#mareenawrites

Teldryn turned at the warning a second too late. Pain exploded as the Ash Spawn’s jagged blade bit into his ribs, tearing the fabric of his shirt. He felt blood oozing down his side and into the waistband of his breeches. The Ash Spawn yanked its blade away and ripped at the raw edges of his new wound. The fringes of his vision flashed white, then everything started to pulse red as pain began to numb out all other sensation.

He fell to his knees, Chillrend slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground with an unceremonious puff of ash.

“Fuck,” he muttered, deciding against reaching for his own tried and true Firebolt spell. He was good with those—but the trouble was, such spells did next to nothing to these things. It would be a waste, and with his hands shaking, it’d be a coin toss if he’d even hit the correct target at this point. He groaned and tried with whatever strength he could muster to keep himself from listing to the side and flopping into the ash himself.

“Thank whatever gods,” said another familiar voice—Athis’s.

It was a blessing to hear in this state, that was for certain.

“Eh, the gods are through with that one, trust me,” said the annoying one. “Have been for a long time.” There was an odd pause. “Painful as it is to admit it, he lives because of your quick thinking out there.”

“Thank you, Master Neloth.”

“Don’t thank me. This is simply pure fact, not a compliment on my part,” Neloth scoffed. “Besides, my skill with Restoration was what ultimately knit the arteries and bone back together more sufficiently than dumping potions in an open would ever would.”

Athis sighed, barely audible. Teldryn would have grinned if he could, but even the smallest movement was torture at the moment. He’d drained all his magicka to the dregs, pulled every muscle on his body, and nearly bled out.

Lovely.

There went his reputation as the best swordsman in all Morrowind, but that was neither here nor there. He survived. Athis…saved him. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Wasn’t his job supposed to be having that man’s back? Isn’t that what all the gold was for?

Teldryn groaned. He did manage to open one eye, but shut it immediately. The lantern light in Tel Mithryn flooded his brain in a burning rush not unlike downing a bottle of skooma. It was horrible.

Athis was at his side immediately—Teldryn felt his weight on the mattress next to him; could smell the campfire and ash on his skin.

A callused hand smoothed back his hair which had stuck to the sweat on his forehead.

“Hey, you made it,” Athis said, voice quiet with a hint of somber laughter.

“Suppose so,” Teldryn said through a grimace.

For whatever reason, Athis had let his hand linger on the side of Teldryn’s head. He resisted the urge to lean into it. The warmth was nice, especially right now.

“Was a near thing.”

“But Neloth called you competent, more or less. Heard him. He never does that.” Teldryn cleared his throat. “You saved my life.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there. You’d have done the same.”

Athis sounded so sure of that, though they barely knew each other enough to make that kind of call. Teldryn swallowed hard against a throat that was, once again, seeming to close of its own accord. Teldryn gingerly reached up to squeeze Athis’s hand.

“Thank you. Truly.”

Athis sighed with relief, though he knew the trials ahead were far from over. All this because of a stupid ash storm. How everyone in Raven Rock even survived out here was well beyond him, if even Sero could be caught unawares like this. Hell, Athis wasn’t even sure how he’d survived, aside from being just fast enough not to get hit.

Caught out without armor in a fight like that. Some bullshit.

He scrambled back out of the tent and rushed toward the mercenary, falling to his knees once again beside him. He was still breathing, though in the few minutes Athis had left him, he’d gone paler, and the pool of blood under him had soaked through his linen clothes—or rags, really, considering the state they were in at the moment. Breaking the wax seal on the first potion with shaking hands was no small feat, but he’d done it, discarding the cork in the ash, even as some ungodly alchemical goop splashed out and over his skin. He poured the rest onto the wound, saw the magic begin to work, and set to opening the other potion. Sero groaned again as the first potion’s effects started to stitch closed the surface layers of skin and muscle, semi conscious at least, despite the pain. Athis took Sero’s head in his lap and helped the man drink the other potion, hoping the combination would at least keep him stable enough to move.

