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@anhelans-blog
hero squad, ft. R’emshi ( @morbidosity, bottom right), Haina ( @anhelans, top right), Ives ( @whitemanes, bottom left), and Sanyon (mine, top left)
meme: [X]
eli wtf they are all so adorable... im honored that my daughter is here.. ur art makes them all look so so good... i lov this u are excellent
hiatus
idk when i will be back. hopefully i will be, but at this pointi do not think i have the motivation to continue here.
reblogging form my other account. i'm much more likely to return on this blog, because i still have so much i want to do with haina and ulyothah, but for now, i'll be off
Saturalia
“The New Life festival comes a few days early in Wayrest with Saturalia, traditionally held on the 25th of Evening Star. Originally a holiday for a long forgotten god of debauchery, it has become a time of gift giving, parties, and parading.” {{x}}
Saturalia has been assimilated into cultures throughout Tamriel, growing into one of the most popular celebrations of the year. The ancient Nords were quick to adapt the holiday to their pantheon of gods, and while many traditional Nords still pay homage to their old deities, in more recent eras the focus has shifted to the Nine, and eventually the Eight, Divines of the Imperial pantheon. A day of joy and feasting with merrymakers dressed in the traditional holiday colors of blue and silver (and purple, for those who can afford it) with local greenery in their hair.
Keep reading
“First I will tell you this: I did curse Rolff Stone-Fist, and I only meant to hurt him. I feel no shame for it because he hurt my brother.” She nods toward him, indicating the state of his face.Â
For someone who doesn’t feel any shame, her own expression is becoming progressively more… shameful. “Search me for what happened. I’m good enough that I can keep my own magic under my control, and if I had a problem with our own, I…” Gritting her teeth, she tries to resist the urge to look down and show fear for her own innocence in front of someone coherent. “I would not have done these things!”
She fails.
“The timing is too good to be an accident, but I don’t think it is anything else. I can’t see it as anything else.”
There is a relief that comes with knowing a disaster might be someone else's fault. (Might be.) And an urge that comes to say she will not help and to wash her hands of all this. - you know, there must be a ritual for having to break a promise. Which means there must also be a punishment for not breaking the promise right.
She cannot bring herself to trust Anasse's sister, but one of the two women here must have cast the curse, and she cannot break her promise, and so Haina steels herself as best she can. The woman intimidates her. Though she no longer remembers the years of Blight disease, she remembers hearing of how a god spread cursed sickness, and so now she wonders what power the woman has
“I will not judge you for cursing him. But I cannot save you on only your word --- I am sorry! They will not believe me! We need proof --- did you make any record of when you cast the curse, was it after he first fell sick? Or of what you meant to curse him with --- if there is proof you didn’t ask for this very sickness... Or if someone has fallen ill since you came here, perhaps? When were you imprisoned?”
She speaks feverishly. Perhaps this woman has been imprisoned for Haina’s crime? Or perhaps she will curse Haina, too, if Haina can’t set her free?
okios
        With a nod,the healer took the basket gracious despite it being thrusted into her hands. “Thank you, Haina, these alone willcertainly help; but are alright?” Adjusting the bundle of the flowers inher arms, crystal eyes looked upon the girl with concern, noticing how shereacted around the injured. Was the Dunmer squeamish around such tragedy? Ifthat was the case, there was no way she could ask for any more assistance andmake her uncomfortable.
The woman's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper: "This was my fault.” Because it is. Because from what she’s heard,  the Dragonborn is meant to fight and protect, and she has protected nobody here. Oh, she can try her best to protect people, but everyone she’s tried to protect in the past is no longer with her, and Haina is no fighter. Perhaps, with Vvardenfell ingredients, she’d still be able to mix painkilling potions, but this is not Vvardenfell.
She clasps her hands together and keeps eyes fixed on Hestia. “I am only uneasy because of my guilt. Please, show me, if there’s anything more...”
Vvardenfell, 4E 51 | [Haina|Sanyon]
“They are.” His voice is nothing more than a whisper from lack of use. If he could have met Haina outside, especially with this knowledge he has now, he would have.
