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This body was broken, Aldran realized; broken beyond what he could heal, with his own essence being pierced by their progenitor and dragged forcefully back. Even so, he clung to it, fleeing further into the gentle quiet of a soul who knew they would soon be gone.
They were almost gone, this nameless knight; as Aldran settled into their bones, the oppressive weight of Mora's eyes staring down onto him - though he could not see It through this mortal's eyes - he felt first the sharp, jagged edges of the Orcish blade still embedded in their stomach; it was distant, far-off and shrouded in a soft, fuzzy gauze. There was warmth beneath the body, something moist, and under that, the damp stone were they lay dying.
Cautiously, Aldran brushed his mind against the edges of this quiet place, searching. Hello, he hummed, offering himself to his new host; hello, darling.
There was quiet, and their now-shared heart sank as he realized: oh. Oh.
He was too late. This knight's body may cling to life, but their soul? Of course it had fled; mangled as they were, he did not blame them. Still extended into that quiet space, he let himself feel the slow pull of melancholy and gratitude -
Then, quiet as anything, he felt a whisper brush against him. Hello. Hello. It was quiet, curious. Maintained a distance, he noticed.
But then another thought brushed against him - Another? Now?
And then another; maybe they can help us. maybe they can help us. maybe they can help us. The thought repeated, circling around Aldran as if trying to see the breadth of him.
Not one of us. Not one of us. Out. Out. Out. Another thought, shoving violently against Aldran's being. trying to force him - where? Where could he go?
hello! hello! help us. help us. Out. Help us. Hello! out. Not one. Out. Help? Hello!
Aldran quickly withdrew, a sudden gasp for breath alighting their body with shock of pain - real pain, sharp and intense, each tooth of the blade dug into their shredded flesh, no longer shrouded by that loving haze - but the thoughts followed him, and he could not hear.
"Aldra, the Hidden Memory of Nirn, starshine obscured by inky depths slipping from their fingers chasing the Rings of The Soundless into the Void. Aldra, the Echo back; Aldra, the subconscious, the very depths of the chilled water of bittersweet salt, where only those things that have none left to remember them are stored. ELT-NE, ARCTA NA GHARTOKYA, hail! Mother of Forgetfulness and Father of the Forgotten, we call to you and seek your wisdom; sing for us, Echo of Nirn, Gateway of Lyg, Voiced-By-Sun and Slaughtered-By-Moon!"
-- a remnant of a summoning ritual found in a shrine dedicated to a minor daedric demiprince.
Spills-His-Cups laughed under her breath, ducking under a red-cloth curtain that separated the bar from the kitchens. The shanty ended to cheers and laughter, rowdy men and women clapping each other on the back and sloshing their drinks everywhere. Nathak glanced behind him, watching over his shoulder as Merry - a young Nord bard from Skyrim, as charming as she was handsome - stepped gracefully onto a table and cleared her throat.
She was twelve years old, touched by the Sheogorath, and utterly unhinged. Her right arm was missing - rumor was she got slashed by a Corprus beast while exploring Red Mountain (Gods above, he thought not for the first time, why was a child exploring Red Mountain?!), and she chopped it off to avoid infection. It had been replaced with a prosthetic that Nathak heard was Clockwork in origin.
Merry Crow-Caller was a whirlwind of gossip and speculation who wore secrecy like a cloak. She knew everyone, but no one seemed to know her.
Eleski’s brows furrowed, her anger ebbing further upwards. “Everything falls to an arrow to the chest.”
“Not everything,” Ma said. Her arms began to tremble - she would sometimes have fits of weakness, where she could barely hold herself upright. “No arrow can fell the Fanged Stag.”
the beastfolk company belongs to @mothermara !
Eleski Ahlealdottir hadn’t earned her name yet. She had just seen her seventeenth winter, and she thought she might starve before she had the chance.
Shor’s Stone was a mining town, making their meager profits from the iron inside the mountains; they were poor, they were tired, and they were hungry. Eleski started hunting when she was young, apprenticed under her father, running through the forests of the Rift with laughter in her lungs and joy in her heart. Pa said she would be a natural, and she was - she could track a stag from Ivarstead to Riften without losing its trail, always knowing just where to land her arrow that it would fall without suffering.
“Easy,” her father would whisper. “Focus your breathing. Keep your eyes on the stag.”
It was as easy as drawing breath for her, her heart beating to the notes of a song she knew since birth. Her mind felt clouded and cleared all at once. Her eyes focused, her muscles tensed - and her arrow found its mark.
--
“Blessed by Kyne!” Her father cheered in his rolling accent, clapping her back when they came into the village. The doe was taken from around her shoulders, and Pa’s voice was like thunder congratulating her. The miners ate well that night, and Eleski crawled into her furs with a full stomach and a new deer-hide cloak. She hovered on the edge of sleep, imaginary scenarios drifting through her mind.
What if I find a dragon, she thought, her mind conjuring up images of the glorious beasts. What if I kill a dragon? Can you eat dragons? Can you ride them?
Just as she was about to drift off, there was a voice - on instinct, she laid still, quiet, silent, as her mother - when had Ma came to her side of the house? -whispered something she couldn’t understand, caressing her forehead. She traced the mark of the Eldergleam and Eleski fought back a flinch. It felt wrong when Ma did it. She couldn't explain why. “Child of the chase,” she sighed wistfully, before drawing away.
--
They were prosperous, her and Pa working jointly to bring in enough food to keep them fed through the winter. They never took in excess - Ma had warned her of a deer, with antlers crafted by Kyne and teeth sharpened by the daedra, who came in the night to steal away those who took more than they needed.
