#𝖋𝖚𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖉𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓 ; a multimuse primarily featuring personal lore and muses, as well as my own take on skyrim characters and other fandoms alike. nsfw is featured on this blog due to the nature of these fandoms. mun is 25+. mutuals only and selective following. 

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔰 ; 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐭, 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐞, 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

Note: I don’t mind if you are picky with my muses, not every muse will entice. I will notice though if you only favor my male muses and while I appreciate the enthusiasm, they are not solely here to be shipped.  

𝔞𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 ;  @deigrxtia | @notladylikes | @holyfailed​ | 

𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔱𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱: 

𝐌𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖

                  There in his black gaze is a humorless gleam, something dead and cold and stiff. It settles itself upon the witch with a steady hold before slowly slipping away to focus on the task at hand. He cared not to be involved, he rather rot among the desolate ruins beneath the catacombs where several of his fellow brethren lay. Alas he was here. Demetri had given direct orders, ones Yonathan debated on following but found it best to follow through with to allow himself some peace once the task was over. His exploits had been discussed apparently when he was not present. Seemed whomever had spoken of him had put in some form of haste not to converse too much with the witch eater; but that never bothered him. Silence was his preferred method of socializing.  

                   A rebuttal is given in response to her own questions and assumptions that he rewarded with deafening silence. The desire to elaborate on his own life little to no interest to him. Precaution was always given before hand when someone was to work along side him, Demetri and Vicktor ensured that for the sake of whomever was doomed to be in his company. His jaw sets as his eyes once more slowly rise to peer at the woman standing a few feet away, the expression she wears a similar one he’d seen before. Brows rise in just a similar pace, head cocking to one side as he felt his tongue run against his sharp teeth. 

                    “ Six hundred.” It is a simple enough answer. Words deep like abysmal waters they reverberate throughout the room. The blade in his grasp carefully being set down upon the table before he lets his hands rest in plain view. “ I’ve killed six hundred witches and warlocks alike. “ Another beat before he looks to the knife with a fondness that rarely ever graces his angular features, “ I have lost count how many mortal men I have killed. “ An animal like quality Yonthan possessed that many of the others lacked, was his hunger. The drive to continue until his own legs would no longer see fit to serve him and even then he would find other means to acquire the effect or out come he desired. 

                    “ I am indeed that crazy. If only because -- “ a twisted mutation of a smile strings across his lips, handsome and cruel with fangs that gleam a ghostly white. “ I am always starving. “ 

There were ten dragons born of Isval who survived the culling, her true children she allowed to hide and rest while the dawn of man and elf took place. Borghal is the eldest, Atash is the second eldest, Ju’Nas is the third born, Me’Sovhal is the fourth, Lhorak was the fifth, Taverash was the sixth, O’Bargost was the seventh, Dema was the eighth, Vetighal was the ninth, and Sunam was the tenth. 

The remaining seven are still hidden across the continents set in stone, buried beneath cities, and hidden within caverns and deep beneath the sea. They have not awoken to Borghal’s call after their mother Isval presents him with a vision of their imprisonment under a unnamed magick who pretends to be mortal. Borghal wishes to aid in the prevention of this and the destruction of his own family. Its why they join up along side Caaldic and the few others teaming against The Seventh Son ( the church which was founded under their cousin Omiveer, the third born of Mormont who survived the first culling. He was later made in to be a god to men because he provided them protection and magick.). 

** Also, let it be known that these dragons have children of their own. Elven, Mortal, Orc, and Sea women who devoted themselves to the worship of The Ten allowed themselves to go through a magickal practice which merged their own race with that of a dragon creating = dragon blood. Children who bear wings like their mothers and fathers. HOWEVER, many died in the second war (Vicktor’s war with the gates crumbling) leaving only about two handfuls alive and in hiding or stationED on the isles for their own protection. 

Borghal ; has two children remaining.  Atash ; chose never to have any children.  Ju’Nas ; has four remaining.  Me’Sovhal ; lost all his children to the war (there were 5).  Lhorak ; has one remaining.  Taverash ; never had children.  O’Bargost ; ate two of his own children leaving one remaining.  Dema ; has six remaining (they are who lead the worship upon the isles to their dragon parents).  Vetighal ; lost all her children. (there were two).  Sunam ; has but four children alive. 

                       Borghal had wasted no time in leaving the scene, the former home he remembered now a place overrun with mortals and other beings that bared some vague resemblance to the ones he once knew. His call to his siblings went unanswered and despite the urgency to share what his mother had given him, the very vision one to turn even his blood cold; he desired to fill his stomach with something other than dust. He’d soared and dipped and spun wishing if only he could be a young scale again, but the days had been vast and long and they were since passed. A grumble can be heard in his throat as he tears once more at his meal, the sudden scent in his nostrils daring black smoke to erupt from them as his large head raises and looks to the west of the island. 

                    Something silver and quick moves just beyond his following and with a begrudged expression a claw rests more firmly over his food. Should it be one of his ever late siblings he would tear their head off is they dared to steal a meal from him, but something about that smell that was so familiar yet strangely foreign had him pausing. Blood staining his jaws as his large head waited peering over the whale, the muscles in his back haunches coiling up in case he needed to launch himself. 

@starlyht​ liked for a starter ; for mal ; Borghal! 

Never did it matter, at least not for the moment. His neck cranes his large head up toward the sky gazing fondly at the burning sun. Smoke coils from his nostrils as he shifts to lay flatter on his own stomach, his grand wing span being elongated slowly with a pleasant stretch before spread wide across the grassy plains. A heavy sigh flattens most of the flowers sprouting from the ground around him, a stretch of his large maw allows fresh air to reside in his dust coated lungs. He could feel the tremor in the earth as hooves thunder across each stone and blade of grass, the break in the far distant tree line exposes the small herd of Neramorts. A creature he could vaguely remember being much large when he was younger, but now they barely stood to half the side of the tree trunk their wide black eyes catching sight of him before scurrying off.

Yet among the throng there is one creature unmoving, idle beside the timbers trunk and watching. A foul expression darkens over his old features as he turns to look away; large form wishing to resist the urge to vault from his resting and seize the sky where he could hide from prying eyes.

@celestieu liked for a starter ; Borghal!