This girl is new as well. A friend? Perhaps. Probably. It’s likely. He’ll happily talk to any friend of his friends – and it’s still strange, he thinks, how he’s only known Haina for such a short time and already can call her a friend.Â
As much as he wants to be amiable, Sanyon is reserving what energy he has to speak with only one of them, and if he doesn’t get his lips moving again soon they just might not open. Inertia, he thinks it’s called.Â
He takes a breath. It’s deeper than normal, and doesn’t hurt this time. That’s good. “Haina, I think I know where your father’s spear is. I don’t know when the next time we’ll see each other is, but I’m gonna go and find it again.”
That might very well be the mindless ramblings of an injured man, but he means every word. He wants to make sure she knows that. He grabs two-fingeredly at his ring-laden chain, finding the Moon-and-Star – he’d swear on his old wedding ring, but what promise can be made on one that he broke himself? This one would have more meaning between them both, anyway – and grasping it in his palm. Lightly. It’s so small and he will never risk damaging any sort of artifact.
“Swear.”
He sounds so weak and frail. It jars with what such a huge man should sound like. She watches his fingers fumble to find a ring. That ring --- she recognises it --- the Moon and Star! Azura’s sign! It is embedded in the memory and myth of a tribe much more real than this one. And despite how long it must have been hung around his neck, he still holds it with such reverence.
She would prefer to stay quiet. It makes her feel odd and light to speak, but she needs to, so that her friend won’t feel guilty. (Either of them. Sanyon for being guilty, or Ulyothah for letting her come here. They are both her best friends yet somehow being between them makes her even less secure.) “Sanyon --- please, you don’t need to do that. My father is dead. He has no use of the spear, and I am no fighter. I know I seemed to want it back, maybe, when we first met,” and of course she does want it back! It is all that remains of her father, now that the burial caverns must be all smothered in ash and cooled rock.
She wants to touch it with her wide hands the same way she’d placed tiny fingers on it as Airan-Ahhe tried to teach her how to hold the spear. Haina doesn’t remember this but she remembers Kurapli telling her about it as she lay sick and shivering in the healer’s yurt.
Now that she has begun to talk it is easier. Ulyothah nods at her encouragingly. “Thank you, Sanyon. We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure of it. We are heading south soon, down the Bitter Coast, nearly up to Balmora. I don’t know how much of it has been rebuilt, but I am sure it is still a big enough city that you can make your own way to the mainland, or wherever you want to go.”
For a moment, he feels like everything might just turn out okay. “She speaks better than me,” he says as he leads the way in. “Not enough for them, but better than me."Â
The guards on duty leer at them both, but though the crawling sensation of stares on his back that Anasse swears he can feel the whole time never leaves, they make no attempt to have them leave.Â
He avoids looking at any of the other prisoners, many of whom are suffering like those afflicted outside. Some of whom are men, and a few too many mer. Santuam has dried her face since they’d last spoken, and still leans forward to the bars, arms crossed and eyes alight. Anasse is reminded of how quickly her moods can change. From the way she trembles now, it is certainly the cold that has her instead of fear.
"I’ve seen you,” she says immediately to her brother’s new companion. “With the Nord.” She turns to her brother, grasps his hands and gives them both a closed-lipped smile. “Anasse, you told your friend, yes?"Â
"She says she can help. Say the rest to her yourself.”
The guards don't look happy. Haina avoids looking at them because when she does, the urge to turn herself in bubbles up in her, and she has to make sure no words slip out.
The woman in the cell is a true ashlander. All around, the other prisoners are convulsing or miserable but she is defiant, as if the disease took one look at her and decided to stay away. Her skin looks as grey and tough as the iron, like if you touched it it would be cold, and Haina wants to touch it. Far easier to look at her than at the others.
She doesn't think she's seen the other woman before. But she can't be lying to be polite because how else would she know about Soltjand? Might she have told Annika? No - no, of course not, not if the woman can only speak Dunmer. Don't be silly, Haina. Don't think too much of Anasse calling you a friend.
“Of course I will try to help you, sister of Anasse,” and she curls one hand around the metal. She doesn’t smile back. “Please, tell me everything.”
starlwen
By this point, Starlwen can tell something is wrong. The choked coughing, the avoiding her gaze…Star sighed and put the flask out of sight. “My name is Starlwen, house Duskthorn of Valenwood.” she said proudly, as if the dunmer would know anything about her family. They might have had power a time ago, but not anytime recently, and certainly not in Skyrim. “And you are Haina, correct?”