She had been terrified, and her Pa was amused, but compliant. “It’s about respect,” he told her when she was curled into her furs, clutching his hunting dagger in case the deer decided to take her away. “Respect the creatures you hunt, respect the woods you stalk, respect the men and women you work to feed, and Kyne will protect you.”
It was a lesson she learned easily. Every other day, she would disappear into the woods, listening to the steady music of her heart, and return with rabbits and deer and, if she was lucky, a wild pig, wolf, or moose.
That was all before Helmar Thaneson.
His father was some noble from Solitude, coming to Shor’s Stone after a scandal involving ties with the Bear of Windhelm; despite living among the miners and poor folk, he managed to afford his son every entitlement, every privilege. Helmar got away with anything he wished.
He was huge, and terrifying, and Eleski’s best friend, though not by choice. He would hurt her if she tried to leave him - he had said as much, and proved it through the scars on her face. He was touched in the head by Uncle Sheo - he was strong, sure, and a damn good brawler, but messy, uncaring, stupid. He chased the foxes and rabbits around the village and when he caught them - and he always caught them -, he’d throw them into the boiling stew, still alive and squealing. He thought it was funny to pounce on her like a wild cat, leaving her features marred and slashed by ribbons of red.
He hunted with her, too. Not properly; there was no careful footing, no learning the land, what creatures were mature and which were too young to give good meat. He left that to Eleski. That was how he grew so attached to her- they would venture off together into the thick woods, Eleski wincing at the sound of his heavy footfalls as he marched carelessly through the Rift. If she strained her ears, she could hear the wood’s creatures fleeing through the trees.
He was also bloodthirsty. She had watched, helpless, as he used his warhammer to savagely crush a stag’s ribs; all the while, he just laughed as it died, slowly and painfully. The meat was unusable, and the poor creature suffered a cruel death. Helmar's eyes were bright with mirth and joy - and that laugh set frost in her heart. Eleski didn’t like to watch her marks suffer. It was cruel - they were living creatures, just as much as she and Helmar. When she objected, he marched right up to her and cracked her cheek, the sound like wood splitting. The bruise had yet to heal after three weeks, and there was still a divet in her cheek where the bone had cracked. It ached in the winter.
The rabbits and foxes stopped appearing in the village’s outskirts. The deer were slaughtered wholesale, and so stopped grazing in the woods nearby. The wolves, starving, followed their prey; all that was left were the rats and vermin. Even the skeevers were skinny and disease ridden, barely enough meat to cook into a cabbage stew, but that was only when it didn’t fester moments after harvesting.
--
“We’re cursed,” she told Ma. “We’re cursed and it’s Helmar’s fault.”
“You seem so certain,” her mother replied, voice light and airy. Pa always said that he mistook Ma for a wisp mother when they first met; her hair was blonde, nearly white, her skin a luminescent alabaster, unmarred by freckles or moles. Even her eyes were ethereal, bluer than the glaciers to the north. Eleski took more after her father - tawny skin, thick, honey-gold hair, dotted by freckles and moles and crinkled, laughing eyes.
“I am.” Eleski set her bow down, slamming the door shut and roughly tugging her braids loose. She didn’t bother combing them out. “He killed the fawns before they could grow and mate. He ate through our crops like a starved rabbit.” She sat at the wooden bench, crossing her arms. Her father was tending to the hearth, the ghost of a smile on his lips. His amusement only angered her further. “He and his pa grow fat with fortune and food and the rest of us starve!”
Pa clicked his tongue, stirring a pot of boiling water. A chopped, skinny carrot and wilted cabbage leaf floated lazily within it. “And just what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll kill him myself,” she replied. She knew she might just be mad enough to do it.
“Don’t be silly,” Ma hummed. “You’re not a killer.”
“I’ve killed plenty!” Eleski stood from her seat, eyes flaring. So fierce for one so young; wolf-blooded, Pa always said. “I’m a hunter! I’ve killed more than anyone in this village!”
“Don’t be so naive.” Pa tapped the wooden spoon against the pot, and set about pouring the soup into bowls.
Ma just laughed, the sound hollow and empty, shaking her head. “No, she may be right. But it would do her well to remember there’s a difference between killing a deer and killing a person.”
Eleski’s brows furrowed, her anger ebbing further upwards. “Everything falls to an arrow to the chest.”
“Not everything,” Ma said. Her arms began to tremble - she would sometimes have fits of weakness, where she could barely hold herself upright. “No arrow can fell the Fanged Stag.”
Pa raised his brow, and Eleski paused. Ma’s eyes stared dispassionately towards her, and slowly, she lowered herself to sit back on the wooden bench. Pa placed a bowl in front of Ma, then Eleski, and then took a seat for himself.
Ma raised the bowl to her lips, drinking deeply as though it was something holy, and sighed longingly as she placed it back onto the table. Her hands were shaky as she flattened her palms on the table. “He always collects the Hunter’s debts. May he take that blasted child’s heart and use it to breathe life back into these woods.”
Eleski’s ma looked like a woman out of a fairytale, and acted like it too, always reminding Eleski and Pa of old superstitions to be mindful of, murmuring vague prophecies and curses. Pa’s eyes, bark-brown and softened by age, met Eleski’s, sharp and vengeful. They never quite understood. Eleski wasn’t sure they ever would.
They didn’t speak until late that night, when her father traced the mark of the Eldergleam on her forehead - a nighttime blessing, his thumb connecting the leaves to the trunk. Eleski sighed and flopped onto her cot, and prayed that sleep would ease the pains of her stomach.
