I Like The Elderscrolls And Drawing

Elven self-portrait. :3

in which a half-nord noblewoman notices the kinship between emperor martin septim and his sworn knight, lord crusader gaël merser, and decides this simply won’t do

“His Majesty is very handsome, don’t you think?”

The holy knight glanced towards Deidre, her face flushing darker. She shifted uncomfortably, the red on her cheeks standing out against the gleaming armor of Pelinal. “Martin certainly carries his forefather’s charm,” she replied after a moment’s hesitation.

The half-elf leaned against Sir Gaël, her bare arms wrapping around the shorter woman’s shoulders in a half-embrace, her belly against Gaël’s back. She rested her chin on the Breton’s head. “Mm. You think so?” She smiled, and watched with some satisfaction as Gaël took on more of that lovely red color.

The spellsword in question cleared her throat, going still under Deidre’s touch. “Why, uh - why do you… ask?”

“Ask what?”

“After Martin’s, um, handsomeness.”

“Oh, curiosity.”

“Are you, are you interested in him?”

Deidre paused, and then laughed, hiding her snorts in Gaël’s hair. She could nearly feel the heat radiating from the other’s face.

Through her giggles, she managed to speak, “Am I interested - what I’m trying to figure out, Gwennie, is if you’re interested in him.”

Gaël mumbled something under her breath, extracting herself from Deidre’s arms and turning to face her. There was anger on her face - not the burning, hateful anger Deidre couldn’t soothe, but an indignant (and adorable), defensive anger.

“Emperor Martin is at least twenty years my senior!” Her voice, usually so dignified, was high and somewhat squeaky. Deidre bit back a grin.

“Nothing wrong with older men. Some people like the mature look.”

“I didn’t say - I just - he’s not -” Gaël looked upwards, as if seeking assistance from her Divines. “He’s very handsome in the … Sanguinite fashion.”

“Sanguinite?”

“Yes! You know, that sort of - the effortless type of handsome, the messy and disheveled thing.”

“And that’s what you’re into?” Deidre frowned a bit; three years of leading a Sanguinite cult - surely she qualified as being attractive in the ‘Sanguinite Fashion’.

“No! Not at all! I- I prefer the … Dibellan, um, the Dibellan form of beauty.”

“Dibellan?”

Gaël swallowed. “Um, y-yes. Similar to Sanguinite, but the… softer variant. More… ah, feminine, I suppose?”

“…Oh.” Deidre paused. “Oh.”

Gaël nodded and turned from her. “Y-yes, well, I’m going inside, have a lovely evening, my Lady -”

“Wait, Gwenaël -”

testober 2020 prompt 27: daedric

True altmer dig up antiquities for only one thing.

Harkon’s beast strains at the surface without rest, obsessively gnashing and baring its fangs to assert its power. His skin shifts like living clay, daring you to flinch. (Do not flinch. Do not rise to the challenge. Do not give him an excuse to devour you.)

Valerica, too, has a face like a mask made of living clay (garden soil made smooth and lifeless in preparation for the kiln), but hers is so very, very controlled. Every movement of her body, every twitch of her eyebrow, every shift of her jaw is deliberate and precise. She wears her ancient visage of humanity as a display of uncanny skill. She is in control, and any threat to that must be rectified. You feel sloppy and inadequate under her gaze.

Serana looks human.

She looks so human that you forget that she holds the blood of an ancient and powerful curse. You forget the beast that dwells in her bones and in her veins. (Maybe it’s a product of all those years in stasis. Maybe in a couple of centuries she’ll look just like her mother and father. You don’t want to think about that. She doesn’t either.)

Serana never forgets her beastliness. It’s there in her every thought and movement because it is her. She is her beast form and her beast form is a reflection of herself. Its in the strength of her grip and the ice at her fingertips and the surprised little laugh she always gives after a quick victory. It’s a reflection of all of those powerful awful things that shaped her and pulled at her, and she embraces that so thoroughly that you forget there is anything to embrace.

which got me thinking. what happens when a welkynar or their gryphon dies?

past the grief and the mourning process, do they find themselves missing something they didn’t even know they had until it was too late? does the knight without their steed feel heavy, chained to the ground, forever longing to once again feel the rush of flight and hear the powerful beating of wings as they reach out to touch the clouds? does a gryphon without its rider become as wild and ferocious as others of its kind, however always chasing the feeling of simplicity—of humanity, the paradoxical yet ever-present feeling of wanting to want?

A little color experiment with Queen Ayrenn! I’ve been playing more ESO lately and fumbled my way through Auridon lol. To Grahtwood I go!

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TEStober Day 23 - Nightingale