Valenwood. That's the place where they eat their dead, isn't it? Even the smallest thing can make this woman uneasy. She does feel slightly better, though, once the flask is out of sight. Straightens her back, and her smile is slightly easier.
“Haina Esabirammu of the Urshilaku Ashlanders,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice, though she’s sure the Bosmer will have no idea what an Ashlander is, let alone an Urshilaku. But she is still proud of her heritage, the ancestors that have kept her alive so long, despite how little she truly remembers of before the Red Year, and despite the fact that she knows no other Urshilaku survivors. “---What is the circle you mentioned?”
you don’t learn much about a character in combat rp. you also don’t learn much about a character through erp. but you do learn about them through the little, mundane things of life and how they act and interact within those boring little daily trivialities.Â
why do guild wide events always need to be these exhaustive battles? why does everyone have to jump the gun to be the biggest badass? why can’t it be everyone in the guild learning how to crochet a sweater?
and why do we need such instant gratification in our rp?
why do our characters need to hook up and shack up so quickly?
why do our characters have to be formidable fighters after an ic month’s worth of training? (i say ic because noooooo, we could neverrr constrain our characters to real time because that’d be so boringgggggg)
why does everything have to get healed with the flick of a priest’s wrist? why do mages summon portals at ease and en masse when it’s literally creating a rip in space and time and requires terrific power and concentration?Â
why are we afraid to write characters who aren’t strong? who can’t fight? why does their character development have to revolve around their burgeoning battle prowess?Â
i’m guilty of nearly all these things at one point or another and just… i ask myself sometimes… why?Â
sometimes rp just feels more annoying and unfulfilling than the relaxing hobby i intended it to be.Â
This. So much this…
Before he knows what’s going on, Sanyon is out cold, and the last thing on his mind is sorry. It’s both their shame to bear, his wounds being exacerbated by going out to bury the girl with Haina, but it hasn’t yet stuck that he is allowed to stop taking others’ guilt now.
When he finally wakes up, it’s unclear how much time has passed, and he is told to stay down and rest. Actually rest. Not get up and try to set things straight, but take some time to let himself heal properly before he makes it worse. He must be easily swayed or have a death wish.
When he has the will to talk again, he asks if Haina will come to speak to him, if he isn’t to go and speak to her. It’s been a very long time since he’s felt comfortable in someone’s presence. He doesn’t say that out loud.
The sweetish scent of marshmerrow still clings to her fingers. She likes making potions with Ulyothah. She lacks the instinct for it that the girl has, and sometimes the mixing just doesn't work quite right, but Ulyothah will gently guide her hand and fix everything Haina's done wrong.
The message passes to her through Ulyothah that Sanyon wants her there with him. He seems to be recovering well, she's heard, though she hasn't wanted to investigate for herself: the healer's tent is a dangerous place that Ulyothah says she shouldn't go alone.
So they go together. Haina stands over Sanyon's resting body, throat unwilling to make words. Ulyothah leans down to him. A few strands of red-brown hair come loose and fall over her face; Haina's frozen, again, watching the girl tuck it back behind her limp ear.
“Sera? I heard you wanted Haina to be here; and she’s here. Gets a little anxious in this yurt, you understand, around wounds she can’t just ignore. Are they improving any?”
Windhelm, 4E 189 [Haina|Santuam]
She… understands him. A little, at least, enough to know what he may have been saying. It sounds like she hasn’t spoken any sort of Dunmeris in a long time, but he can’t dwell on either of their linguistic shortcomings now. He tucks his hands in between his crossed arms and chest to keep them warm.
She can hear him. She can hear him speaking or she can hear him out? The difference, in the long run, doesn’t really matter – she said too, but she must come from another tribe because he’s never seen her before now. That doesn’t matter either. There will be time to introduce themselves later.
“Can you speak to them? If you can, then will you?” he says, gesturing toward the giant stone building looming over them, where his sister sits imprisoned with countless other criminals. “They accused my sister and no one will help me, since I don’t know how to speak to them and say she is innocent.”
Anasse is entirely prepared for her to deny him right there, but he has to try.
Haina knows exactly what stands behind them - the palace has been there long since before she moved here, and even then, she'd grown to its presence, jutting out into the sky, very quickly, though it had still seemed unnatural to her then. A building, unmoveable, made of stone! The same wonder is what she feels now as his words start to make sense to her. And she knows it's the Palace of Kings but she turns to look anyway.