--
Her rest was fitful, as it always was. She dreamed of chasing, of being chased, her legs aching as the Game reversed; she dreamed of her frost-bitten hands warmed by blood, her mother’s, her father’s, Helmar’s; she dreamed of a red moon, hung in the sky like a blood boil ready to be lanced -
She woke to the sound of a scream.
She jolted upwards, her heart racing; she had a nightmare, but couldn’t recall of what - there was every chance that the scream was just an echo of her mind’s terrors, she told herself. And if it wasn’t that, it was a fox - she used to bolt out of the house every week, convinced some poor woman was being slaughtered, only to find Shor’s little fox laughing gleefully, satisfied at his prank.
The scream echoed again. It was deep, guttural; too human, too pained to be a fox’s cry. She pushed herself from her bed, flung the doe-skin cloak around her shoulders, pulled on her leather-soled shoes, and rushed towards the door, grabbing her father’s hunting dagger from its place by the hearth as she went. She threw open the door, the cold air stinging her face and eyes, before she gasped -
Her mother, ethereal and half-present in the moonlight, stood facing her. Her eyes, silvery blue and unblinking, bore into hers. She looked like a ghost, a fae, a wisp floating in the fields. She looked anything but mortal.
“The Stag always repays the Hunter’s debts,” she echoed, her voice like a bell.
Eleski tried to calm her racing heart. “Ma?”
“He comes and He hunts and He chases. He is His Father’s Son, though he wishes it not so.”
“Ma, you need to go inside.”
“He’s calling for you,” Ma sing-songed, pausing just long enough for that terrible screech to echo, bouncing through the village. “Can’t you hear him? You should go, watch the hunt; partake, if you want. I would. Oh, how I would.”
Eleski stared at her mother and saw a stranger. Her mother stared back, without warmth, without love - her eyes were empty.
“Go inside,” Eleski said, before turning towards the woods and running.
It was harder to navigate in the night, the only light being the dappled moonbeams filtered through leaves. Her feet thumped steadily below her, twigs snapping softly in time with her heartbeat. Tha-thump, tha-thump, her blood sang. A tree trunk in the shape of a bear marked the one-mile mark. An eagle’s nest marked the second. The thickening of the tree trunks marked the third. She ran, following those shrill wails, ears straining - before hands grabbed her from behind.
She stifled a scream as she was pushed against a tree trunk, a meaty hand muffling her - she slashed uselessly at it with her dagger, before the figure suddenly backed away. It left something on her face, some kind of liquid, warm and smelling of copper.
“Eles?” The voice was shaky, deep and familiar.
“...Helmar?” She hissed, panting, wiping away the liquid on her face with her sleeve, still brandishing the dagger threateningly. “What in Oblivion are you doing out here?”
“Running,” he whispered. She could see him trembling, even in the low light. “I’m running.”
“Running from what?”
“From it-” He tried to take a step forward, his knee buckling from under him. He groaned as he fell, reaching out to her - though she only took a step away from him, staring as he laid there, kneeling.
“Help me,” he whimpered. “Please. Please, I don’t wanna die.”
Her eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, and she could see the wound. Her first thought, superstitious and silly, was the Stag.
Don’t be so naive. “What did this?” She asked, looking down at him. Some great beast had taken a chunk out of Helmar's leg. She could see the bone, and it called to her. Her heartbeat slowed to a steady rhythm. She heard music.
“I - I don’t know, I didn’t see-”
“It hurts, doesn’t it?”
The boy faltered, his breath hitching. Eleski’s voice had chilled from a fluttering panic to a strange sort of calm. “Y-Yes,” he muttered.
“I bet it does.” Her chest was still heaving, her voice breathy. “You’ll never walk again, not with that wound.”
“I - I -” Helmar stuttered uselessly. She had leaned forward, her body moving on its own accord; he fell backwards, palms pressing against the dirt as he tried in vain to scramble away. Eleski felt a rush of power, looming over him. Quietly, she kneeled beside him.
The forest was silent, save for his heaving breath, and the wind through trees.
“You’re - you’re nice, Eles,” He pleaded, smiling fearfully. “You’re nice. You can - can help me walk again, help me - help -”
“It’s nice to put animals out of their pain,” she hummed, blood pounding through her ears as she raised the dagger.
She raised it higher, her free hand going to clutch at the hilt. The music soared joyfully.
“Eles - Eles, please -”
The sound of a branch snapping broke her out of her torpor, the melody broken; her head snapped towards the sound.
Her eyes searched in the darkness, but - nothing. Nothing, save for the flash of a stag’s antlers. She glanced down to the sobbing boy beside her, and shakily lowered her dagger.
“Let this be a lesson,” she whispered, voice not entirely her own.
She pushed herself to her feet, glancing back to the source of the sound. There, barely visible in the moonlight, she could just make out the shape of a huge deer, his antlers stretched above him like the branches of the Eldergleam; as its gleaming eyes bore into hers, she clutched her dagger so tight the hilt made an indent in her palm.
It could feed us for weeks, she thought. She felt herself shake with the force of the thought, images of her parents well-fed, her hands bloody, flashing through her mind. The beginnings of a melody sounded in her ears. That meat could save us. Hunt it. Hunt it. Hunt-
She took a step backwards, not breaking its gaze. It stepped forward in time, hooves leaving no tracks. She paused, before shakily lowering her head.
