|| Dragxnsfire || Indie Multi-muse TES RP, featuring the Dragonborn, the Vestige, and Morrowind-era RP || 21+ ||
Side blogs for: D&D | Baldur’s Gate || LotR || Dragon Age
Rules || Muses || Ask || Memes and Starters
occasionally subtle

JVL
art blog(derogatory)
KIROKAZE

Kiana Khansmith

Kaledo Art
Peter Solarz
almost home
Keni

No title available
styofa doing anything
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

★
i don't do bad sauce passes
Claire Keane
DEAR READER
NASA

titsay
Show & Tell
Today's Document
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Türkiye

seen from Germany

seen from Türkiye
@dragxnsfire
|| Dragxnsfire || Indie Multi-muse TES RP, featuring the Dragonborn, the Vestige, and Morrowind-era RP || 21+ ||
Side blogs for: D&D | Baldur’s Gate || LotR || Dragon Age
Rules || Muses || Ask || Memes and Starters
adapt to the hand that you were dealt. show them that you are s t r o n g e r than they could ever imagine.
#𝔨𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔵𝔰 : a collection of tes v: skyrim original characters written and loved by moon (she/her & 30). selective; mutually exclusive; low activity. 21+ only. credit.
|| if you use mods that airbrush every npc in skyrim i hope you get a wedgie
|| I was looking back at this old pic of athreloth and I know it’s the lack of face sculpts for falmer. But I wonder if Gelebor ever looks at Ath and sees his brother…
He was quiet as Urnarseldo spoke, and spun the violet gem in his hands. The gravitas with which the older Mer spoke the last myth perked his interest greatly. History was one of the topics his father insisted he study in depth: he knew of the story he was referring to. A mysterious figure who emerged in the late Second era to unite the Alliances of the Three Banners War against the shared enemy of Molag Bal and the Worm King. Was he implying...? He was certainly old enough. Iachesis, not for the first time, wish he had all the resources of his previous life with which to fact-check the stranger.
Still, he could not deny Seldo had a point about the danger of the crisis at hand to the Summerset Isles. He'd read much about dragons in the past few months: of the ancient Dragon War, of the Rage of Elsweyr and the Dragonguard, Nahfahlaar and the origins of the Third Empire. He'd studied the reports from Helgen, Whiterun, Kynesgrove and elsewhere. It was no surprise ancient Nords have been ruled by them when they were at their full strength, and that fighting back had been such a monumental effort. This fresh crisis was contained for now, but it would not stay that way for long. Dragons would no doubt head south towards Cyrodiil, Valenwood, and even across the Abecean Sea if left unchecked. Even Elenwen knew this.
He closed his eyes. It wasn't like he didn't believe Seldo, but his crossed loyalties swirled around his head, pecking like crows. He was, until recently, Thalmor until he died. He hadn't considered what to do when they turned on him.
"You haven't even told me your name, nor who you are, really, besides old, dangerous, and our prisoner, once," he said, playing for time to think. "Nor what you intend to do with the information once you have it. I won't sell what I know without assurances that the information is to be put to good use. You know a great deal about me - I think some reciprocity is warranted."
The younger Altmer's question was met with a single, sharp bark of a laugh, something bitter and angry deep in its roots. He could hardly blame Iachesis for not knowing his face— there had been a statue, once, in Lillandril, but it was doubtless torn down after the Vestige refused to cooperate with the new Thalmor or their puppet-princeling. "Oh, forgive me," he said quickly, setting aside the violet gem he'd conjured; it crumbled to dust without his concentration. "There was a time when I could tell someone to simply open a book, and they would have one explanation or another." The veracity of the books was always somewhat questionable, though, he had to admit (not that it was Seldo's problem, at any rate).
"You may call me Urnarseldo," he said finally, leaning back in his seat, hands folding on the table. "Born in Aldcroft, though both my parents were from Lillandril; they were members of the Mages' Guild, you see." The elder altmer sat a little straighter, a corner of his mouth drawing back in a fond smile. "Rather important members, I might add!" With a sigh, The tension in his spine eased, and he settled down again. "I spent some time as a thief—" he turned his wrist to show Iacehsis the near-faded brand that hand been burned into his skin in Hew's Bane— "before serving the Eyes of the Queen. I spent some time in Cyrodiil, aided the Sapiarchs for a season... served the Mages' Guild, like my parents before me. The rest is not important, for your purposes: I had children, grandchildren... we had a comfortable life in Summerset, for a time. My point is that I have always had the best interest of our people at heart. These new Thalmor cannot say the same."