She has to visit Annika and the children later, see if the medicine she's attempted to make will work on Soltjand, and make more, perhaps, and that'll take a while, but does she really have the power to not help this man? So Haina nods. "I know their words better than ours. If your sister will tell me why she is innocent, then I will speak to the guards for you. Do you know the way to the jail?"
Haina has only been there once before. The idea of being among criminals makes her blood run even colder. But if she doesn't, and this man's sister suffers for being found guilty - then it will be Haina who is truly guilty.
30 Days of Character Development!
HEY RPERS, what if I started a meme. It’s a simple meme. You answer one question every day for thirty days, and by the end of it, you hopefully learn even more about your character and become a better roleplayer because of it! 8Dc  Y'all should totes spread this around. Here’s the list.Â
Keep reading
There is frost on his beard already, and he can’t feel his nose no matter how much he scrunches it, or touches it when he brings both gloved hands up to breathe into. Maybe he should have grown his hair out, taken into consideration how cold Windhelm is compared to Vvardenfell and the ashen waste of southern Solstheim and Raven Rock, but it’s too late now and his hair is thin and does not grow fast.
No one would hear him speak in the market, or in the city’s center. If he approaches he is left, more often than not, and his hopes begin to lean more toward being listened to rather than understood. Small victories. Small victories that he isn’t getting.
The Dunmer who nods to him, he barely notices. When he does, he pauses, then goes to follow because this one might listen. Maybe they haven’t been affected, or don’t care for curses and rumors of curses.
“Excuse me!” he says, trying not to corner one of his fellows at a time like this. He isn’t begging, he tells himself. Just asking. “I need help, will you listen?”
Haina isn’t usually stopped in the street. She halts. She knows that language! How many years has it been? Before Soltjand, before Windhelm, certainly --- it must have been at Mournhold she’d last spoken that. Isn’t the tongue of your birth supposed to never leave you? It takes her a long time to work out his words. She feels like she is learning how to speak all over again.
Haina stares for a while at him because she can’t think what else to do. Apologize for the curse? Apologize for the Red Year? Apologize for the snow she keeps flinching at when it settles on her nose? The words just won’t come.
A memory hits her, a cool liquid pooling in her chest. Red silk around her mouth, breathing through the holes in the fabric, the sulphuric taste of ash lingering under her tongue. Haina wishes she was wearing a scarf so she could pull it up now to cover her mouth. When she speaks, she tries to ignore the cold air that wells up at the back of her throat.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she says, or at least this is what she attempts to say. Then another word clicks into place. “No, I think I know now.” He is asking her to hear something, is he? She remembers being told about the dwemer who had disappeared, leaving behind ruins with writing in. Gurveyne showing her a prized possession, a chunk of metal with the engraved blocky lines. Haina couldn’t have read the language anyway, but it is the same feeling of looking into a past she can’t understand.
“Are you an Ashlander? I did not know there were others here. I can hear you.”
She thinks she may be using the wrong tense. Wasn’t there one that meant possible, but also meant that the  thing was happening and would happen and was wound firmly into fate, and another one that sounded similar but --- oh, it’s all mashing together in her head, and she bites her tongue, shivers, looks blankly at the man.
Windhelm, 4E 189 [Haina|Santuam]
“Santuam, no… you didn’t!” Weaving long fingers through his hair in agitation, Anasse paces back and forth in front of the cell. A few steps in one direction, a few in the other; it is small and he can tell how claustrophobic his sister is quickly becoming. He himself is uncomfortable simply looking at her. “Do you–do you know how upset Father is right now? Do you know how scared? I told you not to do this! I could have handled it myself!”
Even then, he’s still nursing that black eye, though his face is definitely less swollen up than it was yesterday. “You need to not take it!” Santuam retorts. “Maybe if you stood up for yourself every once in a while–”
“Then we would all three of us be in jail! Look, I know you’re upset, but you did not have to go off and… and curse half the city… I… I’m not worth that!”
