronouns mod that allows you to be nonbinary. but brynjolf's intro dialog is gendered so he was striving valiantly to trigger the thieves guild questline but it became him following me all over riften and grunting at me. fucking terrifying thought i was gonna get hatecrimed

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Is imperialism really bad if the emperor is cute

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A NEW HAND TOUCHES THE BEACON

[waughin-jarth]

[waughin-jarth]

Like Real People Do

summary: Whether it's for protection or social necessity you need a husband. He's your first choice, but falling in love was not part of the plan. (marriage of convenience trope) gn reader, no pronouns or yn used feat: Farkas, Vilkas, Brynjolf, Teldryn warnings: very brief mention of blood/injury, brief nightmare scene

"Of course." Farkas agrees without a second thought. The friend who laughs off all your worries - he's never failed you before and he won't now. "Just don't expect a fancy proposal on such short notice." Marrying Farkas isn't too hard. You practically choke on butterflies when he stands before a Priest of Mara and pledges himself to you, words dripping with sentimentality. You'll get to keep the family property and he gains a home away from Jorrvaskr - it's a win for you both. It's terribly easy to fall for him. The little crush you've harbored since childhood becomes harder to ignore. It isn't helped by the sickeningly domestic habits Farkas adopts; a kiss on your cheek when he's leaving for an assignment, late nights spent in front of a crackling fire, his hand on your back when you're both in the kitchen. You bite your tongue but gods, it gets difficult. It's hard to laugh it off when he jokes about finding you a proper husband, heart aching when he bids you goodnight and shuffles off to another bedroom down the hall. No sense in ruining a good thing, you tell yourself, gazing at the broad expanse of his back. Your comfortable life comes crashing down when Vilkas returns alone. He tells you that something wrong, that nothing went to plan, but you cannot hear him over the waves of terror. Days of promises and apologies fall on deaf ears. They can strategize all they want - your heart cannot bear another moment without him. You should have told him. Guilt threatens to choke you - would he be safe if you'd told him how desperately you love him? Would he be a bit less reckless if he'd known? Boots crashing against wooden floors. Doors flung open. Vilkas barks orders and your heart is in your throat. His armor is shredded and old blood is dried across his chest but he's here. Farkas is tripping across Jorrvaskr and hands you know so well clasp your face, a quick kiss enough to leave you faint. "Sorry I worried you." Farkas mumbles against your lips and you cannot hold it back any longer. "I'm in love with you." You blurt the words out, terror chilling your blood. A short burst of laughter is all you hear before he's kissing you again, thick arms dragging you entirely against his body.

Vilkas seems constantly prepared for you to admit that it's all been one long joke. Even when his hands clasp yours in the temple of Mara there's an odd reservation in his expression you've never witnessed, a shyness he'd never exhibited. "It's not like it has to mean anything." You explain, though the twist in your gut says others. "It's these damned inheritance laws! I couldn't let the family farm be sold off -" "Stop talking before I reconsider." Sharing a home with him is odd. Not bad in any sense, it is just strange to see Vilkas so dressed down. You're allowed a view of him you're fairly certain no one else has gotten before - hair tied back and face scrubbed of war paint, armor tucked away and wearing a loose sweater. It's difficult to look at him - your husband - and not fall a bit more in love with him each time. "You're staring." Vilkas frequently interrupts your train of thought. It sets your cheeks aflame and you quickly whirl back to whatever task you'd been ignoring in favor of gazing at him. His presence is quiet but Vilkas continues to surprise you. Over the months your worries are quelled as his belongings are slowly shifted from Jorrvaskr to your home. A coat rack near the door overflows with cloaks and sheaths he's collected and his books are squashed next to yours on every shelf. Days off are spent lounging on your couch or following along through all of your duties, his hand hovering near your arm on rainy days. Teeth the size of your forearm growing closer with each second. You try to run but your legs move too slow, arms pumping as if you're moving through mud. You try to scream but choke on the thick layer of smoke. Talons close around your middle, scales scraping along your bare skin and god it hurts so bad, the beast's hide is burning - Gentle hands shake you back to reality. Orange light spills in you struggle to breathe but he is here, brown eyes flooded with worry. Sweat coats your back when Vilkas wrenches you across the bed, shaky fingers combing messy hair away from your face. "You're alright." Vilkas grumbles, tucking you close to his chest. The horrible memories felt so awfully real but Vilkas' presence forces them into the past, the cool metal of his ring a comfort while he rubs calming circles over your back. "Just a nightmare." He doesn't spend another night in the guest room. You tell yourself that it's for his peace of mind, surely he'll mutter something about losing sleep due to your nightmares any moment. The air is thick with tension when you slip into bed with Vilkas, expecting a lecture and finding nothing but soft hands drawing your head onto his chest.