It stared, and lowered its head - it seemed to nod, and so she turned and she ran. She pretended not to hear the sound of bones cracking under hooves, of flesh squelching between teeth. She pretended not to hear Helmar’s wailing screams, broken cries for mercy, and bitter curses. As she bolted further away, lungs burning from the exertion, she pretended not to hear as Helmar Thaneson’s dying screeches came to a sudden stop.
She broke from the treeline, dried blood still caking the side of her face. Ma wasn’t on the porch; in fact, it was as if no one in the village was awake. She came to a stumbling stop, chest aching as she struggled for air. She rested her hands on her knees as she doubled over, and emptied the cabbage-carrot soup by the porch of her home.
***
When Eleski Kyne-Blood, who had just passed eighteen winters, returned to the village, she was dragging a moose on a skiff behind her. It had taken time, but nature’s blessing returned to Shor’s Stone - birds sang in the trees, hearty meals of venison and goat and boar were had every night, and the rabbits and foxes played at the village’s edge.
Her eyes looked forward - her father was there, as he always was when she went off on her own, awaiting her return. He seemed to be talking to a group of adventurers - that’s what she assumed, at least. A moss-skinned Orc in heavy armor, a scaled Argonian in mage’s clothes, a green-eyed Khajiit in robes, a wood elf in light armor, a Nord in an iron cuirass, a gold elf in master’s robes - they were outsiders, and Pa seemed happy enough talking with them. He loved outsiders.
His amber eyes lit like a wildfire when they fell on her and her prize. “Just in time,” he called. Eleski squinted against the sun, waving in response as she grew closer. “We’ll be having guests tonight!”
Her arms ached from dragging the damned moose as she finished her approach - a fact the Orc woman seemed to notice. She gave a tusk-toothed smile, and Eleski went a bit red despite herself. The Orc gestured to the skiff. “Here, let me get that for you.”
“Ah, uh - thanks.” Eleski moved so she could take hold of it. She watched as the woman dragged it with ease to the center of the village, until her father clapped her on the back.
He cleared his throat, and with a dramatic flare that made him seem much younger, he declared, “Meet the Beastfolk Company! These fine mercenaries took care of a few bandits who’d planned a raid. Stopped them before they could get to the village.”
Eleski again looked over the Company. They were raggedy, a bit bruised, and covered in dirt and mud. She smiled. “Wind be at your back,” she greeted. “You’ll fit in just fine.”
“We’re not planning on staying long,” said the elf. “Ah - I am Syrabane. We ask for nothing but a warm meal and a place to sleep.”
“And a bath,” said the Argonian towards the elf. They turned towards Eleski. “Hi. I’m Weedum. Praise be to Todd.”
“Oh, are we doing introductions?” The Khajiit’s ears perked up, their tale lashing excitedly behind them. “I’m Aldra!”
“I’m Maces,” said the Nord. He seemed a bit quiet.
The wood elf was silent until Weedum poked his side. “Rindolin,” he said simply.
“Badbr!” called the Orc woman, armor clanking as she jogged over to join them. She flashed that same toothy grin. “Good to meet you.”
“Eleski,” she responded. They were a motley crew, and yet something about them struck her as warm. Welcoming. “We’ve a few bedrolls to spare, and I’m guessin’ my father already opened our hearth to you.”
Pa beamed.
“Make yourselves at home,” she continued, nodding to the group. “We’ll get some stew started.”
They made their way around the village, chattering among themselves. Badbr and Syrabane went first, with Rindolin following them, and Weedum following him. Aldra spared a glance towards Maces, before disappearing into the hut. Soon, all that was left was Pa, Eleski, and Maces-the-Nord.
There was a short silence, before one spoke. “There’s not normally just one hunter in a village,” Maces said, staring off into the woods. “It’s safer in groups. What happened to the others?”
Pa answered before she could. “I’m gettin’ too old. We’re a small enough village - we make do with just the one.” They didn’t talk about what happened to Helmar. No one really knew. Maces hummed absentmindedly, eyes still trained on the forest, and Eleski got the feeling he knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
“You should get inside,” Eleski said. “Sundown’s approaching.”
Maces glanced towards her, raising a brow. “You don’t stay out past sundown?”
“Strange creatures lurk in those woods.”
He laughed quietly, eyes glinting, and Eleski went to bed that night after endless stories with a full stomach, a warm cloak, and a secret shared.
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or - a general finds himself troubled on a late night, and writes a letter never meant to be seen.
[an unsent letter found in the barracks of alinor, addressed simply as ‘to: the king’; the paper is folded, undated, and written in a shaky, inexperienced hand.]
Lord Zirafith Blackbird,
I’ve known you and your brother for some time now. If you had told me years ago that this is where my path would lead, that yours would be the family I serve, I would laugh in your face. Hai Resdaynia, osa’serpul gahmerdohn; Sharmat-murhjul.
And yet, here I am. Your loyal general, advisor, friend; whatever is required of me. It gets suffocating, Zira-heart-of-stone, erasing myself in the name of your victory, and yet I find myself unable to leave your side. Is it fear that keeps me here? Maybe at first. Certainly. How I managed to fall prey to your charms as you tore my flesh like a lover tore a page from a book, I will not know.
How you talked me into staying, into seeing your family as something worthy, I will not know.
How you turned the scars on my back into something I treasure, I will not know.
I’m thinking of Nova again, Zira of the Ash-Blight, and I see a reflection. Will I be like her? Shunned? Outcasted? Will I join a House out of spite?
Isn’t that what I’ve already done?
What fate awaits me? Will my father be proud?
How much life is left for me?
I don’t know. I’m still mourning, and my mind is full of death’s shadows. I began to think, what will happen to me once I die? Where will my ashes go? How will it happen?
