h
occasionally subtle
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JBB: An Artblog!
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@azurasblacksheep
We’ve reached 555! To celebrate, I’m doing an art giveaway in the style of the Wasten Coridale illustrations seen here and here.
To enter a chance to win an illustration of your character(s), you must follow me and reblog this post. New followers are welcome to enter. You can also follow me on Twitter for an additional entry into the raffle.
Winners will be selected by random number generator on November 30th. Good luck!
Whoops, I forgot I did this for Inktober! Posting it here.
Managed 22 out of 31 days (beating out my former record of 1/31 days), but it was just enough to draw one entire generation of Ramarys cousins + one dead guy. There’s too many mer in this stupid mess of a family, y’all.
ghartokpadhome:
“What, do you want to continue until I break a sweat?” He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Bravado only works when you don’t look like you’re about to keel over, kid.”
Wandering over to a stack of crates by the alley wall, Drelethyn shoo’d away a chicken and took a seat on the crate, massaging the flesh of his thigh just above where skin and bone met metal. The cold damp had never agreed with his old wound well, and the ache was starting to become a distraction.
“Come sit down before you fall over. I said I’d teach you some of my magic, yeah? Catch your breath and show me what you can do, first.”
Gilmyn huffed and puffed like an overstuffed rooster, but obeyed. When he was no longer brokenly wheezing, he joined Drelethyn at the alley wall and sat down on an adjoining crate.
The younger mer extended an arm outwards, exhaled, and folded into his inner magicka to draw it out in the form of fire. Though his attempts initially sputtered from the bitter cold of Windhelm, eventually red flames coursed down the length of his arm and sparked from his fingertips. Like Gilmyn himself, his magic was loud, vibrant, and wholly uncontrolled. Tiny embers rolled off and onto the stone floor, with one hitting the fabric of his trousers and sending up a tiny chute of smoke. “See?” He willed the fire into his palm until there was a massive fireball blazing in his hand. “It’s something.”
Hey there fellas
tfw some ghost pops up out of nowhere and tells you he’s your long-dead brother
This has been on my mind for long but I’m gonna do this - please reblog this if you’re comfortable with pre-establishing relationships. I do not mean “met at the grocery store two weeks ago” or “have a common friend”, but rather stuff like “have been best friends since kindergrden”, “go for a beer every friday”, “friends with benefits”, “dated in highschool”, “hate each other’s guts because -insert reason-” etc. Something meaningful (but not necessarily shippy) and I mean with muns/characters you have not interacted with, because I cannot believe I am the only one who prefers jumping right into the heart of the human interaction.
Assortment of Misc. Dunmer Tattoo Stuff
cat-wizard:
Ink is ground shortly before a session, with a very small amount of ash gathered from Morrowind incorporated, else it is not considered “legitimate”.
Many choose to incorporate the ash of their ancestors as well, which typically passes through a priest and is given directly to the artist to use, primarily to ensure that no spirits are disturbed.(In this case, a respectful prayer is said before the session begins.)
Tools used most commonly are a sharpened metal rod, and finer details applied with needles affixed to a smaller metal/wooden rod.
By tradition, sessions are done with the artist seated on the floor, though artists that have been practicing for some time may need the benefit of a chair and the mer they are working on to be on a bed or table, so there is much less strain on the back.
Typically, only the artist/client is present, and there is very little or no talking.
Clients are encouraged to eat very well before showing and are provided meditative techniques in preparation. Lanterns and incense are frequently utilized to reduce stress.
Most tattoos have meaning, and are rarely just frivolous design
Specific soaps and salves are given for after care, usually provided by an alchemist that is familiar with the process.
It was not uncommon for children to be given tattoos at the request of their parents shortly before the 4th era, but for the most part, this practice has died out and it is generally accepted that a mer should seek out an artist when they have developed a pain tolerance and can make the decision for themselves.
Indie Elder Scrolls RP blog for a Dunmer tattoo artist serving House Redoran. Semi-active. Mun is 21+ (Profile + Rules)
Indie Elder Scrolls RP blog for a Nord necromancer serving Sheogorath. Semi-active. Mun is 21+ (Profile + Rules)
((AU where everyone is alive and happy and there are babies - I mean happy? Alive? What does that mean))
@kadeshx @ghartokpadhome
“You look Dunmer.” Antal-Lei stiffened, nothing else mattered but that. He still looked Dunmer, after all this swimming down the river. After all he had done to wipe away the traces of what he had been born he would forever be chained to his blood-race
He still looked Dunmer no matter how he tried to hide it! And no matter how much he wished he could have altered his face, he could not. He had promised his parents long ago he would leave his face alone. No matter how much he wanted to rip his nose off.
Frustration at himself grew as sadness crept up. Anger and hatred once more swelled within him, only this time it was at himself. His connection to the fire was severed as his thoughts became consumed once more by the words of the An-Xileel and words he had heard as a child. “Not a Saxhleel…Dres bastard…Grey-skinned filth…The Hist will only protect you so long as you’re useful…Shouldn’t have been allowed to live…You’re trying to look like us?! Oh how sweet! You know you could start by skinning yourself, that’d remove that disgusting hide of yours!”
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“...well?”
Gilmyn sat, watched, and stared. The stranger did not say a word for a good, long time, clearly embroiled in his own thoughts. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot. Did this Dunmer, or whatever he was, know how to hold a basic conversation at all?
Finally came the not-answer, Saxhleel. That’s what the Argonians called themselves, as far as Gilmyn knew. Huh - weren’t they and the Dunmer people traditionally enemies? Gilmyn couldn’t imagine why a Dunmer would want to live somewhere as wild and hostile as Black Marsh...unless he’d been kidnapped or something. There were always those stories of Dunmer infants kidnapped after the Red Year and spirited away, never to be seen again.