Sero, though weak, reached a cold hand up and placed it over Athis’s, which still lingered over the mercenary’s ears. The tension in Sero’s jaw left as the restorative started working and sleep found him, as was expected. Athis’s panic ebbed, though it didn’t disappear entirely. There was still the matter of hauling his ass across the wastes to Tel Mithryn, and that was not going to be an easy task. He’d have to leave most of their supplies behind—the tent, the food, everything that could not be carried while he braced a half-conscious elf on his own shoulders to walk however far.

Athis moved his hand out from under Sero’s as gently as he could, figuring it would do to let him rest at least for the time it took to get armor on and pack what was still possible to bring along. He frowned, noticing as the early sun glinted off a ring Sero was wearing, and instead gently took his hand to turn it toward better light. The shape was…oddly familiar, something out of a story. A moon…and a star…crafted in fine silver and gold, with a beautifully cut gem right in the center.

Odd, that. It’s sacrilege—or was—to make replicas of that thing.

This combined with the tattoos that snaked down Sero’s face and neck and seemed to cover his whole body meant… Something twisted in Athis’s gut as he avoided thinking on the topic further. Now was not the time to piece information together into wild theories. He had a person to save, and what was he, if not a Companion? Sero needed him, and so he would rise to the challenge.

It wasn’t about the fee he’d paid, or the fact that he had no idea what else to do to get to Farkas. Something ached behind his sternum at the simple thought of losing someone who…seemed to care. Who even did that anymore, especially a sellsword, of all people?

I can’t leave him like this.

He fell to his knees beside Sero who was still face down in the ash. Athis turned him over, and, blessedly, the mercenary let out a groan, eyes fluttering open for half a moment, blind with pain. Then he was still again, but for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Breathing, at least. There’s that.

Anxiety clawed up Athis’s throat as he peeled shredded fabric out of the gash on Teldryn’s ribs and more blood oozed out. The wound was already dark and coated with sand and ash, huge swaths of scarred skin going an alarming deep purple by the second.

I…I don’t want him to die.

Athis’s hands shook now, more with fear than anything else. It was ridiculous, he realized. Sero wasn’t a shieldbrother. He wasn’t really even a friend—not yet, anyway. Athis had lost so many in his line of work. All the Companions had, as did soldiers and bandits and everyone on Nirn, the way life was these days. Death was everywhere, and fighters of any kind knew the risk before they took on jobs. Rationalizing about this did nothing to calm him, nor to help him order his thoughts into any semblance of what the hell to do about this situation.

Athis didn’t know fuck all about Restoration magic—couldn’t even cast a basic Flames spell—let alone any Healing—even if he wanted to. He grit his teeth and stood on unsteady legs. No matter how tired he was, nor how sore, he’d have to get Sero to this Neloth person over in Tel Mithryn. A strange wizard could do more than Athis could ever do.

How fucking far away is that damned mushroom tower, though?

In the meantime, there had to be potions somewhere. At least, Athis hoped there were—but then again, he’d been stupid enough to wander into these wastes in leather armor, as was so graciously pointed out to him before. With the sound of Sero’s sarcasm ringing in his head, Athis walked through ankle-deep drifts of ash back toward the tent Sero had set up the night before, all the while stumbling over his own feet and tripping on shattered heartstones. He knelt on the furs that had served well enough as a bedroll and rummaged through both their packs until, blessedly, two meant for healing came tumbling out. Sero had brought it. 

“Ugh,” Athis responded, voice heavy with sleep. “Hate when this happens.”

“You and I both,” Teldryn answered. “Know anything about Ash Spawn?”

“Not a clue,” Athis said, scrubbing his eyes while searching for his Skyforged steel sword.

“Well, you’re about to find out,” Teldryn said, unsheathing Chillrend. It filled the tent with a soft blue glow which was almost bright enough to blot out the pulses of red light coming from each of the encroaching Ash Spawn.