You should've known better than asking him. Brynjolf's grin makes you consider rescinding the desperate plea and trying to find some other way out of your predicament. There's got to be a better option, right? "'Course I'll be your fake husband. We can head to the temple right now if you're ready." Too easy. You've prepared talking points in anticipation of his arguments - never did you expect him to simply agree. "Nevermind, I'll figure something else out -" "Too late, love." Nimble fingers raise your hand to his lips, a dramatic kiss placed along your knuckles. "Best wear something nice if we're gettin' hitched." There had to be a better option, right? Sure, your parents have been on your ass about your future and you'd rather die than admit to being a leader in the Thieves Guild, but is a husband truly the best distraction you could offer them? And is he the best choice? It's annoying how good he looks in fine clothing. Brynjolf's voice overflows with false adoration when he stands before your family and vows his life to yours, green eyes so intense you don't dare break eye contact. Goosebumps appear over your skin when he cups your hands. He's selling it too well, for a brief moment even you believe he's madly in love. Even more obnoxious is how good he is all of this. Regaling your family with carefully edited tales of your exploits together as adventurers, an affectionate hand on your lower back or a stray kiss on your cheek. You aren't sure why your blood is heating so much but you're desperately regretting your choice in fake husband. "You're too good at this." You mumble, teeth grinding against the urge to lean into his touch. "You asked for this, love." There's something unreadable in his eyes when he stares back at you, the low pitch of his voice sending a shiver up your spine. "You wanted a distraction, right?" Luckily, your family doesn't visit too often. Brynjolf's teasing comments are easy to handle around the Flagon but each time a holiday approaches your gut tightens. Soon, parents and siblings will descent upon your home, leaving you with no choice but to seek your husband once more. "It doesn't have to be this way, y'know." Brynjolf murmurs late one night. Sharing your bed with him feels dangerous - the rest of your family slumbers down the hall and without their overbearing presence you're alone with the annoying man who makes your heart do backflips. "What do you mean?" You mumble, trying and failing to sound bothered. "We could be - I dunno," from across the bed his fingers find yours, sending little sparks of excitement up your arm. "We could be somethin', right?" Against your better judgment, you cannot deny his words - you could be something great.

"Seems like too good of a deal." Teldryn leans back in his chair, arms crossed and drink ignored. You can't see his eyes behind that damned helmet but can feel the way he assesses you, trying to sus out whatever you're hiding from him. "What do you get out of this?" "Hopefully a discount on your fees." For a beat you're terrified he'll reject you. He studies you a moment longer before letting out a sharp bark of laughter and one ungloved hand smacking at yours. "You've got a deal." Over time, your trips to Skyrim become more manageable. Your chest no longer tightens with anxiety when Gjalund leads the ship into Windhelm's docks. Teldryn's arm loops easily around your shoulders and and carries your pack from shop to shop without a single complaint. You still hear the whispers your title always brings but thank the gods, folks are no longer prying into your personal life. No meddling parents join you mid meal to pitch their child as the rightful spouse to the Last Dragonborn nor do Jarls hint at available property in their Holds. With your husband at your side you get a taste of what's evaded you since that awful day at Helgen - a normal life. "Speak plainly - why did you ask this favor of me?" Teldryn's dry voice sends your heart into your throat. "You're the Dragonborn, I'm sure you could have anyone you want." "That's the problem." Your voice wobbles but you owe him honesty. Dark eyes watch you without judgment, the low orange light of sunset illuminating the tattoos curling over his cheeks. "I can hardly breathe anywhere I go. People want my help or offer their sons and daughters up to be the Dragonborn's spouse. Lords and Jarls want the bragging rights of the Dragonborn choosing their town to settle down in. None of them seem to realize I am a person." "Ah, spoiled for choice." Teldryn chuckles, falling onto your bunk. The ship pitches and send him rolling into your side, a flush in your cheeks when he doesn't move away. "You know what would solve all those issues?" "Hm?" Teldryn's chest is pressed to yours and his hand curves around your jaw, thumb tracing along your lips. You cannot help but stare at him, fully anticipating some awful joke. "If you got yourself a husband." He smirks and your fingers twist into his tunic ready to shove him to the floor. "Tel." "A real husband." "You offering?" "Could be." He's so close it hardly takes any work. Just one little shift and your lips brush, noses bumping briefly before his hand guides your mouth against his. You know that you are falling all over again when his little chuckle against your lips sends your heart ramming against your ribs. "Still seem like too good of a deal?" You mumble, elated by his body pressing impossibly closer to yours. "Kiss me again and we'll talk."

