PinesCider

humiliating cruelty

oh miraak the beautiful man that you are…..this canvas looked a lot better on my ipad 😭

Nocturnal is done! Boethia is next :)

Some close ups:

Muirenn is back :)

Alduin Crunch Munch

Concept art for The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

tagged by @sulphuricgrin, @umbracirrus and @chiqita - thank you!!

For this week, I'm back with my Welkynar gang. I'm still stuck on the Recovery prompt from june, mostly because work has been kicking my ass this last month, but also because what I anticipated to be a small, 3k words thing has somehow turned into a monster that will be above 10k when I'm done, which will hopefully be very soon (only one more scene to go) so that I can get started on my Dreams idea. Anyway, back to the Welkynar, who are making some new acquaintances. Nobody is especially thrilled about this.

Ulfric Stormcloak both is and isn't what Iriniel expected. She doesn't know what she thought he'd look like, but she must admit his name suits him well, right down to the stormy expression that greets them as the Dragonborn leads them before his throne. He seems to respect her greatly, maybe even likes her vastly more than she does him, and so tries to school his face into a more neutral expression even at the sight of the elves with her. The unpleasant, piercing look to his eyes, he cannot hide, however. There is also curiosity there, she notes, something not yet drowned out by disdain for anyone whose skin is gray or golden, but she does not like the way his gaze lingers on Keldarin. He has been stared at enough as of late. At least he addresses the Dragonborn first. Small mercies, Iriniel supposes, because none of them know how to speak to this man, who could send the entire city guard after them, if he so pleased. The Dragonborn could probably get them out safely even if things should go awry; she has told them that Stormcloak possesses the same ability to Shout as she does, but to a much lesser degree, and she has to assume that means they will be safe. Unless, of course, it was all a ploy to separate them from their gryphons and take them out where they cannot escape, but – no. Iriniel cannot imagine that. Why go to such lengths for no reason at all? "Dragonborn," Ulfric greets slowly, and Iriniel understands why people would be easily convinced to join his cause. It is, objectively, a good voice, though, from what she's heard, the dead High King probably would not agree. "Why do you come into my city, bringing with you what looks to me like soldiers of the enemy?" "Jarl Ulfric," the Dragonborn greets in return, her voice carefully even in the tone people use when they have to speak to someone they want something from, even if they cannot stand them and hate to ask at all. "These are not Thalmor. Rather, the Dominion has caused them great harm. It is not my story to tell, but my understanding is that their loyalty now lies first and foremost with each other, and no longer with those who rule their homeland. They seek only the safety of somewhere the Dominion will not reach them." Ulfric inclines his head ever so slightly, exchanging a look with his … second? Iriniel is not sure what his position is, but the man wearing what looks to be the remains of a bear on his head seems even more unpleasant than the Jarl himself, and far more murderous as well.

I'm dropping this now because I know most of tomorrow is going to be busy. I'll check posts i'm tagged in in the evening <3 work (as in the dogs i'm watching) has made it difficult to work on art or writing :(

I'll share what I have for my entry for "Dream" from @tes-season-unending-fest. Specifically this is from young Ophelia's pov, her watching a worrying health episode with her mother. :') that's totallllllly not going to affect her sleep later

words: 550 || warnings? minor medical episode

Mama doesn’t fall. Her father catches her before it happens. But still, Ophelia sees the almost of it happen.  

She sees Mama’s face go pale and strange, sees her mouth open around a breath that doesn’t come right. She sees Papa turn her toward him, one hand at her waist, one hand at her jaw, making her look at him. Mama tries to push at his wrist and fails.  

He says something; it’s too low for her to catch all of it, but she hears Mama’s name inside it. Lilliandra. Not Lilli. Not any of the quiet names that belong to their room and the mornings when Mama is still half asleep. He moves her, lowering her into the chair – not her chair at the table, but the one closer to the hearth, with arms she can grip. Mama’s fingers closer around the wood as if the chair might disappear beneath her. 

 “Breath,” Papa tells her. 

Mama makes the small kettle sound again on the inhale. 

Ophelia feels cold from it. 

Her father doesn’t turn from her mother but calls Serana’s name. Her aunt’s hand tightens at Ophelia’s shoulder.  

She doesn’t want to move. Ophelia wants to stay and watch. If she’s taken away, the room will keep happening without her, and she won’t know where Mama’s breathing goes.  

But Serana bends besides her, face calm in the awful way adults are calm when they’re pretending. “Come with me, little moth.” 

Ophelia refuses, her fingers curl around the table edge. 

Uncle Elikar moves fast, moving to the cabinet where the medicines lives. He opens one draw, then another. Glass bottles clink together.  

Papa kneels in front of her mother. Ophelia has seen him kneel to speak to herself, to tie her boot laces, to examine a beetle she brought inside. But she’s never seen him kneel like this. His back is straight; his shoulders are still. One hand rests on Mama’s knee, anchoring her; his other hand settles on her upper arm.  

He speaks low to Mama, still too quiet for Ophelia to catch all the words, but she catches some. “Slowly— Again — Look at me.”  

Mama tries, but the breath whistles again. 

Ophelia’s own throat squeezes. 

Serana doesn’t pull. She waits half a breath, then says softly in an attempt to comfort, “She’s being helped, Ophelia.” Her hand slides down to Ophelia’s hand; Ophelia lets her hold it because Serana’s fingers are cool and steady. 

But Ophelia doesn’t move from her spot, shaking her head in a silent protest.

Elikar comes with the small blue bottle. He doesn’t look at Ophelia. That’s how she knows it’s bad. Elikar always looks at her when adults become too quick. He always gives her one of his little almost-smiles, the kind that means, I see you. It’s not yours to fix. 

He doesn’t do it now. 

Serana crouches beside Ophelia. Before she tries to say another word, Ophelia shakes her head again, her curls moving with it. 

Mama coughs, coughs, coughs, then bends forward so sharply Papa’s hand closes around her shoulder. Elikar says something about dizziness. Papa says something back. Mama makes a sound that might be annoyance if there were enough breath inside it. 

Ophelia can’t focus on the words, her ears buzzing in the fear that’s bubbling up. 

Dane Olds is a legendary 3D Modeler.