jules

The next day arrives with a drag. Shiala sits at the Guild Master's desk sorting out the current loose jobs by the dates of their arrival. She darts each of them carefully, looking for any hints if he could have just picked one as a quick job by himself. None of them bring any clarity to her, however. Names of contracts and fences have all circled and marked in the order of priority with his simple system of numbers and shadowmarks, at first glance there's nothing out of the ordinary that catches her eye. Only difference being that one of them had been crossed and corrected more than once. Niranye, the fence of Windhelm. Someone that the city had been ridiculing for the longest time under a suspect for being an agent of Thalmor. Obviously, she wasn't, as far as Shiala was aware, Niranye despised them as much as they did. Time and time again she had gotten into problems with Summerset Shadows and them still attempting to gain footing, not in just Windhelm but other parts of Skyrim, too. She feels a knot in her stomach forming. Brynjolf couldn't possibly be that stupid and go anywhere near Eastmarch by himself. The Jarl knows they are.. acquainted and his previous rustling of feathers had earned him a bounty on his head. Not to mention the amount of Thalmor that must have circled around the outskirts like vultures. The wrong people among Skyrim have started to get intel she tried so dearly to protect — the people she holds dear. And the ones against her, or trying to get her to fight on their side, or even turn herself in— She takes a moment for herself to breathe. Is she looking too much into this? No. She isn't. Something must be wrong. She's waited long enough without him leaving a good reason and it's driving her more crazy she dares to admit. "Hey, boss?" She hears the voice of Cynric behind, causing her to visibly jump on her chair. "I'm not your boss, Cynric." She wants to snap at him harder calling her that. "Do you know anything about this?" She lands the piece of paper to him without looking at his direction. "I'm trying to trace where in Oblivion has Brynjolf gone before I begin to drop some heads." "I mean.." he grimaces while digesting her threats, "You might want to see this." Shiala's shoulders tense along her deep exhale. "I don't have the time to—" She hears another pair of steps behind, and her words fade. The rhythm is light, but one-sided. Her body freezes in place. "Missed me, lass?" Brynjolf stumbles in holding his rib and a day-old blood on his face. His chuckle followed by a sharp breath, he leans onto a stony wall, letting himself slowly drag and collapse on his knees.

Art prompts:

Prompts will be posted on Saturday at 2 pm EST, I will give two options and you may draw/write it. I encourage you to write alt text, if your post doesn't have it, I will try to add it by reblog.

I may add a little story, using Munuril the mascot of the blog, to give some ideas for the prompts

To participate you can:

Send an ask

Reblog the post with the prompts

Tag me directly in your post and/or tag your post with: [ #prompts of tamriel ]

There is no time limit for these, so you can make something for older prompts too.

Question of the week:

Unrelated to the prompts, I will ask more specific questions, which you can answer with how your OC does it or your headcanon surrounding it.

I will ask these questions on Tuesday at 2 pm EST

To participate you can:

Send an ask

Reblog the post with the question

Tag me directly in your post and/or tag your post with: [ #questions of tamriel ]

Other information:

There is no time limit for these, so you can answer older questions too.

Summoning days:

I had a poll on what I should do with these, but I think it was a draw (I also voted just to see the results and that messed it up). So I will make a post a week before the summoning day. These days are all around a daedric prince, you can share your works/art/ocs anything that relates to that prince and their sphere.

The announcement will be one week before the day, both posts will be posted at 2 pm EST

To participate you can:

Send an ask

Reblog the summoning day post

Tag me directly in your post and/or tag your post with: [ #summonings of tamriel ]

English isn't my native language. Mistakes may happen.

If I ever get something wrong, either language wise or lore wise, feel free to correct me!

For asks related to headcanons/OCs or lore, I will use the tag: [ #myths of tamriel ]

Finally, Brynjolf pauses. Mercer's egged on by the sight of that cocky fucking grin faltering. Brynjolf leans into the doorway and blinks, clearly off kilter. Mercer's high on this dominance and grips the front of his second in command's armor.

"Did you forget who employs you?" Mercer seethes, so close to Bryn that their noses touch. It's difficult to not be distracted by the familiar scent of his cologne.

