Blog dedicated to stories and characters in relation to House Gardinier. This is a main hub for all of the RP blogs related to this plot. Separate RP blogs include:
Conduiteye - Adelein Gardinier
Silentcrows - Theodore Gardinier
Lurkingpriest - Uluscant
I am no longer active in the elder scrolls community at all but I want to make a statement here. Though a lot of what I have written derives from an IP that doesn’t belong to me. My derivatives; the concepts of my characters, their stories, their families and my original headcannons are not to be plagiarized. If you find inspiration and want to talk to me about working with them, or even want to make references I would be more than happy to work with you. You can contact me on my main @serpentwined or on twitter.
Do not directly copy and paste my work as your own or use my character names and concepts with interchangeable words.
- Serpent
This is a very personal memory of mine. More than you might assume it to be, since it touches on parts of my history that I have purposefully forgotten. From any perspective aside from my own, this may require more narrative than what I can offer, but I will explain to you how the event transpired, regardless.
Time has barely eroded the clarity of this memory for I have studied methods of preservation much like the relics on display here in Bisnensel. It takes care and diligence. Truth and clarity. I have many vivid memories of cherished moments from my past.
It was morilatta, the season of shifting colors and falling leaves. The southern arid winds retreat as the shadowy overcast brings rain to this land.
It was loneliness that drew me into the Viridian Woods one particular evening. An unorthodox solution to what I would have otherwise elucidated through socializing among my own. In reality, the woodland life was far more vibrant than the doldrums of the Ayleid cities. Within their societies I felt dissonant and unconventional, too young to understand the inconsolable loss that my people had endured, but old enough to know how they brought about their own contention. Many were hesitant to interact with the native Bretons for that reason, but I found myself seeking out such an encounter deep within the woods. To seek other outside the realm of my understanding.
In all my previous attempts, I only found the strained comfort of self-reflecting silence. I pondered on several subjects that brought me unease. I could see what I presumed to be my own visage in a still pool of water below my feet. Barely recognizing the being who returned my gaze. I wore clothes and used self-defining terms that were opposite what others expected, but not only did l need to convince my peers of this dysphoria, I had to convince myself that I knew it was not my own reflection gazing back at me.
I still had an inkling of doubt. A sense of guilt.
I pondered the subject more, until the sound of scraping tree limbs broke my meditation. There was a breton above me, peering like a crow observing my intrusion. Clad in black with their face partially obscured behind bark colored hair. They were about average sized for a human, but spindly and slim. As I looked up I could easily spot a pair of discerningly cold grey eyes affixed to my very location.
I spoke a greeting in Cyrodilic, but I assumed the attempt was made in vain as most humans had their own regional dialects. To my surprise, they understood and replied more clearly than I expected.
“You are familiar, what is your name?” They asked. I replied honestly; with a name I felt fondness for.
“Uluscant.”
“You speak the truth, but you only vaguely appear and sound like the Uluscant I know. Is this another form you take?”
I was perplexed at this moment in time. The only other form I could wear was an owl; An alteration spell that Corvus Direnni taught me.
“I am a novice in that study of magic, this is how I have always appeared. Perhaps you have met another with my name?”
“Possible…” The ominous breton replied. “But untrue. You are the Uluscant I know, but you vaguely resemble him. I think I am starting to formulate where, and exactly ‘when' I am. The Alessian empire had driven your people from Cyrodiil a few years ago, yes?”
I could not formulate a reply as easily as I wished. One part of that sentence was confirmable but there was one single word that stood out as a possibility that I could not yet validate. I chose to accept it, as if I trusted the being before me to only speak truth. At the time this was a naive hope.
“They have, but I hold no grudge towards humanity. Our fate has followed after lineages of cruelty and I will accept and mend that.”
“You are truly a healer then, just as I've always known you.” The breton replied.
I stared up at the sturdy oaken trunk with its limbs outstretched, perplexed at the willowy figure who perched a few heads above me. I distinctly remember the rain falling softly upon yellowing leaves as the stranger formed a crooked, yet reassuring smile. Beyond the intensity of their expression, I knew they doubted themselves as equally as I did.