Maybe this fellow was one of them. Poor soul.
“Uh - look, you don’t look so good. Maybe step outside, get some air. All that smoke’s must've gotten t’ your head.” He made a beeline for the door, opening it and waving Antal-Lei through. “After you.”
ghartokpadhome:
Drelethyn raised a brow at Gilmyn’s words, and reset his stance as the younger mer came at him again, noting that Gilmyn had given up on Kagouti for a form that he was clearly more familiar with.
The swing was powerful, and rather than block and risk jarring his arm or wrist, Drelethyn opted to drop and roll to the side, dodging the blow altogether. He was quick to his feet, already moving out of the way of the second swing. The third was blocked by Drelethyn’s own blade. Without a moment’s hesitation Drelethyn locked both of Gilmyn’s arms with one of his own and turned with a quick double-step, trapping Gilmyn’s movement and forcing him to bow forward as the hilt of Drelethyn’s sword hooked around his blade and sent it flying behind them.
Drelethyn held the lock for a moment more before releasing Gilmyn and stepping back, twirling the wooden sword once before tucking it into his belt.
“Well-” He stretched his arms above his head, working out a kink in his shoulders, “-I think that is enough training for today.”
Gilmyn’s words were far braver than his true feelings. He, in fact, had no damn clue as to what he was doing, other than flailing a chunk of wood in the hopes that it might glance off his new teacher’s impressively broad shoulders.
As with many things involving Drelethyn, the fight ended alarmingly quickly. Gilmyn found himself bent forwards and staring straight at the ground, his hands smarting from how quickly and savagely his sword had been ripped from his grasp.
And with that, it was done. Gilmyn wobbled when Drelethyn let go of his arms and managed to hold steady. Hands braced on his knees, he wheezed for breath and squinted at Drelethyn from under his sweat-drenched fringe.
“Ugh, that’s - that’s it?” He grabbed his discarded tunic to wipe off his face. “Were you toying with me or something? You haven’t so much as broken a sweat!”
A Memorable Introduction [Gilmyn || Navalli]
acrossbloodwater:
“Yeah, it is,” Navalli snapped bitterly, “But the sooner this gets done, the sooner you can stop acting like I’m the executioner, and I can get out of here where the smell of wet dog isn’t haunting my senses.”
It was times like these she wished she carried spare rags on her. It would make this experience a lot easier. Her gloves were too thin to be enough.
“It’s better than smelling like a rotting corpse,” one of the werewolves piped up from the sidelines.
She whipped around and pointed a finger at him. “Zip it, mutt, or you’ll be next rug on my living room floor.”
“Come fucking try me!”
“Don’t you have territory to be marking?”
He started forward only to be stopped by a couple of his buddies, and she settled on curling her lip up to bare her fangs at him. However, when she turned back to Gilmyn, she softened just the slightest. “Just let me help, alright? then you can get out of here and you won’t have to worry about-” me, “…anything.”
Gilmyn’s eyes swiveled back and forth between Navalli and the cheeky werewolf as though he was watching a tennis match. The pause in decoration gave him a moment to think, something he didn’t do very often.
He was surrounded by werewolves. Hungry ones, but they hadn’t tried to eat him yet despite the numerous threats. Still smelled awful, though.
Furthermore, he was literally attached to a blood-sucker who, despite having been chained together for a good long time, had only metaphorically bitten his head off. Sure, she was terrifying. But she wasn’t the savage, brainless vampire that had leered from too many of his childhood storybooks. Not one bit.
Gilmyn looked down to the forest floor, and noticed some oblong leaves that must have been blown down by some strong wind. Touching one revealed that they had a peculiarly spongy texture. He picked a leaf up and waved it in Navalli’s direction.
“I don’t have gloves. Just use this, and don’t fuck up your hands for a couple cheap Saturnalia ornaments.”
A nearby werewolf growled at that.
The Dunmeri idiom “to speak with an ashless voice” (namara ot dahrdid) was originally a pejorative for outlander Dunmer born and raised outside of Morrowind. As the term suggests, they are easily differentiated from native-born Dunmer as their voices lack the gravelly, grating tone of their compatriots who lived their entire lives inhaling Red Mountain’s choking ash.
In recent years, the expression has expanded to include the younger generations of Dunmer born decades or even centuries after the Red Year, living on Morrowind’s peripheries and seemingly unable to connect with the arduous struggles endured by their forefathers.
how is “””pretty boy””” supposed to be an insult i’m the prettiest goddamn boy in town
The Right Connections
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The Siege of Blacklight: A Letter for a Forgotten Soul
The letter had drifted in on a model boat, calmly resting in the corner of the harbour and laying undisturbed and undamaged for the longest time. The Siege had been mostly over at this point but still it was not entirely peaceful yet. Uneasy councils had been taking place, and no one had any time for the harbour really.
But after weeks of fear, tension was finally falling as the citizens felt more at ease to move about the city. So it was no surprise really that a child found the boat, that they opened the letter addressed to whomever would find the boat requesting that the boat be delivered to the local Temple. That contained within was a letter for a dear, deeply missed friend and an offering.
And so the child did as the letter bid, giving the boat and its objects to the Temple where a young priest read the first letter in the quiet of a small room in the Temple. It was a relief to read a letter like this - rather than having to deal with comforting the endless grieving families. The most painful casualties of any war were always the innocent citizens. The ones who never asked to go to war and yet were always caught up in it.
It was an…odd yet touching letter. Whoever had written it was not fluent in writing Dunmeris, but they had tried, with any words they did not know in Dunmeris being written in the Common Tongue.
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