ALLEGIANCE-GUIDE

MASTER OF MY OWN FATE.

[bendwill]

[ #𝙱𝙴𝙽𝙳𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 ] a roleplay blog for 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓𝖇𝖔𝖗𝖓 MIRAAK from 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔩𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔰 𝔳 : ⳽ⲕⲩⲅⲓⲙ. multi-verse and crossover friendly. baldur's gate 3 verse included. ©

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affiliates: @eyehunger , @daandov , @khalesci , @maidmyth , @anoffering , @thyunalloyed

[bendwill]

I think my favourite part of writing Miraak has been realizing that he is just a really fucked up Disney Princess.

[bendwill]

❝ AFTER THE ISLES, our vision should set upon subjugating Cyrodiil. Once Skyrim's jarls have bent the knee to us, and once the welkin are brought into the fold, the empire will be next. ❞ Another day. More planning. Incessant.

“We should start with Cyrodiil. Once the Thalmor is purged from the Heart of the Empire, swaying them to our calling would be trivial. Putting the Isles in its place would be best done when they have no ally left to hide behind. Let them face the full force of Man.” THERE IS A SWIFTNESS IN MIRAAK'S RESPONSE. Perhaps this was a topic he had already spent a long while pondering. While it wasn't an outright rejection of Miquella's plans, he also does not hesitate to voice dissent. “The less time they have in Cyrodiil have to spin their tales, the easier it will be. Cutting their influence, the Empire will be indebted to us.”

[bendwill]

love language: dragon racing

[anoffering-a]

As Miraak reaches for him, his first instinct is to flinch away — but much to his surprise and delight, he doesn't. It's trust, that's what it is. Trust that he wasn't fully aware existed until now, but they're positively thrilled that it's there. No one has ever gotten this close to their face, nor have they ever let anyone get this close without trying to run. It's a welcome change, they think, eyes fluttering to a close as Miraak kisses them again.

Ásgeirr doesn't notice his lip is cut until he watches the other lick the familiar red substance from his glove. What am I supposed to say to that? He thinks, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. As suspected, a smear of red is present on his pasty hand, and he's positive that his face is a bright pink. He's never been a particularly sentimental person, let alone a romantic, but his present company is making him want to be.

“ Zu'u ni los pruzah ahst daar malur. ” They say quietly under their breath, glancing down at Miraak's lips again. It feels like their chest has been cleaved open. This sort of vulnerability was new to him, and while he's completely terrified of it, he welcomes it. “ I've been with a lot of people. Lots. Mostly with people I didn't really want to be with. When I was in the Dark Brotherhood, I used sex as a weapon. I guess I slept with other guys occasionally for fun — but that wasn't very often. ” It feels good to admit out loud — Ásgeirr reaches for Miraak's hand, and finally raises their face to meet his gaze.

“ I don't know how to do this, in a genuine way. ” Their heart threatens to beat out of their chest, and they squeeze Miraak's hand as if it were a lifeline. “ I really want to, though. I haven't met anyone who's made me want to. ” It must have been some kind of cosmic joke, finally feeling emotionally fulfilled with someone he'd recognized from the twisted imagination of a Daedric prince. “ Not until you. ”

[bendwill]

IT ISN'T LOST ON HIM, THE TRUST IN THIS MOMENT. It struck Miraak as quite strange then, the amount that had changed in such a short span of time. Maybe he wasn't the best judge of that these days. So much had happened in a year, yet he felt like it had been a hundred of them. In Apocrypha, he went such long spans of time without anything particularly eventful happening. A year ago, Miraak was ready to kill his counterpart if it meant his freedom— but there was precious little he would not have done for that.

A conflict of emotions brewed in his chest that he couldn't make sense of. The First is silent and with the mask called Miraak pushed aside, the contemplation is easy to witness in his warped countenance, expression all set in grim lines, yet slightly softer than his usually permanent scowl. So deep is he in thought that he has to consciously refocus himself, redirecting his frustration at an inability to sort through emotions either never felt or long kept buried. It would be easier to simply focus on Ásgeirr, anyway, like always. His hand stills as the other takes it, neither grasping nor pulling away, as if unsure of what to do. It felt so good to be touched like this — a reminder that he existed. This existed. The same hand holding him the one that pulled him out of Oblivion. Miraak's fingers curl back until they're gripping just as hard.