“I do not wish to be rude, but I am not a healer. I once found the subject to be in my interests, but such studies are not supported by the scholarly masters that I apprentice under. Perhaps if was born to a different clan in a different point of time, it may have been an option, but that is not in my fate.”
The enigmatic breton paused, contemplating what I said for reasons I could not discern.“How can you claim to know Fate?”
“I do not.” I reaffirmed.
“Exactly. You can not assume that you know where Fate guides you, Uluscant.”
At that precise moment, I vividly recall the experience of an epiphany. As if I truly aligned myself to something that felt familiar and lucid. It was a mere amalgamation of words spoken from a stranger’s mouth, yet it affected me so strangely.
“May I burden you with my concerns?” I offered, feeling the weight upon my dissonant body and mind.
“For all that you will do, and have done for me. Always.”
I might have assumed this was the mad prattling of a stranger, but they knew so much of who I was, or wanted to be. Who I would be. Perhaps I was assuming too much, but at this moment, I wished to confess a plethora of my concerns to the person before me. Anxieties and complications that I had suppressed to fit into my people’s culture.
“I must first apologize for not knowing who you are. I have not expressed my interests in the restorative magic for many years, knowing that my theories aren't conventional to most. I accepted the path of my apprenticeship, but the practices are too mundane for my tastes. I feel as if the scholarly masters of Balfiera underestimate the unexplored potential of restoration, but the priests of Merid-nunda are equally as fixed in their tradition.”
In my pause, the breton slid from their seating and gently levitated to the forest floor. They gave no reply, but their focus was unyielding.
“In many ways…” I took this cue to continue. The words that refused to manifest in front of my colleagues became easier to speak here. “I feel ungrateful to what I have been given. Am I selfish to yearn for something more? In many ways I feel as if I want more than what I am given.”
I could discern their features more clearly. Sharp angles of a mer, but the intense yet rounded eyes of a human. Despite their noble attire, their posture was slouched and disheveled.
“What do you define as ‘more'?” They replied. I had to ponder this question before carrying on. The answer was intuitively felt but beyond verbal description.
“More...is wanting something beyond what I have been given. This body, in how incorrect it looks, how improper certain words and pronouns describe me. How I wish to study the complexities of our minds and correct the wounds that exist there; to balance an understanding of the forbidden with the foundation of empathy. This balance does not exist among my people. They only dwell in the extremes and choose to feed their blind hubris. I struggle with how much I empathize with them, but I feel isolated and easily dismissed. I owe my life to the elders, but I am restricted by that same respect.”
“Their hubris has already spelled their end, and you are wrong, Uluscant. What you ask of is not ungrateful. You must realize that you are not a product of your own people. However, I know that you already understand that, but it is in your nature to disregard this concept for the sake of others well-being.”
Their advice had the figurative strike of a blunt-ended weapon. I had no window for rebuttal, so I spoke the truth.
“I care about them and I know that they too, care about me.”
“...but do they understand you?”
“I…” I paused for a moment. “No. I suppose you can express emotional attachment towards someone without understanding who they are.”
The breton's hand wove magicka like thread, as the space around their fingertips bent and warped. This alerted me, but I sensed that it was nothing more than a small conjuration spell.
“May I ask, who are you?” My inquiry was polite. “You have no bags to be traveling, and the woods are increasingly untame here.”
The stranger cast their gaze upon me. A pair of stone colored eyes affixed themselves to my location as a book manifested into the palms of their hand.
“You, like any seeker of knowledge and truth know who I am.” I watched as a black mist formed and faded to reveal what was brought into this plain of existence. An aged black covered book was offered to me. I took it into my hands and inspected the cover. My finger traced the details, feeling the foreboding magic that emanated from its core. My instincts warned against briefly ‘thumbing' through the pages, as the black cover suddenly pulsated like a heartbeat. The shape of a tendriled creature with multiple eyes served as the book’s ‘title'.
“You are Hermaeus Mora.”
That name was uttered infrequently by the mages of Balfiera. This was long before such recognition was considered taboo, before the Dragonfires created a veil to prevent the natives of Oblivion from entering Mundus.
“If you believe that, then I suppose it’s true.” The stranger replied. I was not satisfied by this answer but I entertained it. Despite the omnipotence of their identity, their parlance was unceremoniously lax.