I knew, then. I knew. The knowledge came to me like a song, a steady thump thrumming in time with a heartbeat. There was no flash of light, no voice of glory; only the surety of a truth I did not possess.
The wise-woman once told me that should I ever learn to use a pen, to never write down words of the future. These words should be saved for speaking, lest by writing them, they become prophecy. Here is a prophecy, as true as the bones of Nirn, for you.
You with be the death of me, Zirafith of the Tribe Unmourned; I will die in your name, by your side, or by your blade. I will die, and you will carry that weight, and the ungrieved shall grieve. I will die well. Peace isn’t something I am afforded.
There. It is written.
Under Moon and Star, Zira of the restless nights, I am yours.
It came off as more of a grimace - it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and his tusks stretched his lower lip awkwardly. The flicker of a knotted furrow between his brows did nothing to lessen the effect. He braced his hands on the sink below the mirror and let his head hang for a moment, groaning.
Try again, whispered the tiny, optimistic, spitefully hopeful voice in the back of his mind. An echo of who he was before, the last clinging ghost of a man who was once as charming as he was pretty. It was a counterpart to the foreign whispers entwining him like thorny vines, their bitter sting rooted in the lump of cursed rock where his heart should be - once red and lively, beating with the thrill of life and freedom, now cold and black and burning with hatred.
Not even metaphorically, the voice whispered again, not without humor. Now, stop moping about rocks and smile.
“No,” he said.
Do it, you coward. The voice was sly, playful. Silly, even.
He raised his head, leveling a challenging glare to the mirror. His simmering glower was enough to make even Mogrul the Loan-Shark back down, but it seemed he was immune to himself. “I looked like I was trying to bite someone.”
Because it’s not genuine. Think of something you love, and try again.
“Alright, fine - fine.” He huffed, and closed his eyes. He pictured Veena, the beauty of the Blackbirds; he loved her, would trek across still-burning foyadas for her, would die for her. He pictured Elshad, her smile when she was turned back into herself, the way she held Veena and Rune in her cool arms; the giddiness he felt when he laid beside them, trying to shield them both at once. He would be their sword and shield, if they would have him, and by the gods, they had him - and refused to let go.
Quite the poet.
He opened his eyes, only to be met by his own scowl.
Rune winced, and lightly let his head bang against the mirror.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I’m wasting my time.”
You’re being silly. His reflection tilted his head, mirroring his stare.
“Excuse me? You’re being silly - sitting here and making me practice smiles in mirrors,” he growled - grumbled, more like. There wasn’t as much fire in his tone as he had intended, the comeback falling a bit flat. His reflection only seemed amused by it, lips quirking into a smile.
Says the man yelling at himself in a bathroom.
A startled noise left him, and he raised his fist to his mouth to stifle it. “I - how dare you, I’m -” There was that noise again, and again, before it became a steady stream of noise. There was a moment before he realized that his reflection was laughing.
He was laughing.
The thorns that entangled him loosened for a blessed moment, the absurdity fully hitting him. Bahrjulihn’ruhn gro-Yatuklak, born of the lost cities, rune of the fire-stones, revered and scorned and feared in Raven Rock, son of a mabrigash witch and an Orc legionnaire ... sitting in front a mirror in the Retching Netch, practicing his smiles.
His head was thrown backwards, his teeth biting lightly into the skin of his knuckle to quiet himself. Full-chested peels of laughter bounced around the bathroom, his bemusement overruling his will to shut up already; he managed to calm the laughter into hiccuping chuckles, and then awkward clears of the throat, his eyes meeting his reflection’s.
His ears, long and mangled, were pressed contentedly against his head. His eyes wrinkled, usually making him appear older than he was, now giving him an air of mirth. His grin, lopsided and messy and real, grew smaller but just as real as he ducked his head low and left the bathroom.
The patron closest to him - a mercenary, Serjo Sero - shot him a strange look from behind his mask as Rune brushed by, clearing his throat.
(in which a demigod asks a daedric cat for the secrets of time. feat. @mothermara‘s maces, whom i love dearly. maces if you’re out there-)
There was once a Demi-Daedra who called himself Maces.
Now, you see, Aldra had been around for a very long time; they existed at least as long as Meridia, a sister to them in all things but power, though their name and status was not always the same. Empires rose and fell, gods ascended and perished, and Aldra, a dark star laying in the depths of Mundus, watched with an ever-curious eye. They didn’t remember the early days, those shining moments of near-divinity. They weren’t sure they’d want to.
The point of the matter was this: they’d seen many things, but none so curious as this.
Aldra, at the moment, was an old Khajiit. The alfiq-raht was a sailor once, before he’d washed up on Apocrypha’s shores. They’d held this form for some time, grey-stripped and wide-eyed, resting around Maces’ neck like a heavy scarf.
“If,” Aldra began, voice tentative and quiet, “this plan of yours were to fail...”
Maces was handsome in an easy sort of way - there was a time, before Aldra had found favor and sanctuary with the Mad God, that they might’ve described him as beautiful. Now, though, his face was set, eyes hardened with sharp determination. “It won’t.”
“And what does Weedum think of this plan?” They asked, tail lashing behind them. Aldra was fond of the mage - as far as they could tell, no Divine blood ran in their veins save for that of the Hist, and yet they knew things - things Aldra thought only their propagator had known.
There was a pause, before Maces gave a quiet hum. “...I can’t tell if they’re approving or disapproving.”
“It’s been attempted before.”
“I know,” Maces said. He was pacing, his armor shifting with every step. Aldra shifted, trying not to get their fur caught between the metal plates. “That’s why I need you. You know how it was done, right? You saw it.”