“Zu'u vomindok ahney.” He mutters. The vulnerability doesn't escape him either. A part of him even wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Vulnerability wasn't a thing people like them got to enjoy. A luxury they couldn't afford. Feeling it now is almost antithetical. Didn't he always so love the taboo and forbidden, though? That rebellion was core to his nature. What was this if not a sort of rebellion?

Miraak nods slowly, understanding in both himself and what Ásgeirr was telling him. He waited in silence, both for his time to speak as well not knowing what to say, but the Last's conclusion has him barking a sudden laugh, lips curling up into a grin. The opposite arm snakes around Asgeirr's midsection without thinking, bringing them closer until he can feel the heartbeat against his own.

“You would have never imagined you would be telling me this when we first met.” He could imagine the scandalized look in the Last's grimace at the very thought of such a proposal. Not that he could blame them. There was additional humour to be found in the fact that his ravaged likeness would be the man they truly wanted. Cosmic joke, indeed. “Hei mur zey fraan faal rinid. But I question your taste.”

Carefully, he loosens his grip on the other's hand until it pulls away, the other arm unwilling to free itself from the vice around the other man's waist. With a pause of hesitation, he removes the mask in entirety, feeling strangely more vulnerable entirely free of it as opposed to only pushing it aside; it made him want to hide away, a feeling he so closely associated with shame. He can still feel his nerves, and isn't sure if the heartbeat thrumming in his chest is his or Ásgeirr's, but he doesn't retreat. The bronze visage now set upon the log beside them, he stares at it, thoughtful.

“Miraak is the name given to that mask. Given to me. Allegiance Guide. It was a lie, you know… The name. A falsehood. To me, a joke. I—” He hesitates. Why was he saying this, suddenly? It's what Ásgeirr said. I really want to. You make me want to. He looks back up, earnest. “I feel this is the one time it isn't.”

[bendwill]

@daandov from here. sorry he's an asshole </3

VAL APPEARS NEAR TO TEARS BY THE TIME SHE THROWS HER ARMS AROUND HIM. A smirk plays at Miraak's lips, eyes narrowing with the glee of his deceit. He expects a headbutt just as much as the hug, and his arms open to receive her, wary to prepare for impact. She won't catch him breathless this time.

“Why are you thanking the Nine? You should be thanking me.” Of course, he notices and of course, he voices the correction. If there was cause to correct her, he never faltered. Valvari acted aggrieved, but he knew she secretly appreciated that eye for detail — it meant everything to her work, after all. Nonetheless Miraak's voice drips with wry amusement, and it is undaunted even as her horns meet his chest, though the ensuing exhale rattles through his rasping laugh. Expected that, clearly.

“I enjoy making you wonder what you would do without me.” Oh, yes. He was grinning under there, all but preening himself for his usefulness. “That is all.”

[maidmyth]

𝓁etter, @bendwill. — DO YOU EVER FEEL AT TIMES AS IF YOU WERE NOT A PERSON?

almost-goddess, almost-godless. daughter of time embodied, yet how swiftly her own time runs out. in mind’s eye she sees herself trapped within crystalline hourglass, sand piling ‘pon head. sits, waits, paces tiny enclosure, sits once again — stares outwards, places palms to glass surface, watches freedom & life & love. (may i have some too? please, may i be allowed?) but now does she stand before him in all glory & grief: sorrow o'er visage like a veil, despair o'er shoulders like a shawl. young & chaste she may be — bride of death she is nonetheless. (& yet: life’s mistress i remain, balancing mercy & cruelty.) " i do not think i have ever been a person, " falls forth confession. " i think i have always simply been a prophecy. i tell you such blunt truths because there is no other in this world that understands as you do. "

[bendwill]

WASN'T THAT SO PATHETICALLY RELATABLE? No matter how many times he'd proven himself to the world, it scarcely counted as proof to him. Who existed beneath the mask, if anyone at all? The lines between who he pretended to be and who he was had coalesced long, long ago. (He loathed to be another pawn on the board.) “We will cross Sovngarde and return victorious. Whether prophecy decrees it or not.” Miraak eyes her while he silently entertains himself with that fantasy. That they would both return alive. Free of expectation. “What shall we do afterwards, Remilia?”