“Why have you offered me this item? Are you attempting to sway me into your servitude?” I did not intend to oblige the idea, but outright denying a possible deadric prince a favor felt ill advised.
“I govern over Fate, the intersecting lines that have provided our meeting. It is Fate that brought you here to me, and me to you. I want to offer you this book, but it is not the key to your potential. This Black Book is merely an instrument that you will learn to use with caution. With trust.”
“...and what do you wish from me?”
“A choice, not a demand. If you wish to become Uluscant, then make that your choice. Return to Bisnensel and do not blind yourself with the hubris of your peoples’ Fate.”
Raindrops graced the leather surface of the harrowing tome. I felt a daunting sense of responsibility placed squarely into my hands. The biblichor of worn pages wafted in the evening air alongside the sharp stench if ink. It would have been wise to decline this presumed demon of knowledge, but I was not a pious follower of Merid-nunda. In my hesitation, Hermaeus Mora spoke once again, the prince’s voice shifted into a distorted lull.
“Your Fate is greater than your restrictions. I depend on you more than anyone. One day you will know that for certain, but for once in your lifetime--consider who you are, and not what is expected of you. I come here in the displacement of time--in the moment that we have first met to give you this expression of my gratitude; to save you from circumstance.”
In my memory of this moment, I recall how silently I pondered. My gaze passed through the being before me and words dared not leave the sanctity of my mouth. A new potential outcome of my life aligned itself like the hands of a clock. I had a renewed sense of certainty.
Apart of me still remained anxious and doubtful, however. I knelt to graciously return the deadric artifact to its owner. I respected this offer, but I could not yet fully accept it for myself. I pondered my own worth and self-entitlement to such things.
...but they were gone. The distant rolling of thunder echoed through the woods. A pair of footprints gathered water as the storm picked up its pace. I covered the book in my apprentice robes, and quietly allowed the rain to wash away my regrets.
From that point forward. I was, and always would be, Uluscant.
Well, I've delayed a second entry to this new journal haven't I? You can't blame me for my chronic finger cramps when my father’s got me practicing chiseling again.
I suppose I should mention that my Pa’s a stone mason by trade and hobby. If you ask me what I’d wager he’d be doing right now, I'd place five-hundred gold on something related to that. The house is always filled with slabs of finished and unfinished work--in fact he even built the family house sitting just outside the Bjoulsae River in Evermore. Although my Ma pulled the same amount of weight as he did when they were newlywed.
I got to say, getting through a project like that really proves how much two people mean to each other, and I'm happy that me an Elyse were raised from that. A traveling writer even wove together a folk tale when he met my parents. If you stop by the mages guild in Evermore, ask about ‘The Witch and the Stone Mason’ and they will hand you three short stories about my own Ma and Pa. If Elyse is there, you'll swear she used some magic to teleport to you once the book is mentioned. Were both fairly proud of it I suppose.
As you might have guessed, my mom was the witch. I’m not fond of that word and the ideas that pop into some dolt’s heads when they hear it, so let's call her what she really was, a wyress. My mom was a nature dwelling wyress of the Viridian Woods, there's a story in the mages guild about that as well, but it may not make a whole lot of sense. Nature magic is a some confusing hodgepodge to me, but I know it's something we all have to respect. The Wyrd has been around longer than than any of us bretons have, and even the elves. Kind of terrifying if you think about it too much so I don't do that.
My ma made sure I understood that, but she always liked the work my pa did. There is a good balance in making something out of stone to compliment what the ancient spirits made. I try to keep that in mind when I take up the chisel. Like I said, know I wouldn't be able to understand what The Wyrd is like my sister or her friend Fleur, so ‘I stick to my daggers’ as some say
...or my sword?
Ma’s not around anymore, sadly. Part of the reason I got out and joined the battle in Coldharbour was because of how she left this world. When the Soulburst happened a storm raged along the coast of the Iliac bay for a month straight, but something about that affected the mages in a bad way. I don't understand how it works, but whatever Molag Bal did to cause the planemeld hurt a lot of mages badly. A few of my ma’s associates in the guild passed away instantly, but she fell ill and only lasted a few days after.