His lonely eye fixed upon the ex-Thalmor, now, seeming to look through him, rather than at him. "I know less about you than I might have once; my stay in the Embassy's prisons has had me on the back foot for several weeks, now. Why, I do not even know your name— I only recognized your face from the Embassy." Seldo's lips pulled into a small, sheepish smile. "I was the 'new agent'. The one who asked directions to the wash-room." He cleared his throat, and nodded to the younger man. "If you are a student of history— and I suspect you are, as a proper, praxic young man— then you will know that the dragons of yore did not stop without being stopped. And in my day, that took many, many warriors. This new 'dragon-born', whoever they are, has no army, no dragon-horn, no Eyes of the Queen." The old mage drew a sharp breath, gaze shifting to the window. "I aim to ensure they do not face this threat alone."
|| what if I made athreloth a werewolf
|| did a little drawing of haleth between real work things~
|| local direnni only does perfectly legal magic all the time
@dragxnsfire liked THIS starter call ♡
🌸 ˗ˏˋ ❝No, no, no, no, I am not————❞
A punch to the jaw sent them flying back against the tree & black spots danced in their vision as the taste of blood spread across their tongue. Somehow they got their hands under them and tried to crawl away, only for a boot to catch them hard in the side and send them back down into the dirt with a broken yelp.
❝Every knife-ear we've found out here has been a spy,❞ one of the Stormcloaks spat, punctuating it with another kick that knocked the air clean out of Amrûn. Behind him the other one laughed.
Amrûn had pleaded with them, tried to explain they were but a pilgrim on their way to the Temple of Mara in Riften & merely wished to rest in the nearby settlement — but these Nords wouldn't listen. The fact that Amrûn was an Altmer was enough to condemn them.
❝P…please…❞ The word came out barely a whisper. Oh Mara, please... They curled tight around themselves and let golden restoration magic rise in their hand, pressing it to their torso with trembling fingers———
❝Look what it's doing!! Wretched elf scum and your filthy tricks!❞
A hand fisted in their long hair and brutally wrenched them upward off the ground, another hand had seized their wrist and forced their arm up behind their back, tearing a sharp cry from them. Their free hand clawed toward the grip in their hair & suddenly they found themself face to face with one of the Nords.
He was a broad shouldered man ; he leaned down into their space without any particular hurry. When Amrûn looked into his grey eyes there was nothing there but hatred. Cold hatred.
The kind of hatred that festered in wounds left by sorrow & rage.
❝I watched them take my father. Walked him out in chains like an animal in front of his grandchildren,❞ he said, almost conversationally, and unhooked the axe from his belt. ❝Thalmor or not... it doesn't matter to me anymore. Your kind has taken too much for too long. Skyrim will be better with one less knife-ear in it.❞
It felt as though something was dragging Amrûn's racing heart down, the air knocked out of them all at once by the horrible understanding that they were going to die here.
Merciful Mara... not like this....
It was terribly easy, really, to throw off the shackles of binding the pathetic little hedge-mage had tried to leash him with— him, the Daedric Prince of Madness! Oh, how he'd gotten a laugh of it as he'd sent the little worm's head flying. He'd asked for the crown of Solitude; the Prince had, by his own estimation, done the province of Skyrim a service by offing the lout. But his 'good deed' did, however leave the once-mer remarkably alone. Damn it, he should have asked questions before ridding the world of the fool! The year, the exact location... if the fellow had seen any other Altmer— or, half-altmer— recently.
So the Prince walked. He passed through forests and along roads, every now and again pausing to watch the goings-on of the little people who'd decided to carve out some kind of life for themselves in the frozen wasteland of the northernmost province. It was almost admirable. Almost mad. The sort of dogged, insane stubbornness the Duke of Mania and Dementia could get behind!
He'd almost moved on, made his way toward a city ('Riften', he'd heard passers-by speak of it), but a broken cry caught his attention. A pointed ear flicked, and his usual wicked grin fell for the slightest of moments. Worry pulled a knot in his throat; it did not sound like his grandson, no, but someone was in trouble. Alandil would have wanted him to stop. Martin, damn his eyes, would have wanted him to stop. With a sigh, Rurelion (or was he Sheogorath? Both? Neither?) picked his way through the bush, staff whacking at plants until he found the scene.
This couldn't stand, not at all. With only a wild, vile cackle to announce his presence, he waved his staff. A crack sounded over the young mer's attackers, and they were enveloped in a cloud of violet smoke. There were a few strangled cries, the sound of fabric tearing, then... nothing. A 'plop, plop, plop' later, and three little ragamuffins fell to the ground— a plush cat, an indrik... and a boar, their ringleader.