[waughin-jarth]

The Falmer gone off in persistent search of my Thrown Voice, and the chaurruses likewise having scuttled away like cats to the rattling of their food-bowl, I bent beside the chest, – which I had determined was either not Falmer; or else some Falmer, tired of spiky grey minimalism and chitin plate, had decided to try a new design. I would not put it past the Falmer of Blackreach, – it must get dull down here, – once the novelties of scrap Dwemer metal and exciting new species of mushroom had worn off; but I was convinced this was from the above-ground; and made by the decidedly not scuttly. The wood had begun to crumple a little; and the hinges had fared little better; but there was a magic on it which even the miserable mizzle of Blackreach could not get to, which my own magic went determined into, and bounced straight off. 

‘Oh!’ said I: ‘do you know a better lockpicking spell?’

Marcurio looked askance at me, and said that the first thing every student learns, when clambering back to the university after a night of revelry, with the curfew in full force, is from the renowned book It's A Hard Lock Life For Us. – I therefore invited him to try. His spell, – o I could not imagine him revelling!, – bounced straight back as mind had.

‘If experience is anything to go by,’ said he, ‘the hardest locks guard fifty-seven septims and an iron dagger. – We ought to keep moving.’

‘Oh!’ I returned, ‘I want to see, – it rattles, listen, –’

And so after much deliberation, we decided upon trying a combined spell; joined hands, summoned it; and not knowing quite if combination worked, tried it regardless. The poor battered box looked miserably at us; creaked; and gave up entirely.

‘A crimson nirnroot!’ I cried at once.

‘Julienne, we already have thirty, –’ Marcurio protested. 

I must scowl and pick up the thing (which was damp quite beyond the norm for a nirnroot, more on the slimy sort of scale); and putting it carefully between two bits of paper, slide it in with the rest. The others in my bag were still chiming, faintly; this one let out a pathetic little whine and fell silent.  

‘Julienne, –’ said Marcurio suddenly. 

He thrust his hand into the box, and drew out the thing I'd wholly ignored, in favour of the sad nirnroot. – A thing which had kept its lustre, despite or perhaps because of the nirnroot-slime at the edges; which was so golden as to half blind us, in the thin darkness of Blackreach; and which we thought, somewhere in our unconsciousness, that we recognised. It was long, thin and perfectly unearthly. It was an Elder Scroll. 

Marcurio whistled: held the thing up as if to read it: thought better of it, valuing despite everything his sanity; and so kept it rolled up and wielded it quite fit to hit someone over the head with it. – I looked about for Falmer and doubted they’d succumb to a whack with a scroll. – The place still empty, – for my Voice had echoed over cliffs and chasms and possibly directly into a troll-nest, – he beheld it eyes gleaming, and said:

‘This must be what we’re looking for! Someone’s been to Mzark before us, –’

‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I hope they haven’t done anything stupid.’

‘They have left an Elder Scroll in a box in a Falmer camp,’ said he, ‘I don’t think we can hope for too much.’

‘How will we know if it is the right Scroll?’ said I.

Marcurio feigned having already been inspecting the thing for identifying marks. He was just about to declare that a particular engraving looked like a dragon; when suddenly he deflated, and cried:

‘The damnable, – the bloody, –

And all at once, he unfurled the Scroll and held it before him; I jumped forwards and feared we’d both be blinded and the ceiling collapse and the world end, – but nothing happened save that Marcurio put his head in his hands and threw the Scroll in my general direction. It did not blind me; nor was it inscribed in enigmas and mysteries; it said at the top: Special Limited Edition; and in the rest of it, things which cannot be related for reasons of decency and copyright. In the early Fourth Era, it seems, there had been a fad for novelty books, which had exceeded the boundaries of decorum, and also of people’s bookshelves; and which had, apparently, gone so far into the tacky and out of the other side, that we’d both of us been fooled. A run of popular books had been printed in the form of Elder Scrolls; and for reasons known only to a certain debauched actor of deepest history, one of them had been The Lusty Argonian Maid. 