“There were several ways, each with a different result. Alduin’s banishment, Nerevar’s death, the Dwemer’s sudden leaving, the Tiber Wars, the Numidium’s awakening...” Aldra’s ears flicked as they scoured their memory. The feeling of time being reshaped was an unpleasant one; timelines blended together like dunes shifting in the desert. They blinked slowly, batting lazily at Maces’ hair. “As above, so below; breaking time is no easy task. And there is, of course, the danger of breaking it further than we meant - if you find some way to be rid of our kin, then we may not exist, Breaking the Dragon without intent. Intent is a powerful tool, Maces. We do not need another Middle Dawn.”
“We’ll find a way,” Maces said, and his voice was nothing short of certain; Aldra did not speak for a long moment; their tail still lashing in thought, ears flicking every other moment or two.
“...We could steal an Elder Scroll,” they suggested, only half-joking.
There was a pause, before Maces cracked the hint of a smile. “We totally fucking could.”
“We’re very similar,” said the Raven-Haired Prince of Insanity, and the Paladin did not look at her.
The false-sun blazed in the skies above Coldharbour. It was strange, to feel his skin boiling under the blood-and-rust-crusted armor, and yet to have an aching in his soul so deep that his entire body shivered with chills. The graveyard - Cemetery of the Church of Arkay, he reminded himself, his footsteps crunching as he walked - was full of bones. They were stacked haphazardly everywhere in the cemetery, as if the bodies interred there were simply tossed in piles and left to decay, their bones bleached white by the visage of Order’s sterilizing light.
A few of the newer bodies, half-decayed, were hung from ropes and nailed to lifeless trees. The sickly-sweet scent of decay filled the air, and it was almost a comfort - if Trinimac himself appeared to the Paladin and told him he would find a soothing melody in the crunch of bones a fitting replacement for birdsong, he would have revoked his god then and there.
“You are a knight looking for something to die for, and yet you still live,” sing-songed the Prince, floating in a lazy arch above the Paladin. Her hair moved as if the air were water, cat-like eyes drooping tiredly as she watched him. “You crave peace, and yet gladly march to war when it’s asked of you. You follow one with the blood of Kings, bending to their every whim, not out of duty, but out of love.”
“Don’t speak to me of love,” the Paladin snapped, voice hoarse from disuse. “You know nothing of it.”
The Prince laughed, throwing her head back, her hair waving gently in the scorching air. “My dear boy,” she said, “I became what I am for love.”
The Paladin ignored her, marching past the Prince. He crushed a skull as he went, savoring the crunch.
“My friends are here,” the Mad-Raven-Prince said, and the Paladin ignored her. “Ser Amiel. Rathas. Belrand.” There was the sound of feet hitting the floor, and the Paladin paused.
The Prince hummed, the note low and melancholy. “I died to save them, and I came back as a god. My companion died to save us all, and he became a god.”
The Paladin turned around to look, and the Prince looked remarkably ungodly; her hair was tangled and matted, her eyes brown and red-rimmed.
She held out her hand. He watched as thorns, small and perfect, pierced through the palm of her hand - slowly at first, a pinprick of blood turning into a steady stream. “What have you died for?”
The Paladin didn’t speak.
The thorns pierced out her wrists, her arms, her shoulders. She smiled.
“Are you prepared for what you will become?”
Her voice came from behind him; her lips moved, and thorns crawled from her throat.
“You are heaven-sent,” she whispered, her voice echoing from his left to his right. “You are justice. You are a murderer.”
“Shut up,” said the Paladin, turning away from her. “Shut up.”
“You are nothing,” said the Prince. The blood turned her skin rose-red -
Since when do gods bleed?
The Prince once known as Merry disappeared into a red mist, and Rune was left alone in Coldharbour.
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(feat. @brokencrown’s nerevarine, moon! possibly part one. we’ll see)
The crystals were the most concerning thing, really.
Iiraeniil frowned, glancing up at the pacing Dunmer. Spinning globules of metal and light danced overhead, simulating the orbits of the Divines and Mundus, along with Masser and Secunda, and casting the halfmer’s tower in gentle, fluctuating light. The sound of intermittent rattling of the Orrery overhead interrupted the soft footfalls of Fathili’s leather boots as they circled once, twice, thrice around the table they had laid their friend upon.
Iiraeniil hadn’t seen Thili in years - not since they were taken to their supposed execution in the Vvardenfell district. For all she knew, they were dead or worse - impressed into the service of the Blades. Their hair was longer now, wrinkles pressed into their twilight-grey skin, silvery scars marring the black-blue enchanted ink of their tattoos. Whatever had happened during their time in Vvardenfell had not been kind to them, it seemed.
To find them trudging towards her tower, carrying a wounded elf, had certainly been ... a surprise. The unconscious mer they held had a gaping wound across his chest, right over the heart - and, if the bruising around the wound was any indication, a few cracked ribs around the organ, as if his chest had been caved in and his heart ripped out. A cloth mask obscured the bottom half of his face - from what she could see, Iiraeniil figured he was either a very beautiful man or a very handsome woman. Slim and muscular, with dark, dark grey skin cut through with lines of red warpaint - he might be pretty when not half-dead.
Helping Fathili up the remaining stairs was a blur of adrenaline and concern. Once the injured mer was on her table, though, her instinct took over, and here they were - Fathili, worriedly tugging at muddy brown strands of their long hair, and Iiraeniil glancing between the two Dunmer, a Restoration spell gathering in her open palm, a quiet look of complete and utter shock overtaking any urgency she might have felt.