Rurelion stepped into the clearing, his mis-mached suit glinting in the light; a wild grin pulled at his lips under his beard, and he offered the end of his staff to help Amrûn to their feet. "You, my friend, seemed like you were in a spot of trouble." He bent with a swiftness that didn't quite match his apparent age, and brushed off the once-brute. "I found them rather boorish." He gave another howl of a laugh, then turned his wide grin upon the younger altmer. "Now, who do I have the pleasure of rescuing, hm?"
behold... creacher....
I did one (1) draft please clap
NONE OF MY FORMATTING COPIED FUUUUUUUUUUU
I did one (1) draft please clap
For some reason, Seldo's exhausted threat put Iachesis more at ease. He wasn't sure exactly why until he realised the lack of threat had put him on edge more than anything. Now the old Dominion mer had shown some teeth, and it gave Iachesis information about his abilities - that was, if a fight broke out, then a wizard's fight it would be.
He let his hand slide off the hilt of his dagger. He could cope with that.
The confirmation that the other elf was just as old as the ring left Iachesis a little taken aback. Altmer rarely made it to a thousand, spies even less so, even the good ones. There was just too much risk involved in their careers, a thousand things to account for in each job that could turn into a blade in their back. Iachesis' father had always warned him to beware an old man in a dangerous job - he realised, with an unusual and uncomfortable flash of humility, that Seldo's threat hadn't been idle. His one saving grace was that the old Mer didn't think he'd left because he'd been turned out - he thought he was a genuine rebel against the Third Dominion. He could use that. Maybe even prove his loyalty by turning over a traitor, given enough information.
"The Dragonborn? An old Nord myth, one peddled by Cyrodiil and her Emperors, but with no proof they possess the abilities they say they do beyond the lighting of the Dragonfires." Common knowledge, first. "What interest does an old-Dominion elf like yourself have in it? We might both be of Alinor, but I won't simply spill her secrets to someone who, by his own admission, no longer aligns himself with her rulers. I intend to be much more discreet than that. I like my head upon my shoulders, understand?" he asked, finally reaching for his drink on the table to show his hands were empty.
With a sigh the old mer settled back, eye falling half shut as his gaze fell to the ale before him. Gods, how he missed good wine. The cold of Skyrim he could've handled, if only he had proper liquor. He took a swig, though, and turned his attention back to the younger man. Something had shifted in the lad's expression— some new discomfort, no matter how he'd been trained to hide it. Good, Urnarseldo thought, it will keep the boy's attention. The former Eye remained quiet a he listened, the ale in his glass drained over several long sips.
"And what is a myth, but a truth that has had a few embellishments tacked on?" he asked. With a gesture, a violet gem appeared above his palm; he watched it spin and twirl, casting a faint light upon the walls near their shared table. "Mark my words, there is a crumb of truth in every myth— bed-time fables of sload we were told as children; the travels of Phynaster, and the great works of Syrabane." His sea green gaze snapped to the younger mer, and a corner of his mouth pulled back in a sly half-grin. "A young man crawling out of Coldharbour to wreak vengeance upon the necromancer who stole his soul."
His smile fell, though, as his thoughts returned to Alinor. The boy still had some loyalty, misguided as it was. "I have not seen Alinor in two hundred years," he said, his voice find a new edge, "but I align myself, as I always have, with her people." He settled back, drawing a deep breath and releasing it through his nose. "As should you. And you should know that this dragon threat is real. I saw one from a distance, weeks ago before my… unfortunate stay in your dungeons." The old mer leaned forward, then, meeting Iachesis's gaze.
"If you care for the people of Alinor, you should know that what happens in this frozen wasteland will not stay here. I need to know whatever your former employers did about this crisis. When I searched the embassy myself, I found nothing."
Negative under the cut
looking at tumblr is honestly so depressing sometimes. Esp right now. Idk why. If just reminds me of what a failure I am at anything that requires close to discipline. Im too shy to talk to people, too lazy to write, get sad when I see other people having a good time. It just all sucks and no matter how often I think about writing it just doesn’t work. Maybe it’s just the late night sadness but
sigh.
|| yall I am so sorry about the lack of writing. this month has been absolutely terrible for mental and physical health in our house. but on the plus side, I got a little more contract work :') also I noodled around on pet-free sorc on eso's pts and we are so back. stamsorc has risen from the grave
Reblog if you will never. Ever. Use AI in your writing.
|| I know I have a few drafts, and I’m so sorry about the wait. I’ll try to get to them today, it’s just been uh. A really, really terrible month.