#skyrim lore

-Bretons literally came into existence because horny elves enslaved, showed off in court, and bred human Nedes for hundreds of years.

-The demi-god Vivec did the dirty for 88 straight days with the daedric prince of domination, Molag Bal.

-Literally any other lore involving Molag Bal.

-Saint Alessia enjoyed the intimate companionship of a half-man, half-bull demigod, because hey, an Empress needs hobbies.

-Reman Cyrodiil's dad allegedly made such passionate love to a hill that he died on said hill. Literally. After impregnating the hill.

The Wilderking is primarily worshipped by bosmeri tribes in Greenshade (Mirkwood, anyone?) and the look of his crown and his elusiveness leads him to be depicted as an altmer with antlers. The Thranduil vibes are popping off. Would.

But where would this idea of an elusive, elfin king of the forest come from?

There is an overlap between Welsh and Germanic folklore regarding something called ‘The Wild Hunt’.

In y Cymru, the head of the Wild Hunt is ‘Gwyn ap Nudd’ (White Son of the Mist) alluding to his elusive nature as a faerie, otherwise known as ‘Arawn’, the King of the Otherworld/Annwfn. He is often depicted with antlers (or a crown that resembles antlers), and is closely tied to figures like Herne (English), Woden (Anglo Saxon) and Cernunnos (Gaulish).

In a 14th Century manuscript condemning the Welsh divinatory traditions, it is said that the soothsayers said this before entering a forest:

“To the King of the Faeries, and to his Queen: Gwyn ap Nudd, thou who art far in the forest, for the love of your consort, permit us to enter thy dwelling.”

To take a German route, I’m reminded of a favourite poem of mine: though he’s not a god (but inspired, most certainly, by Gwyn ap Nudd), we have Goethe’s ‘Erlkönig’ - the Erl King. I’ll link the poem below:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erlkönig

On the 13th. Morning Star 4E 189, she’d lifted a lute, shortly after followed a guitar. Secretly she taught herself to play, tucked away in corners where the damp stone muffled the sound. Zero interest in becoming a bard, and even less in anyone knowing she could sing; it was hers—something she did for no other reason than it made her happy. It was one of the undercover skills that helped kill off the stutter, which had mostly vanished, replaced by a habit of swallowing  consonants which made speaking easier even when the nerves kicked in.

To be fair, her voice wasn't half-bad. She had a deep, soulful rasp— a weirdly powerful sound that had no business coming out of someone so dainty. Regardless, she kept it under wraps, fiercely paranoid that anyone might catch a note. The mere thought of an audience made her skin crawl. If the others would've caught her practicing, she’d never hear the end of it and she wasn't particularly keen on that one. Especially not if Delvin heard, then told Vex, who’d tell Tonilia, who’d tell the rest—and the rest included Brynjolf, and that was even worse!

The nightmares about Grelod or being locked in stayed, even if they've become rare. Some nights she still woke clawing at her own neck, fumbling for the blade under her pillow until the dark settled into being a Riften dark and not a Honorhall one. When sleep wouldn't come back, she’d find a corner to sit with her guitar outside the Hold, playing whatever came to mind—just simple improvisation to fill the silence, just creative "whatever fit the mood." Her life was split fifty-fifty now. Half her time was spent out in the golden-leafed birch woods of the Rift, a rabbit on a stick over a small fire and a bedroll laid out near the roots and alchemy supplies she’d spent the day gathering. The other half, she was tucked into her stone corner of the Ratway, blanket pulled to her chin and her bow within reach. She usually had her nose buried in books on toxic concoctions or a battered copy of Uncommon Taste by the Gourmet. Even the Skeevers had stopped scattering when she walked past; she was just part of the furniture to them, same as the rotting crates. Officially, she was an apprentice, not fully part of the Guild, but getting there. It was the same route Brynjolf, Vex, and Tonilia had taken a few years before her. Sometimes Gallus sent her out with a basket of flowers just to sit near a mark and eavesdrop on their chatter. Whatever she brought back, the Guild used, and every bit of praise—a nod from the Guildmaster, a heavy hand on her shoulder from Brynjolf, or a gruff word from Delvin and Niruin—made her feel a little less useless. But the name "No One" sat deep in her marrow. It wasn't just a handle she tried to make fun of so it'd hurt less; it felt like the honest truth. The praise was just temporary relief, a quick bandage over a bleeding wound that never stayed closed, no matter how hard she tried to patch it up.