Thili caught her eyes, and their face contorted with worry and confusion. “He’s hurt - Nils, you have to help him, he’s -”
Iiraeniil raised a golden-toned hand, the magic fading from her fingertips. “He’s healed.”
Thili paused, arms falling gently to their side. “...Already? You worked that quickly?”
“No,” Iiraeniil replied, eyes trailing back to the unconscious figure. The blood that had pooled in his chest had crusted over, forming a sort of ... natural bandage, replacing torn skin the same way a Mending spell might’ve. Except - except.
“This friend of yours,” Iiraeniil began, voice bordering somewhere between cautious and deeply curious, “As far as you aware, does he hold any special ... abilities?”
Thili’s concern faded into confusion, their brows knitted together. “Wait. Wait, what do you mean, ‘no‘?”
The magician didn’t respond at first, the warm, golden glow of Restoration giving way to a bright white light. “Abilities. Does he have any?”
“Not - not as far as I know -”
“Nothing?” Iiraeniil watched as the crystals shimmered and deepened, observing with the sort of morbid fascination that came with wizardry, “How much do you know?”
“Not much. Not enough.”
The light bounced off of the crusted blood, draping the dim room with vivid refractions, as if shining a light through a cut garnet. Strips of the same substance - strips that Iiraeniil hadn’t notice in her haste - cast more of the graceful, red beams of light onto the various baubles of Iiraeniil’s tower. On his legs, torso, arms - everywhere there was a ‘scar’, it had apparently healed over with this strange, crystalline substance.
Thili had fallen silent, moving to Iiraeniil’s side - the action was familiar, it seemed, an old reflex still ingrained into their muscle memory.
“...Faelyn did this,” they whispered, reaching a hand towards the wounded elf’s chest. The glow, at first, was faded to the point of being unnoticable, though growing in its intensity as their fingers ghosted over the crystal sheen. The refractions that had hung suspended on the tower’s wall dulled as the light grew, casting the table and the pair around it in the an almost playful light. It followed Thili’s fingers, flowing languidly from scar to scar as they moved from his chest, to his shoulder, to his arm. “So. These... these are scars.”
Iiraeniil could still see the blood under the thin sheen. It was disconcerting - and marvelous. “You’re familiar with these markings, then?”
“I’m familiar with every mark on his body.”
“Oh.” Iiraeniil paused, blinking. If anyone would bring their half-dead lover to be healed by their ex, it was the lovable moron of Fathili Cursed-Stars. “Oh, I see!”
Thili stared for a moment, before something clicked in their mind. “Wait, no -”
“I had assumed he was simply a friend -”
The Dunmer scrunched their nose, a hand tugging again at their hair. “No - I mean, maybe? It’s complicated, but - not like that, woman!” Thili’s hand smacked gently against Iiraeniil’s shoulder, and she found herself smiling despite herself. “The man runs around in nothing but a loincloth is all!”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Iiraeniil said, nodding solemnly. Thili sighed and slinked backwards a bit.
“He’ll be okay,” they asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question. A mantra they were no doubt repeating in their head like a prayer.
“You look like Boethiah, but ugly,” Bronwen said, and Nathak threw their half-eaten apple at her.
“Jagar Tharn was right, actually,” they stated, before yelping as they ducked to dodge Bronwen’s counter-attack -- the heavy spell-tome she was carrying, aimed right at their head.
It had been a few months since Bronwen’s brother Talin had returned from ... Morrowind? Skyrim? Wherever it was he had disappeared for ten years. He brought his father home with him, General Talin - or just the General, as Nathak called him. They never quite understood the habit of people naming children after themselves, but - ah well.
The point was, Talin Warhoft (The One Trapped By Jagar Tharn With The Emperor In Oblivion) and his beloved son, Talin Warhoft (The One Who Saved The Emperor), were back. Jagar Tharn was dead, the Empire was recovering, and Bronwen’s family was together after a decade.
Joking about Jagar was how Bronwen coped.
That was also how Nathak found out that Bronwen, as the second-born child of the Emperor’s highest-ranked advisors, was considered part of the Royal Family. That was a doozy.
“I’ll trap you in Oblivion, see how you like that -”
Nathak dodged the heavy tome again, laughing loudly as the pair began their dance through the Palace Gardens. Bronwen had moved there with her mother after the Talins returned, and she’d turned into something of a rose. She blossomed, her dark skin complimented by the pastel blues and pinks of the robes she wore; she had turned from a shy, scrappy farmer into a proper, honest-to-gods noblewoman.
Except for this bit, though.
“I’m going to fuck your mother for that, Nathak-Nammu!”
Nathak wheezed, picking up a stick and trying to fend off the ruthless attacks. Bronwen was grinning, wild brown hair beginning to fall from its impeccable bun. One good whack broke Nathak’s makeshift weapon.
“My stick!” they wailed, only to grunt as Bronwen whacked the book agains their shoulder. “Ow!”
Nathak visited the Imperial City often these days, at least once a month - twice, if they were lucky. They avoided the Talins out of ... shyness? The father-son duo were intimidating. But Bronwen was always happy to receive them, and Lady Warhoft was as kind as always. Her cooking only got better as her status grew, it seemed.
Nathak dodged another hit, staying low and charging Bronwen - tackling her by her midriff, sending the pair careening right into a bed of carefully cultivated - and extremely rare - Dunmeri Ash Roses.
The thorns pricked at the pair’s skin, and they both cursed lowly as they scrambled to escape the vines. Nathak hissed as a thorn got caught on their skin, yanking the flesh apart as they stood.
