#vulsoven

            “You’re telling me that there’s more of you?” He scowled and shook his head. “And here I thought one Dragonborn was more than I could handle. How am I to deal with two?”

Alchemy: Which ingredients do they most often collect and how successful is their potion brewing?

Thedas: Solas tends to use Felandaris, particularly for resistance tonics, and Embrium for Healing Mist grenades. Elfroot is another common ingredient, however, dating Ian he often doesn’t get a chance to use it. He’s a fair alchemist, more skilled at it than he is healing magic.

TES: He uses Nirnroot when he can find it, often using it and Chaurus Eggs to make Invisibility potions if he catches Thalmor agents around. He’s better at Restoration and Illusion in general in this verse, so he can rely on them.

Outsider: How would your muse respond to being call this upon arriving in either Markarth or Solstheim?

Markarth is his first stop in Skyrim, the first place he lands after fleeing into Skyrim. So, quite frankly, he’d be surprised if people thought he fit in.

Underground: What does your muse think of the Dwemer ruins? Do they steal anything from there?

Solas is quite fascinated with them, but doesn’t often take the risk of entering them alone. Falmer go down easy with magic, but dwemer machines are a real risk given they resist most of his spells. If he does take the chance (if someone comes with him) he will most certainly steal from it. Research demands it, you see.

War: Has your character ever fought in any wars? If they haven’t then what’s there opinion on the current affairs in Skyrim? Do they back the Imperials or the Stormcloaks?

Solas fought in the Oblivion Crisis, which isn’t exactly a typical war, but nonetheless. He was absent for other conflicts, save skirmishes in Valenwood.

        Send me 😴 for my muse’s reaction to yours falling asleep on them!

                      No one said these things were easy; no one gave words of reassurance, but it’s not like words could truly prepare you for this. Some would say it’s noble, what she does---that she must have it hard, that it was tiring work with little gain but, Steorra never really thought the same. She was not the one with this so-called disease, this....’taint’. Daedric hands have cursed her life but never does she have to withstand painful transformations because the moon is full or emotions too high. Things were not easy, but her side was easier than that of Valvossa’s. 

                  It was important, her being there---for the transformations, that is: before, during, and definitely after. The elf was far more in control than other werewolves, but there is always a need for safety, even if it meant the Tiefling trailing a ways off just to keep an eye out. But it was always that after part, that her presence was most important.         She has a firm hold on her, supportive of the weight even if they drag on slowly into the dusky home, a shoulder raised so that Val had somewhere to rest heavy head. They had returned to Riften just in time; before the townsfolk started to emerge from their houses, and the guards hardly took notice thanks to the assistance of shadow. It takes more time than usual to help her onto the bed once there, but they manage eventually, and a sense of relief washes over strained muscles. Steorra always forgets how heavy she is, even out of armor.

                                      “Bath later---sleep, now.” She grumbles, though mostly to herself given the Dunmer at her side has already started slipping into unconsciousness, fatigued. Steorra watches as her cheek goes pressed to her hip and the rest of her body remains in the position she had been dropped (carefully) to on her side. That’s when she knows Valvossa is out, and would be through the day, and possibly the evening.

Morndas, the 23rd of Second Seed.

     A peaceful morn, by any account. ever privvy to fair climes, the Rift seemed-a blessing brought by the warmth of the Velothi to the east. Today proved no different in that regard, to those awake to witness. 

     A baleful scream shattered the peace, bringing with it the intent of its creator. The gentle breeze turned hot, hostile, a harbinger of what was to come. A farmer on the road could only watch in terror, ducking beneath his cart in a futile bid to escape the oncoming wrath. Eyes cinched shut, prayers to the Nine flowing from his lips.

     He felt the heat of its breath, smelled the ash, the rot of what he could only ponder were victims prior to he. The ground shook, the air burned around him. His steer bellowed, tearing at its bonds only to be silenced by yawning maw. He was cast into light, the sound of wood splintering about; the farmer whimpered, praying that the end would be quick, for surely the beast had uncovered his hiding spot.

But....moments passed. His heart still drummed in his chest.

     One eye, hesitant, cracked open to the world. All was quiet, calm-his cart had been torn into the sky, bovine yet attached. But he still lived.

     && so came yet another victim-lucky in his life, that the beast chose mercy. But another head of cattle reported gone, lost to the appetite of the unruly Dovah that had chosen a local swath of the Velothi as its eyrie in weeks past.                                               ___________________________________

     Dozens of livestock had fell to her hunger, && dozens more would she take in the coming weeks. Thick crimson lingered heavy in her maw, only urging the beast to return to roost so as to partake in her most recent spoils- which still thrashed weakly in her claws. But the weight of the cart wore her down-taxed her strength, slowed her flight, kept her lower than comfort. 

     But it was necessary. For soon, she would have little time to hunt at leisure-a fact that churned the dovah’s gullet, a burning coal within her psyche. It was a price, one that she still debated paying, as a thermal rose beneath, allowing her to lift high and glide for some time in comfort.

     Worries could be trifled with later, the Wyrm concluded, soaring unchallenged above unbroken wilderness. For her lair was far from the cities of man, && she knew not even the bravest of nords would risk the trek to her haunt. They would toil in the dirt, as they ever have-as she soars triumphant above, out of reach && out of harm.