Or this was what Elyse told me, I was unconscious when Ma was sick and passed on. A week before, I stubbornly rode out into the storm to blow off some steam and got struck by stray bolt of lightning. That’s when I was apparently ‘graced by fate’ as my family’s current healer said. Left a gods awful scar down my back and crippled me with migraines and nerve damage. I used to have problems with my body stiffening up and losing focus. It’s scary when that happens..Waking up on my bedroom floor feeling like I'm bruised all over. Sometimes it still happens but luckily, our personal healer Uluscant is very knowledgeable of what he calls ‘neurological disorders’ (I'm surprised I remember what he called that).
I guess I sound like a pity case now. Trust me, I've nearly drowned in that puddle of feeling sorry for myself already, so there's no need for anyone else to. For years I always found a way to pick myself up, but like I stated in the las journal, it wasn't in the most healthy ways. I still go out in a storm just for the thrill of it, that's why I'm sure the girls made me sit down and write, because my solution to feeling sad is getting mad, or hunting for an adrenaline rush. Something about riding the squall makes you forget about everything else. Through fighting, danger or risk--whatever it is. That's why I’m a sword-swinging storm knight, I suppose.
I realize though, that eventually I'm going to run out of adventures and have to endure the mundane day-to-day work of a retired hero. I dread it, but it's because I left all of this unresolved tension behind in my impulsiveness. I think I'm doing something good, saving the world, but I dwell too much on what I've lost to celebrate. I don't know what I'm going to do next now that I'm back in Bangkorai. This. I guess.
I'm going to give myself a headache for the next hour or so that I sit here writing. I'm not the most eloquent breton, in fact I just learned the word ‘eloquent' after asking my sister for an alternative to ‘writing like I give a damn’. This is already the longest time I've spent sitting in place while still being conscious. How can Fleur and Elyse tolerate this? My arse is going numb and my hand is cramping after a couple sentences. I can wield a sword much better than this dainty, feathered quill.
“...but I digress” Elyse wanted me to add that, but that's assuming whoever is reading this expects consistency and quality. If you are, then go read one of my sister’s scholastic drabbles and tell me how much use you get from learning the Bjousae mudcrabs breeding patterns. That will cure insomnia, I know from experience.
The truth is, I never took the time to write about my life. I'd rather not pause the experience of life to describe what I was doing or thinking, but lately I've fallen into a mental rut. It’s like something I've always been suspicious of but it’s finally closing in.
That sinking, shadowy feeling.
I’ve dealt with this before but I am learning how my methods of ‘handling it’ aren't exactly healthy. I know a storm always rides in on a strong wind, but once that wind dies down, the clouds part and disappear. Other people like when the sun comes out and the air is still but I don't know how to appreciate it like they do. To me it feels stagnant and heavy, If that metaphor makes any sense. To sum it up, I need that turbulence to distract me from where my mind goes when all is seemingly calm.
Something is wrong with me, or with the world around me. Recent events in Summerset have left me feeling both numb and more vulnerable than I ever feel comfortable with. I’m starting to realize how easily I might be forgotten if I chose to always live in the storm. I’ve been told that I’ve done a lot of good, heroic things, but I only feel the weight of grief stacking up higher each day.
Well, those are certainly the kind of thoughts I would never say out loud. Maybe the girls were right about this journaling thing. One day I might be worth a damn enough that somebody would read this. Maybe I'm a hero in a great war? A champion of a divine being? Perhaps even a king. Who knows, but if I don't get my shit together I’m not going to live long enough to find out.
That's why I'm writing this. To reflect. That's a good word for it--just like mirror! I once stayed in an inn with no mirror. I couldn't fully tell how much dirt and blood was caked onto my face, or how tired my eyes looked. I suppose this is exactly the same, but writing down your thoughts isn't a mirror for your face. It’s more like an inside face...a mind face? Mind mirror. You get the point.
Anyways. That's all I'm writing for today, but I want to talk about myself a little more. I heard that’s a trait for those born under the sign of The Warrior. We have a love for discussing self interests and accomplishments, but maybe I personally don't do that in the way I should. I'll keep you posted...whoever is reading this.
Corentin Gardinier wants to let you know that you can achieve your dreams if you hit them hard enough with a big sword and yell a lot you piece of shit. Do it already.