“Ow,” they whispered, frowning. They glanced over to see Bronwen wasn’t much better - she was glaring at the tears in her robes, brushing off dirt and mud.
They both froze as they heard light footsteps, followed by quiet humming. They met each other’s eyes, and, slowly, looked downwards at the trampled roses.
The footsteps suddenly stopped, as did the humming. Bronwen was petrified, and Nathak winced deeply. They both raised their heads to see an old man in a royal purple cloak, with a heavy, ruby-red jeweled amulet around his neck, staring at them in confusion and ... amusement?
I remember a while ago someone was interested in the pirate version of the Shia LaBeouf song that I mentioned so I finally got my shit together and took a video of it. It’s pretty brilliant.
“Your Godliness,” began the Outlander Incarnate, kneeling before Vivec, “Now that we’ve had that delightful conversation - fuck you, by the way, for being so fucking vague - I do have one last question for you.”
Vivec, weary and far more tired than ze had been in a very long time, sighed. “Ask.”
“In your Lessons, you mentioned ‘milk-fingers’. Is that, like...”
“It’s a penis,” ze said.
Nathak paused, biting back a laugh. “Right, no, yeah, I got that bit. But why milk fingers? I mean, I know why, but shit, Vehk, I can never drink milk again because of that!”
“I did it to spite you specifically.”
Nathak paused, surprised. After a moment, they snickered - then burst into quiet, barely contained laughter, stifling it behind their hand. “I - I knew it,” they said, whatever venom in their tone evaporated by their snorting chuckles. “You’re - you. You are a milk-finger, serjo.”
“Your words wound me,” Vivec said, completely void of emotion - despite the small smile pulling at hir lips. It was tiny, easily overlooked, but Nathak caught a glimpse of it, and beamed. Ze sighed, quietly amused. “How shall I ever recover from this grevious wound.”
“You could -“ The Nerevarine cleared their throat, fighting more bubbles of laughter, “Turn back into an egg?”
“... Ah. Yes. Why didn’t I think of that. Let me just magic myself back into a fetus.”
Nathak’s smile grew. “You could, Serjo ‘Love Is Under My Control Only’ —“ They cut themself off. “Wait - wait, I have another question!”
Vivec crossed hir legs, floating upwards. Ze rested hir elbow on hir knee, and hir head on hir hand. “Oh no.”
Nathak reached into their robes, crinkled up a note, and threw it at Vivec. It bounced off hir shoulder. “Shut the fuck up, let me ask my question. It’s important.”
Vivec’s brows raised curiously, hir head tilting.
“What if, when I find Sunder, I just hit Dagoth Ur with it?
“...What?”
“People can’t hold the Profane Tools, right? So, what if - what if they’re used as a weapon? What if I stab him with Keening?”
“...You know what. Why don’t you try it?”
Nathak blinked, their expression one of utter delight, their jaw slightly ajar. “What?”
“Try it. When you go to Dagoth Ur, hit him over the head with Sunder and stab him with Keening. I dare you.”
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“I’ve been through some shit, Marto,” Nathak said, their head thumping against the wooden table where they sat. “Your dad fucked me up! He fucked me up real bad!”
Baurus watched with some amusement as Martin winced, partly in sympathy, partly in confusion. The Blade cleared his throat. “How much wine have you had, Tha?”
“Not nearly e-fuckin’-nough,” they mumbled, reaching for the bottle again.
Anskir, with all the grace of a middle-aged half-dragon Nord in love for the very first time, did not look at her apprentice.
“Anskir. Anskir, answer me.”
Clai was a young lad, just freshly nineteen years of age. They’d been traveling together since he was sixteen -- he reminded her so much of herself when they met in the newly-rebuilt Helgen; young, troublesome, and on a dark path. He was a lithe, short lad, with light brown skin and a curled crown of black hair. Clai was of the lively sort, always on the move; she could see him becoming an actor, if his path hadn’t merged with hers.
“Anskir Stormcrown, Dragon of the North, protector of Skyrim, did you and my mother fu-”
“I was hunting,” Anskir replied, running an oiled cloth over the blade of her great-sword.
“All night?”
“Aye.”
“Near Dibella’s Grove?”
“Dibella’s Gro -” She sighed harshly, shaking her head. “Claidheamhe, by Talos’s hairy tits I swear if you say that again...”
“Oohh, Talos’s hairy tits, that’s a new one. I’m putting that one on the list next to Orkey’s oozing underarms, Mara’s majestic thighs, and, who could forget, Shor’s glorious arse cheeks.” He reached into his satchel, pulling out an old, damaged quill, voice full of mirth. “We could make a book full of these!”
She frowned, and ran the cloth over her blade again.
“If you were hunting,” he began again after scribbling down the phrase (and a rather vulgar drawing next to it) in his journal, “How comes you have no spoils with you?”
“I - was clumsy,” Anskir mumbled. “Scared them away. ‘m not exactly built for stealth.”
“Ah. So, what you’re saying is that you were loud --”
The red-headed Nord sighed. “Your mother and I had relations last night, Clai.”
Clai went red, a flash of bewilderment and confusion on his face, before it gave way to disgust. “That- that is - why would you tell me that!”
She shrugged. “We’ve decided to start officially seeing each other.”
Clai threw his hands up, distraught, “This is hell! I’ve died and Mehrunes Dagon stole my soul!”
“I should be moved in by the end of the month.”
He turned heel and walked away, groaning all the while. “No! Goodbye! I’m leaving and never coming back!”
Satisfied, Anskir patted the blade of her sword, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips.
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