She stands up suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck bristling. “I didn’t! I swear, I didn’t! It was just the one!” Tears in her eyes, she clutches her brother’s hand through the bars.Â
Among the city’s populace, it has become a general consensus that a Dunmer had bewitched Rolff, and his worsening condition had been linked back to the family of the man he had been in a fight with so recently. The two men in the family had no affinity for magic, and as such, Santuam had been accused at the same time that several others were showing similar symptoms. Even when it hit the Grey Quarter, throwing her presumed motives into question, her fate had been effectively sealed. Seizures, madness, and vomiting among so many citizens of Windhelm was what brought the two siblings here, to jail, with one on either side of the door.
“You have to tell them–”
“Have to tell them? They don’t understand a word I say!”
"Then find someone who will!”
Anasse has never seen his sister cry, not once. She truly did have her mother’s spirit, if the spirit could be picked up by an infant living at the moment of its mother’s death. And he had never seen his mother cry, either. Not once in the many decades that he had known her. It drives him to lean in closer, let her sniffle on his shoulder before he is ultimately dragged out by the guard.Â
The winter chill awaits him outside, biting at his nose and ears as he trudges back to the Grey Quarter through the snow.
Find someone who will. Someone who will. Someone who will understand his peculiar amalgamation of Redoran and Grasslands dialects and accent, yes, but also someone who will listen. Which is nobody, at least for his former concern more than the latter. He doesn’t feel like acknowledging that.
It will be spring soon, won’t it? That’ll be the end of all this.
This winter, this past week or so, or whenever it was winter rushed in this year –-- it’s been the coldest and wettest Haina’s ever known. Even in autumn, Soltjand had visited her shivering under his furs. And Soltjand was one of the hardiest. You’d go to the market and people would be wearing thicker shrouds than usual. The merchants’ bare fingers would tremble, even though they’ve been bare in every other blizzard. You notice the ice crawling up your spine, and you notice your fingers shake. That’s normal, isn’t it? We pass through the autumn noticing the cold, but it’s Windhelm, we have grown used to cold. People get more diseases than usual, perhaps. We are used to diseases.
Soltjand struggles to hunt. Too few deer, he says. He comes to her door scared one day and says he’s seen lizards crawling out of rock surfaces. Salamanders. The ground had been hot under his feet like there was a fire raging in the soil. And gods, he’s shaking, his whole body consumed by it --- he crashes to the floor before Haina can hold him up.
But spring is rushing towards them like the ground to someone falling. Soltjand, with his golden hair and nimble hands and bright eyes, is made for spring. He must survive until then.
“Haina!” he calls from the other room. Haina’s little home has two rooms, one containing little more than her bed. She is sitting on her bed now. She should be sewing but her fingertips are burning sore. Soltjand must be laid out by the dim embers of the fire. Is he feeling sick again? She hasn’t seen him for a long while. “Haina, if you don’t come I’ll die,” and she’s coming because if she doesn’t it’ll be yet another death weighing on her shoulders. In the room, she looks to the fireplace, and remembers.
Soltjand’s staying with his wife and his son in Valunstrad. They can take better care of him. Haina still sees the sweat dewy on his forehead.The sun is hazy and white in the grey sky as she steps outside. The light doesn’t seem to be coming through properly. Windhelm has become its own isolated world. Like a curse has been placed on it, which as far as the people she’s heard discussing it are concerned, is exactly what’s happened.Is it egotistical, Haina wonders, to wonder what she’s done to cause the curse?
She goes to the market. Red meat hangs on hooks, but not as much as would be there most winters. She has lived a long time in Windhelm. Generations of hunters have passed. Generations of winters have passed. Only a few months more until spring.
There is discussion of the curse that Haina tries to not look like she’s listening to. Someone’s been arrested for it, they say. Haina buys leeks. When they mention that they’re pretty sure the culprit’s a Dunmer, she adjusts her hood, makes sure that the points of her ears are covered. Of course they are. She is covered in her shawl, her dress, her coat, undershirt, pants, and a thick cloak for good measure, borrowed from Soltjand and lined in wolf fur. A glance to his house --- does he miss her? Is he well enough to?
morrowind-style about theme
have you always wanted to represent your character with morrowind’s interface..... except on tumblr? well now you can!
code here!
please like or reblog if you use it, if you have any questions about the code feel free to ask, please do not delete the credit this took forever, please enjoy!
always tired
((ooc; who would be interested in this morrowind-style about page being released as like, a proper code? it isn’t finished yet but i want to know if people would want it so i can like, neaten it up properly + make it easier to edit))
