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miraak is braiding nightshade into asgeirr's hair. no he did not ask for permission.
“ Is this supposed to be a reference to something? To a past career maybe? ” They're sneering, but they're happy to be doted on by Miraak. They're practically falling asleep with his hands in their hair!
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“&– - If you want to build a ship, don't drum up the people to gather wood, divide the work, and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast endless sea.” // @bendwill liked for a oneliner
“ You and Tiamat are two unlike things. Don’t fool yourself that she can ever understand you. ”
a ghost of history stumbles backwards into the darkness. it eludes her again and she almost mourns it. she wishes she understood it, wishes she could try, but following myths has always been a futile task, even for her. she watches the view from the doorway: and, wrapped up in potent emptiness, she thought she imagined the silhouettes taking shape across the street. and still, she knows what hides in the darkness. she has always known. she was so young when she came to tiamat, her chest nearly torn apart and her soul sorely bruised from the pain that had scarred her. for years, she would have sobbed at her feet, knowing there would be no comfort. shams wanted a choice and the two of them gave her the barriers, the ghosts, the inevitable curse. tiamat, however, felt more brutal than her brother. when she wanted comfort, all she was offered was the truth.
it often felt as if she walked beside her: as if she lived beneath the bridge, as if she felt the yearning of a monster. whether she ought to hate the dragoness or not, she has always felt like she was a friend not much behind. because bahamut might have been a mentor to her, but that was all he ever truly was. his goodness was radiant (and perhaps so was hers), but she knew the rot inside of her had no place in his home. so as she stares out into that inescapable darkness now, it begins to storm. thick, unrelenting, the rain soaks through the streets, the buildings, trees obediently in the way until they snap. misty raindrops blow into her eyes and nestle like needles in her skin. she lets out a breath as she studies @bendwill. how alike do you have to be to someone for them to understand you? she thinks it, but what comes out is more of a speculation than anything. either way, it is one worth making. ❛ do you understand her, then? tiamat? ❜
when she says her name, it is almost as if she's hunting for the shadow she swore she saw earlier so she can confirm it wasn’t real. it doesn't matter, in the end, because she is no longer the blind girl from before. the days before the divine statis were long gone. the cave has never been her refuge: it was only a place where she had chosen to die. in the celestial downpour that almost wiped her from the face of the earth, she still stands and with the greatest reverence she holds out her hand. to what, one may ask? everything, nothing. ❛ i know i am not, but your words aren't heard by unwilling ears. thank you. ❜ she stops, head tilting. the sorceress has never truly worshipped either gods, but she had heard whispers about the betrayer here and there. it's hard not to, considering the stories others share. it interests her, truly, because it is not often she meets someone who had dealt with the archdevil. ❛ what do you think of bahamut, then? or have you not given him much thought? ❜
“Just let me go or take me with you.”
The battle was long — and seeing the very man in the flesh who had been tormenting him for months now, stealing all his hard work, sending people to kill him, it left him with a renewed motivation to ensure that his work would be done as soon as he left Apocrypha. Mora, championless, and the First Dragonborn, dead. Finally, Miraak was in his sights, and Ásgeirr would be the one victorious.
It was obvious the larger man underestimated him. He was used to it at this point. He would be lying if he said it didn't amuse him, seeing the way the First reacted to being pinned to the ground with a dagger pressed to his throat and another pressed to his stomach. “ I should leave you behind. ” He growls, pale brows furrowed and ochre-hued eyes narrowed. Months of harassment, and he has the power to end it now.
So why does he feel so conflicted about it?
The last Dragonborn was born hundreds of years before Ásgeirr, the last person who'd lived that had even an inkling of what they were going through. No one else who knows how it feels to have that fire inside, no one else who knows how lonely it is. With one push of his blade, they will be the last one again. The end of an era will come, one where they can live relatively unbothered once more. At least, until they must face Alduin. Perhaps another Dragonborn would increase his chances — but on the other hand, if they choose to free Miraak, it will be the last choice they make. So they choose.
“ Get up. Now. ” Quickly, Ásgeirr steps back, daggers still drawn and ready to strike. “ I will take you with me. Do not make me regret this. ” He all but hisses, eyes still narrowed. His one chance to speak with someone like him, and he is not inclined to waste it in a Daedric Prince's lair. “ I know the way. Come on. ”
“&– - How often it is that you prove decision against your usage as my host...... beyond a temporary necessity..... the correct one.” // @bendwill liked for a starter!
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6’10”
❛[ SEND YOUR MUSES HEIGHT FOR COMPARISON! ≻ highly accepting
@bendwill
💕
❛[ SEND 💕 FOR A LOVE CALCULATION ≻ accepting!
58%: A relationship between Hermaeus Mora and Miraak has a reasonable chance of working out, but on the other hand, it might not
@bendwill
They stare intently at Miraak, mind racing with thoughts and memories of the past week. A killing competition was normal for the two of them, really, considering the amount of crypts and bandits they encountered in their travels. And even now, Ásgeirr couldn't put his finger on what was different about this one. Maybe it was how confidently @bendwill strung up a line of draugr with magic, or how he looked ( or rather, came off, since his face was hidden most of the time ) when the Last proved that they were able to kill each draugr in a different way with the same blade. It felt different, and he didn't know why.
Or maybe he did. It was the feeling coming from his targets whenever he'd seduce them. The feeling he knew they felt before he took them to bed and sliced their throats. It wasn't very often he was on the other side of it, and in fact, it had been years since he had. Brynjolf of the Thieves Guild, and they both had been so very young. Despite his experience with the rest of it, the feelings part was something Ásgeirr was quite inexperienced with. The rest of it? He was good at. So that's what makes him move — maybe with the rest, the part he lacked would come. Miraak is talking, but he stopped paying attention long ago. He makes one fluid motion as he leans forward, moves his mask just enough from his face, and without any hesitation, kisses him.
