#skyshattering

tbh i haven’t seen any vilkas around for a while, and the last i’ve seen had a fc from vikings

encourage me to complain.

                         ❀ what has made you completely lose your chill?

@skyshattering

The succinct raping of nails against the wooden desk echoes through her simple quarters. The College of Winterhold is...suitable, she supposes; though it pales in comparison to the grand libraries of Bromjunaar where she had studied as an initiate. The libraries there had spanned multiple buildings, the largest nearly a hundred feet in height. There were subjects on magical theory, mathematics and sciences the likes of which she has yet to see in this era. A hollow pain still echoes in her heart to see how far her home has fallen. But there is little to be done for it now. Alduin has fallen, the Dovahkiin has seen to that, and with him any hope of the Cult’s revival. 

Ea doubts the bitterness will ever truly leave.

All is not lost, however. Recently the priestess learned that she was not the only member of the Cult to reawaken. It seems the High Priests were revived to serve the dov once again. Including Morokei. 

Anger boils her blood, sparking electricity in the air around her, at the thought of the man who tried to kill her. He had been her leader and mentor. There had even been a point when she truly believed she loved him; but that was long, long ago. Now all that remains in her heart for him is the undeniable need for vengeance. 

But, for all her magical prowess, she knows she will not be able to achieve her revenge alone. 

For a moment she contemplates simply paying one of the local hunters to aid her, but none of them have any true sort of training. If the ruins of Bromjunaar are anything like the other old temples she has raided, then there will be more than just a few skeletons and dusty tomes waiting inside. It is unlikely any novice would survive long enough to reach Morokei. 

No, she needs someone with experience dealing with the undead cult. 

Ea releases a withering sigh. Though she is loathe to admit it, she knows she must call upon the Dovahkiin for aide. She has seen the woman on only a handful of occasions, whenever her wanderings brought her to the College. Ea has spoken to her even less, exchanging little more than simple pleasantries as they crossed one another in the hall. But from all that Ea has heard the woman is friendly enough, eager to help when she can. 

The priestess takes a long sip of her wine before pulling free a loose bit of parchment from a stack. It does not take long for her to pen a simple request. 

Dear Dragonborn, 

        My name is Ea. You may not remember me, but we have met on a few scant occasions at the College of Winterhold. I am planning an excursion of the ruins of Labrynthia on rumors of a powerful magical source that may be found within the temples bowls. There are few others who have such vast experience as you, and I believe your aid could prove crucial to discovering the truth. 

       You will be adequately compensated, of course. 

                                                                                      Best regards,                                                                                                 Ea  

          They had danced together once before. 

         During a night that seemed a lifetime ago, set to the music of his nephew’s fiddles and the percussion of a company’s laughter, he’d taken her hands and shown her how to dance the way they did. A rare glimmer of merriment in the midst of a quest that knew many more trials and hardships, a memory that flickered to life now in the silence of an empty room where he and Elyon stood together.

         Now, with no laughter nor music to accompany them, Thorin’s voice rolled like distant thunder in a gentle hum to lead his beloved in a very different dance. Without steps to teach or plan to follow, they moved without rhyme or reason. Looking up to meet her gaze, Thorin looked at her as though she were the first sunrise he’d seen in all his life. How much things had changed since their innocent dance around the fire. 

         Theirs was not a beautiful dance, without any of the flourishes possible were they standing at the same height. Even so, it was theirs. A dance well earned for two that had endured so much. Finally the world had settled around them, and this moment of peace had found them. 

         Was it so wrong to think they deserved this? 

Nonsexual acts of Intimacy

          None in this world had seen her power closer than he and lived to tell the tale. The earth trembled at the sound of her voice, and she fought like a force of nature. In this world or her own, her strength was staggering. How such a force could wrap itself into human skin and curl into such a peaceful, sleeping form...

          An I told you so went unspoken in the careful stroke of hand over a sleeping dragon’s hair. She offered--kind, but unnecessary--to stay on watch with him over the others despite taking the prior shift. Resilient though nords clearly were, even this mighty daughter of Skyrim needed to sleep sooner or later. Thorin felt an odd sense of fortune that fate chose him to be the one she leaned upon when sleep claimed her. 

          Not even embers remained of what once was a roaring fire, the night faded to near silence. The dwarf did not look down upon the sleeping form of a nord far from home, a nord that would return to that home when this quest was done.

          A woman he could not afford to grow this attached to.

          Yet still a weathered old hand carried on, smoothing over her hair while she slept unknowing. Morning would come soon enough, and many other things to focus on would put off these thoughts. 

          He takes to her like the release of a breath held too long. He wonders how his rough edges do not weather away her softness, yet he cannot find the heart to be merciful and pull away. Even beneath the tenderness of her lips he feels her strength, and hers is a power that even the mighty Thorin Oakenshield would tremble before. 

          His hands find the curve of her hips and settle there, he lets himself be moved as she wishes to move him. For all hours of all days he must stand firm and be unyielding, for her he can be soft and malleable.