“Let’s do this, then,” Athis said with a nod, squaring his shoulders.

“Good attitude. Stab them in the heart,” Teldryn said with a nod.

“Isn’t that always the way?” Athis asked with a smirk.

“Good point.”

Despite the sleep deprivation, Athis knit his brow and got into fighting stance like it was nothing but muscle memory—as well it should be. Teldryn was still worried about the lack of armor, but Athis didn’t seem to care. Maybe this patron was a little bit less inept than the majority of others he’d worked with, after all. He hoped, anyway.

Teldryn untied the tent flap, then crouched in the shadows to get a better look at the trouble they were in. It looked less like the Ash Spawn were coming for them and more that they were surrounding this particular spot—maybe they’d just been unlucky to camp here. Most of the Ash Spawn looked skyward, brandishing uncast Firebolt spells or clutching onto blades made of the same stuff as their heartstones. Each looked like a ghost made solid somehow, ash shifting over the visage of what could have been a person at one time…maybe even a person whose life was extinguished as the ash from the Red Year first fell. Teldryn shivered, trying not to think too hard about it.

“Let’s go,” Teldryn said, voice low.

Athis nodded his agreement, following in silence.

Turns out stealth was not Athis’s strong suit. One misstep onto some trama root and, of course, the desiccated crunch got the attention of the whole horde of Ash Spawn. 

"Eira..." Lucien's voice sounded distant, but Eira knew he wasn't far behind. He never was.

She chose, once again, not to respond. Thunder rumbled as a replacement as she stared out from her perch over the Rift. She looked down into the valley and watched the fog drift over the landscape, wondering if this would be the last time she'd find a view like this.

They'd only barely survived the dragon, and that was only because it had clearly been injured before they stumbled into its hunting grounds.

"Eira, please...it's going to storm. Come away from there, would you?"

She heard the old wood of the dead tree she stood on creak as she shifted her weight. Another round of thunder shook the valley and lightning spidered across the sky. Then the rain came.

"Don't make me walk out there," Lucien shouted. "You know I'll slip and fall and I haven't quite got a good grasp on Featherfall yet."

Eira knelt in the cloudburst and let the rain soak through her clothes. She turned her face to the sky, tempted to ask her mother's goddess for answers, knowing full well there wouldn't be any.

She'd been called, meaning once again she'd have to put her search on hold. Her training. Her work. Her life. One half-dead dragon was nearly her end. Nearly Lucien's.

And now? What had the Greybeards said? Her destiny was to fight the giant black dragon that had allegedly leveled Helgen.

Eira had an odd certainty that she wouldn't make it back if she were to ever face that thing. That she would never see her mother again, never find her father. Maybe she wouldn't live to face Alduin. That was the most likely outcome, mathematically speaking.

This province was asking for her life, when all she'd wanted to do was work, study, and find answers.

All she had now was an armload of fractured questions and a destiny she'd rather have no part in.

She looked at Lucien, pacing underneath a pine tree and muttering to himself. At least she hadn't had to hear the news alone. She was grateful for that.

"Eira!" Lucien said as she approached, stepping off the dead tree and into the mud. He rushed in and wrapped her in a hug, his wet hair clinging to her chin and cheek as the distance abruptly closed. "I know you're upset. I know this is a lot. Please...just let me help you."

Eira hugged him back and whispered, "There's nothing to help with. My destiny is my own, isn't it?"

Lucien's voice was muffled as he spoke into her sodden shoulder. "You don't have to do this all alone. You're my best friend. I'd walk across all of Tamriel and back for you, you know. What's another few dragons compared to all we've been through already?"

Eira had already cried, but felt more tears welling up even as she laughed. "I think this is a bit more complex than all of that, Lucien."

He sighed. "I'm staying optimistic, halfway because it'll annoy you and halfway because...maybe I do believe you can do this. Maybe there's a reason this happened to you."

"And what if it was a matter of random chance? Of me being in the wrong place at the right time?"