[bendwill]

whenever I appear back here, I just imagine All The Last Dragonborns (also Mora) being like :))) omg, my favorite person to bully is back.

[dragcnborn]

"Ahrk het zu'u mindol hi lost dilon." He clucks his tongue. The Last Dragonborn doesn't really sound bothered, despite his flippant words.

"Shame."

[bendwill]

“Voth baarkei. It will take more than your hopes and your prayers to put me down.”

[bendwill]

❝ i bet the two of us, we’re very alike. ❞ from asgeirr

@anoffering

HE FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO DISCERN THE OTHER'S TONE. Whether it was because he'd spent so long without human socialization or just that Asgeirr's tone so perfectly skirted the line between condescension and genuity, he wasn't certain. One was just as likely as the other. That was frustrating.

After all, on a surface's glance, they couldn't be more dissimilar (not counting the equally unsettling eyes, that was). To call the duo very alike was laughable… If you didn't know them. Indeed, the longer they spent in one another's company, the more he got the opposite of that impression. Different but so very the same.

“Which parts of us — The mage? The scholar?” Erstwhile, the condescension was not as dubious in Miraak's voice. He can't help but make his own jab, for this is what conversation with the Last Dragonborn is; a sort of verbal jousting.

Privately, he thinks of memories skulking alone through dark halls. The similarities are there even beyond the obvious draconic soul. Sometimes he cannot tell who he is in those memories. The lines have blurred together so many times. If he hadn't a latent instinct to hold his tongue, he might have blurted out the sudden question that abruptly surfaced his mind (he relished to think these private thoughts, sacrilege and tabboos coming so much easier now that he hadn't the need to hide it) — Do you dream about me? As me? Forget the self-preservation, now it's pride that silences him.

“Tell me what I don't already know, Dragonborn.”

[bendwill]

Speaking of @anoffering. Here, for the blog.

[bendwill]

redownloading skyrim Yet Again, i blame @anoffering

[eyehunger]

“&– - Apocrypha is a realm of knowledge-- - there is no purpose for it to give what is already known.” Not unless there was a benefit to do so // OR ENTERTAINMENT. But there was only a partial truth in this. The atmosphere pulsed with the evidence of continuance, that the strands of response were already pulled taut before speech // A THRUM. “&– - There is also the manner of... mmm.... uniqueness. Every duplication made here is perfect, but what is original remains. There are deeper, less treaded archives in which those are shelved. Yours lay within a section none outside my make have wandered.... yourself included.”

[bendwill]

SOMETHING ABOUT THAT PLEASES HIM. Miraak knew a defining characteristic of his fickle master was Its intrigue in that which was unique. Part of the reason he was here, after all. Shouldn't be surprising. Pleasing nonetheless.

“Are they so precious to you?” He wonders how much of it in truth It held. Important works flit through his mind, but he wrote much and more than a few dusty manuscripts over the years. Once written works in service to the dragons, turned the maxims of a heresiarch rebelling against them. He sighs, as if purposefully casual as to stifle his true feelings. “Then again, you do so adore anything related to dragons.”

[bendwill]

@eyehunger / unprompted

“I find it curious I never stumble upon my own works here. Where do you keep them?”

[bendwill]

Miraak’s idle dialogue as a follower would just be unprompted extremely obscure facts about whatever is relevant at the time. Or translations of ancient script in tombs. If he is your follower you will be Forced To Learn Things just by virtue of being around him. He literally will not let you NOT learn things and if you don’t know enough to appreciate what he is sharing, then he’ll force you to learn so you can be as studious as him. ✨

[eueclid]

There is a moment where Ásgeirr is certain they've messed up. They watch Miraak after they pull him back, eyes falling to what's barely been revealed before, the monstrosity behind the mask. He doesn't particularly mind it — he thinks he maybe it might be more shocking if he were totally normal looking after however long he spent trapped inside of Hermaeus Mora's domain. Had he read the signs wrong? All he can do is stare while leather-covered fingers grab onto his hair, and wait.