‘I want to gouge my eyes out,’ said Marcurio. 

I looked at him; at the scroll, foolishly; thought the same thing; wondered if a Moth priest had ever been driven to voluntary blindness by bad erotica; and burst out laughing.

‘It isn’t funny!’ said he: ‘we wasted so much magicka on that damn lock, –’

‘Oh!’ said I, ‘we have a crimson nirnroot, –’

It was too dark to see what else was in the box: but perceiving glimmers which reflected the distant pinpricks on the vault, I put my hand in. I found a coin or two, – what I hoped for fear of worse, were the wet remains of another nirnroot, – then, at last, after all our treasure-hunting efforts, my fingers fell upon something smooth, something cut, something faceted, –

‘A NEW HAND TOUCHES THE BEACON! –’

[waughin-jarth]

Attention Tesblr, I have a very important announcement

My Fiancée says that there’s too many Daedra and that their spheres are over-compartmentalized; to illustrate this point, they have created two new Daedra:

Phiaelatius Napalm whose sphere is adultery and dumping trash where you’re not supposed to.

Jeni, Phiaelatius Napalm’s sister, whose sphere is frying things in oil, grease, fat, and butter.

Please incorporate them into canon at the earliest convienence.

[waughin-jarth]

There's a mod that lets you climb in Skyrim now?!

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Wait a moment...

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hmmm

[waughin-jarth]

i think oblivion’s “leveling problem” is actually kinda cool. i think if it was done intentionally by a modern indie dev, ppl would be calling it a brilliant subversion of traditional rpg mechanics, which builds and plays out over dozens of hours. i think the experience of playing an rpg that gets more difficult and hostile over time is weirdly cool and interesting. and it’s a shame that it’s seen as this irredeemable flaw, that only exists so gamers can bitch about it online. i’d go so far as to say that if you play the game according to “optimal leveling” guides, you’re missing out

if you play the dlcs after the main questline, it ties up the narrative and ludonarrative threads in a nice neat bow. see, you are never really the main character in oblivion’s main quest, you’re just the messenger. you’re constantly doing things so that martin can move the plot forward. sure, you’re a hero, you save the world. you do tons of heroic shit. you charge headlong into oblivion to save kvatch and bruma. and for awhile, everyone knows your name. but martin is the dragonborn. when mehrunes dagon shows up, it’s martin who faces him in the final battle, while you just stand there. that’s what the world remembers. most of your heroics are only yours to remember

so you find yourself facing increasingly impossible odds, on a quest you won’t be remembered for. isnt it fitting that during all that, you feel the world is turning more and more hostile toward you? that everything is out of your control? i think it makes sense that the rpg loop of killing monsters and getting loot eventually takes its toll on you. as you progress, it only gets less satisfying. you finish the main quest, and you still keep doing it, even when it starts to hurt. you might ask yourself, what’s the point of doing this anymore? and yeah, what is the point?

knights of the nine takes you a journey of transcendent spiritual healing. you learn to move on from these earthly things that have been grinding you down the past few in-game years. maybe there’s more to life than “adventure.” taking this path means becoming one with the gods. this questline involves one of the only quests in the whole game that asks you to not attack something. in the end, you lay some old spirits to rest and become one with the gods

shivering isles represents the opposite reaction to all this. if you play it after (or instead of) kotn, the narrative resolves with the pc accepting the futility and absurdity of their life, at the price of their sanity. and they ultimately succumb to ambition. this story also ends with you becoming “one with the gods,” but in a much darker way. just like martin mantled akatosh, you mantle sheogorath. and it brings you satisfaction. it feels good to be on equal footing with martin. you decide that power and progression have value. just look at what that turns you into

idk, i just think in an era where pathologic is getting serious love, i think oblivion has a place. not despite, but because of its “flaws.” i know oblivion is the haha ugly meme game. it’s bethesda’s awkward teen phase between the narrative genius of morrowind and the mechanical genius of skyrim. but i like it!!!!!!!! ok!!!!!!!!!!!! it can and should be judged on its own merits, as a single text with something valuable to say

[waughin-jarth]

[waughin-jarth]

more of my dragonborn oc, kyrena, and the slippery slope that is working with daedra

[i have commissions open now!]

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