She wanted to be useful to them so badly it ached. Feel worthy. Feel like she wasn't a burden. They were the only family she had, and she started hunting for any skill that might stop her feeling like a waste of space. Cooking became a major one. With only a battered book and no formal training, she’d started with the basics of roasting. She learned how to build a grill fast, how to control a flame, and how to coax the right heat out of a few logs and a bit of patience. Through a lot of burnt meat and trial-and-error with foraged herbs, she’d put together a collection of spice rubs that did magic to grilled meats. Ironically, she’d turned into a total vegetable hater—despite eating them in potions, she’d grumble that a plain vegetable "tasted like sad". Aside from being a mediocre healer, this was her contribution: no matter how bad a job had gone, if she was there, there was a fire going, wounds were patched, and there was something worth eating. The hierarchy was clear. Tonilia had been in the longest, followed by Vex and then Brynjolf. She was still a few years too young for the ink, tucked away on what amounted to an informal waiting list. Her spot was never in doubt; her reputation with the circle was solid enough that membership was just a formality. Gallus had told her as much, keepin' her on as an extra pair of ears in the Hold while she grew into her role. To fight the hollow feeling in her chest, she just kept making herself indispensable, kept the family fed, patched their scrapes when she could, and shared what she knew about poisons.

And since other kids in Riften were in need too, she’d long started making a habit of being helpful — slipping bread, dried meat, and an increasingly ridiculous amount of honey nut treats to the urchins around the canal. To anyone who asked, she was just being soft-hearted. Then she showed up with a new hunting bow, fine-grained wood and a draw-weight that meant business. When Brynjolf and Vex cornered her one late noon about where a fifteen-year-old got that kind of coin, she just gave them a lopsided grin. "Flower-girl scam is havin' a good run, innit?" she’d said nonchalantly, shrugging it off. "People feel fo' a girl'n a basket o' lavender. Turns out them pockets are deeper when they feel guilty." Suspicious, but not entirely surprised, Brynjolf and Vex exchanged a look. Naturally, they weren't buying all of it, as her body language had been slightly off, but since she was bringing in her share and then some, they weren't about to grill her. It was a solid trick, after all, and if it bought her fancy gear and sweets for the runts, who were they to complain? "'Right. At least keep being careful. Watch your mark and your step, lass." "And try not to get into trouble, darling." "Me? Never ~ " "Want me to mention the mercenary again? You know the one I had to pay off and apologise to after you've told him that he's a dimwitted cockwobbler and that his mother fucked a goat?" "Well… did ya' look at him? He —" "No. That's not the point, lass. He nearly curb stomped y—" "To be fair, the dude really did look like his mother —" "Vex. C'mon….", sighed Brynjolf defeatedly before, on second thought, lifting one of his brows. "Fine. Yeah. He did. Actually — Weird, but… — Anyway, the point is: Take care. Alright? And don't insult anyone's mommy… Beats me, by the way. When did you turn that cheeky again?" "Tirdas – 22nd. First Seed - 4E 187 – Exactly at 12.34 noon  — when she called Delvin a — " "Stinkin' Skeever's arsehole! Not the best o' me insults, eh?"

Unironically, the truth was buried in the steam and brass of Avanchnzel. She’d stumbled on the ruin and Angarvunde three months back while out gathering herbs, and she’d cracked the first set of locks by the 6th of Midyear. Since then, it had become her private kingdom. Seeing it as a chance to put what she'd been taught into practice, she went about it systematically. No reckless rushing; she was a shadow in the brass halls. She’d set up a camp near the entrance and moved inward room by room, marking her path with small, scratched shadowmarks on the stone—'danger' here, 'loot' there, 'trap', 'safe', 'cache'. As her exploration continued, she’d started sketching her own maps, marking the patrol routes of the clanking Dwemer Spiders and the positions of sleeping Spheres. In one of the deeper chambers, she’d found what would later become 'Kindness': blueprints, schematics for an ancient bow. It was some kind of strange Dwemer craft—designed to draw three times as fast with twice the punch. A unique combination, requiring Dwemer metal ingots, Ebony, and a gyro. So, it became her pet project. For nearly a year, she lived a double life—an apprentice in the Guild and Riften's cutest flower-girl — and tomb-robber whenever there was time to spare, stripping the golden halls of anything she could carry back to the Riften fences. None of the others had a clue, and she liked it that way—it'd be a much bigger surprise…

ʕ·×·ʔ

Okay, lore detectives—drop your sweetrolls and watch this video RIGHT NOW: 📺 How Skyrim’s Journal Entries Reveal the Dragonborn’s True Personality

This creator (not me!) dug into the LDB’s actual in-game journal entries and found something wild: ➤ They’re shockingly calm (writing while a dragon attacks Helgen?!) ➤ Weirdly trusting but not naive (calls Delphine’s bluff instantly) ➤ Motivated by DESTINY—not greed, justice, or ego ➤ Literally never mentions rewards (iconic)

It completely flips the “chaotic loot gremlin” headcanon. What if the Last Dragonborn was actually a chill, duty-bound fatalist who just... went with it?

My brain rn:

This explains why they do every odd job in Skyrim

The journal’s detached tone lowkey haunts me

New HC: LDB had Main Character Syndrome before it was cool

Hot take: Maybe we’re the ones projecting chaos onto them. The journal paints someone almost... serene? Resigned? A pawn of prophecy who knows?