And then Miraak kisses him too. They try not to audibly sigh in relief, but rather settle against him with arms wrapping around his neck. This was hardly the first place he imagined they'd be in when they first met — a first meeting with a dagger aimed at his throat and stomach, poised to kill. Then, after rescuing him from a place that resembled a swamp from his nightmares, Ásgeirr assumed that they'd travel long enough for Miraak to gain his footing in a new world. And now, they're kissing at a dying fire following a handful of adventures fit for a storybook.

He pulls back after some time, clearing his throat as he does as his face turns red — something that he's certain Miraak hasn't seen yet. “ Geh. Grozah. ” They rub the back of their neck, and glance towards the fire. “ Nuz til kent kos atruk folaas voth hei akh. ” They reply, a grin on their face as they turn back to look at him. He still doesn't know where this came from, yet knows exactly where at the same time. His mind cannot wrap itself around this.

“ Krosis — lost hei veseyaan aanvorey mun us? ” Perhaps it's an awkward question, but at the same time, he's curious. Ásgeirr tilts his head slightly, and dares to reach out and rest his hand atop Miraak's. Is this when he shares that he only kisses men? That he only feels this sort of thing for men when he does feel it? There were people that accepted it, of course, and he assumed his present company was one of those people, but there were also many who didn't. Perhaps he wasn't the first. Miraak's had many years to live, after all — many more than Ásgeirr could ever dream of. How long had it been since he kissed anyone?

[bendwill]

@anoffering

EVEN WERE THIS NOT MORE MUTUAL THAN HE'D READILY ADMIT, he could not begrudge them for acting on the impulse. What better way to test the waters than to be so bold? A part of him even admires it. Ásgeirr is braver than him in that respect, Miraak thinks, and catches himself surprised at the silent admittance. He blinks, brows knitting together under the shadow of his askew mask.

“Yes.” The First replies smoothly, distantly.

It isn't that Miraak ponders. Men, women, he was (once, at least) well-acquainted with indulging without stricer discretion. The Cult had frowned upon fraternization, but it never viewed sex with as strict a lense that emotional attachment held. He hadn't struggled much with that; Miraak could never fully relate to them, anyway, be they woman or man. Everybody was at a distance, unrelatable to him in a way that had always made him feel lonely. Unfamiliar to his fellow race of man who felt the subjugating soul underneath the skin, outsider to dovah that viewed him as a pale imitation. Sometimes it felt as if the world had a layer between him and everything else, a layer that existed with or without Apocrypha. A consequence of what he was.

The once-priest slides his hand back, tilting Ásgeirr's head slightly back in his direction. Absently, he runs the backs of gloved knuckles up along scars that crawl under assassin's collar. “Hei los ni nunon aanvorey mun.” He mutters as wandering eyes return again, holding the stare. Then, his hand recoils as if embarrassed by the tenderness of the gesture. It is somewhat unsettling to feel seen like this, as unsettling as it is rewarding.

The longer he sits with it, the more he has to explore it. Lowered hand curls around the fabric of a half-untied tunic, pulling him close to preface the third joining of their lips. Slightly less abrupt than the first or second, a little more slow and curious and even gentle. The warmth he feels seeps down to the marrow, down to the soul until he's positive it isn't just the nearby hearth. No, he doesn't recall feeling like this with other men, other daedra. With anybody. If he ever had, it would have been a feeling Apocrypha could never have erased from his memory.

When he pulls back, this time it's to catch his breath. A sharp tooth (or jutting scale, or other similar mutation his unfortunate visage did not lack) catches on Ásgeirr's lower lip, creating a line of scarlet that runs down their chin. Without thinking, he catches it on the pad of his thumb, then presses it to his lips, contemplating the taste of it. “Vir vis zu'u vothnaar hei?”

[bendwill]

Miraak when he is actually loyal to Mora is so, SO incredibly unbelievably unhinged. However unhinged you think he would be just take that and make it a hundred times worse.