"Just because I let you fuck me doesn't mean anything." God, the flustered way Brynjolf's lips part is too good. "I'm in charge."

"Yessir." That fucking smirk. Mercer's temper flares and he wrenches Brynjolf closer, dragging him to his knees. It's infuriating that he doesn't fight back, just lets Mercer manhandle him.

"I can stop this whenever I want." Mercer's lying through his fucking teeth but Brynjolf is clearly shocked. "I don't need you."

"Don't ya?" Brynjolf pushes back as if he's not kneeling for his Guild Master.

Mercer bites his tongue, choosing to glower down at Brynjolf instead. His face is flushed bright red and there's a hint of fear in his expression. Good, Mercer thinks. Let him worry.

"Sorry." Brynjolf's voice is softer than expected. His large hand wraps almost lovingly around Mercer's thigh, tugging him in a bid for more contact.

He didn't want to piss Mercer off. Not really. Bryn likes teasing him. He enjoys the way he can get under Mercer's skin and leave him a blabbering mess. It's cute when Mercer tries to glare at him despite his body twisting to remain close.

"Just-" Mercer huffs, anger deflating at the way Bryn leans into his touch. "Just knock if off in front of the others."

"Yes sir." Fuck, Brynjolf's called him that hundreds of times - it should not be hot. A brazen hand creeps up Mercer's leg and Brynjolf knows he's won. Mercer doesn't bat him away, he lets Bryn's nimble fingers tug at the fastening of his pants.

"Still mad?" He mumbles, deeply enamored with the trail of hair on Mercer's lower stomach.

"Yes." Mercer lies, trying to remain composed when Brynjolf's mouth lands on his hip.

Brynjolf's flustered face gives away his surprised look. This wasn't the response he was expecting, yet he couldn't keep a smile out of his lips. He sees the swirling Fear in her hand, her efforts to intimidate him gives him a reason to chuckle. "You are feisty. I like that." 

Shiala’s hold on Brynjolf’s collar tightens. “What's up with the amulet?" 

He fixes up his composure just enough to free his dominant hand from the wall, as much as Shiala’s force on his collar holds. “Just something to keep people talking. Yet somehow, you resisted.” The air becomes tense, the walls of the room close in around them. Her eyes are deep pools or violet abyss, the longer he looks, the more lost he feels.

“Mm. Lucky me.”

“Counter-question. What’s the story with the armour?” His head flicks towards the chair, where the Ebony Mail lays against its back. “Vex said it tried to poison her.”

Trying to think anything else but a truth about the armor’s origin seems pointless, her nerves rattle under his drunken, darting eyes that won’t leave hers alone. His attempts  to manipulate her emotions irritates her to the core — that’s what she is supposed to do. She can never let that happen again, how did she not sense that?

As infuriating his effort to manipulate her was, she stands impressed. “ It belonged to Boethia’s Champion. Great warrior with a weak will. Oh, I enjoyed ripping it out of his corpse. His spine made a great scarecrow. ”

Brynjolf’s eye twitches over her cold honesty. The words come so naturally from her, if she spoke the truth, she could be actually dangerous. And yet, he cannot stop himself from probing for more. “You’re lying. You nearly got killed by a punch of vampires.”

The audacity of him, Shiala’s teeth grit out of annoyance. Her hold of his collar loosens, as the glowy, violet hue emanates from her hand. A conjured dagger emerges from thin air, and as quickly as it appears, she lifts it against Brynjolf’s neck. “Try me. I know how to gut you in pieces in ways you can’t even imagine.”

He doesn’t even budge. Instead, his lips curve into a one-sided, mischievous smile. Her shift on her temper has left her blind —  her breath hitches when his own, cold-enchanted dagger presses against her collar.  “Hmh. Don’t tempt me with a good time, lass.”

Her breath holds her still. She had let him rile her up and found herself bested by his stupid words. In the corner of her eye she notices the blue, familiar shine. “Is that.. stalhrim?”

Though surprised, another smirk tugs on Brynjolf's lips, knowing his blade got her attention. “See? I knew you had an eye for treasure.” His eyes gleam with lasting amusement over her.

---------