"Eira," Lucien said, exasperated. He backed up and held her by her shoulders, standing on tiptoes to try and stare her in the eyes. The effect was amusing enough for a half-smile to cross her face. "You. Can. Do. This. You can."

"I must, I suppose," Eira muttered.

"Forget that. I know you. You help everyone we meet. You helped ME, for Kynareth's sake!"

Eira eyed Lucien and crossed her arms. He peeled a hand away and held it in his own. She sighed, but didn't pull away.

"You, Eira Shore-Born, would not let the world go up in smoke. You wouldn't let the World-Eater....well...eat the world!"

"No I suppose I wouldn't," Eira agreed.

So...who is she?

This is Eira Shore-Born of Anvil. She didn't have the worst time of it growing up, except for the occasional racism against her Elven side—not to mention generally not totally fitting with either group because of that. They weren't poor, nor rich. They never went hungry. Her father was absent, for the most part—thought to be dead, but nobody could be sure. She is Half-Altmer on her father's side, Half-Nord on her mom's side. When her mom—a smith—passed without enlightening her about her family history, she took it upon herself to figure things out on her own. Apparently, her father was—or might still be—a mage. All she has from him is a ring, an odd affinity for magic, and a bunch of unanswered questions.

What does she look like?

She is a little taller than the average Nord. Her ears are a little pointier, her eyes a little more outlandish. Her skin is a pale golden color with freckles like her mother had, and her hair—while still technically blonde—is very nearly white. She wears a green mage outfit for traveling and uses a set of silver glasses. She has a few scars from misadventures while trying to follow leads about her father.

What skills does she have?

She is a very decent smith, like her mother. She wants to work on enchanting to combine her talents. She's not terrible with a sword or a bow, and is quick and light on her feet. You kind of have to be while traveling the countryside these days. While what magic she knows is powerful, she doesn't know a lot yet. She aims to change that.

Where is she now?

She crossed the border into Skyrim from Bruma, trying to make her way north and head for the College of Winterhold where she wants to study with professors who might have once known her father, if he was ever even there at all. She is headed toward Falkreath. If she had run into any trouble at all, it seems she'd have gotten caught up in the mess that happened in Helgen, but she missed the Imperial ambush. She paid attention to the news, but still isn't exactly sure what good the Civil War is doing at the moment. She did, in fact, see the giant black dragon as it flew from Helgen over the mountains. She and a few other travelers hid under an outcropping of stone, but she could have sworn the thing saw them. It paused mid-air and seemed to turn toward them, before deciding to fly away.

And For the Writer...

Q: Are you going to write a fic with Eira in it?

A: Perhaps, maybe. Not immediately. I do have another Dragonborn I'd like to write for first named Telare Velan (a Dunmer) of Solstheim who was in Skyrim to find her idiot kid brother, Arvel "The Swift" Velan and drag him home by the ear. (Her save file got corrupted, and no, Arvel didn't survive ofc, but that's why I'd like to write a fic.) Then shit, of course, happened, and she became the Dragonborn, and well, there's no way she'll let her little brother out of her sight to go play at being a bandit again, even if she has to save the world before they can go home.

Q: Will Eira's story occur in an alternate universe from Nyenna's story?

A: I am sure I am going to keep some headcanons here and there, but it'd be an excellent time for me to reimagine how magic works and fuck around a little more with that. I love Weird Magic Shit, as ya'll might remember from World.

Q: Who do you ship Eira with?

A: AH. Questions for the ages. (: Not Teldryn Sero. It depends. I think Rumarin or Lucien might be fun to write. Or perhaps she is bi or gay and falls for Remi or Mjoll or Lydia. Who knows? Maybe another OC? Maybe Athis? That boy deserves the world after what he's been through in World (;

Q: Can I send asks about Eira for ask games?

A: Yep! Any of my OCs are fun to wax poetic about.

Q: Can I borrow your screenshots for references or to try and remake Eira my way?