One the questions I honor the most, are the inquires of the Welkynd stones. Unbeknownst to many who study the languages of ancient mer, the ayleid produced a slight roll to sound the ‘L’. In our language the name means children of the sky. The other crystalline property found within an ayleid ruin is what scholars refer to as the varla stones, but it was common to simply this as varlais. Varla is the word for ‘star’. When speaking in ayleidoon, the plural form of a word ending in a vowel always ends in ‘is’, while the plural form for a welkynd stone is welkyndi. Remember this.
As their names suggest, these objects come from the sky, but more appropriately--beyond the sky. They carry the essence of Aetherius within meteoric glass that hardens when cooled, but you may not realize that crystals can grow much like a plant. It is the patience and longevity of mer that allowed for this discovery, and the cultivation of welkyndi. This is why my people built such elaborate underground systems below our cities. To house and cultivate the stones within Twyllvarlais, ‘star wells’.
Each ruin had a cyrobal welkynd, the heartstone. The great welkynd stone as many classify it. This would be placed upon an empty well crafted from angavarla, ‘star iron’ and attuned to several smaller fragments. A cut and polished stone is often engraved with the first letter of the colony it hails from to prevent impurities when taken to other locations. This is why the cryobal welkyndi are housed below ground, even the light of the sun and stars can corrupt the attunments. Purity is the key to maintaining their longevity.
I realize however, that most of you are here to seek out the most imperative secret of these stones. What I have already told you may already be within your arsenal of knowledge as you eagerly anticipate explanation in regards to the recharging and maintaining of the welkyndi. I will show you, if you gaze upon the cyrobal welkynd of Bisnensel. If you listen carefully, a sound emanates from the glow in an eerily unexplained manner...or so I have been told. I do not hear what you do.
I hear a song, a chorus of soft hums. At times there are words spoken in ayleidoon that I can discern, but it is a somber cacophony. It is an imprint of several soul’s animus. Like the ripples of water cast by stones, growing into waves as it reaches the opposite shore. A metaphor for the slow, millennia long growth of each stone from when it was cast from aetherius to land upon this mundane realm to solidify. You are not attuned to the stone as I am, for a piece of my animus was set into the well ages ago. Every resident of Bisnensel, including Llaorian Dynar has sacrificed a portion of their animus to the cyorbal welkynd, and it has grown its own soul. The soul of Bisnensel, which we can replenish our magical properties with here, but when we take more than what the great stone can replenish, it will disintegrate into ash. The sacrifices, the soul of this ruin that was cultivated over thousands of years will ultimately disappear.
I wanted to do a few of these for my characters are how they change over their arcs. Adelein’s character development begins with her experiences no sense of self-identify outside of Hermaeus Mora’s will. She is not a cultist, she is a conduit. A mortal born with a shared sense of consciousness between themselves and a deadric prince. The ability to allow this follows a long lineage of members who have ruled over Evermore for several millennia. The cost is that the greater being tends to overpower decisions and motivations of the mortal who is chosen to be the conduit.
Once she believed she is nothing more than what Hermaeus Mora allowed, but through her arc she discovers reasons as to why the prince heavily depends on her existence. She learns more about House Gardinier, and the path her father took to reclaim an important responsibility over society. Once Adelein leaves Skyrim and heads west to Evermore, she realizes how critical the situation in the city has become, and there is a possibility that the one who sits on the throne had set up the scheme to have her mother married into House Gardinier and assassinated. She’s learned about the value of others, and the value of bringing Evermore back from it’s terrible political situation. She realizes she needs to play into the game of High Rock’s courts, but in her own fashion. Adelein is still very morally grey and ruthless, but she holds the protection of Evermore and House Gardinier over the will of a deadric prince, the Thalmor, the Empire, and her uncle.
“It hurt, but then I was out cold for a solid week. My mother passed away during that time; maybe that hurt more. Then that light wielding bitch thought she could give me her ‘gift’ to get revenge, but there was always a storm inside me. My name is Corentin, and it means ‘hurricane’.” -Corentin Gardinier
Uluscant, mother of three rowdy stormcaller boys and their lizard friend, sporting his perpetual expression of an exasperated healer (and part time cult leader).
Little eyes, little eyes.
Everywhere, in realms above and worlds below.
Black like feathers and inky blood.
The daughter’s sight is torn by talons,
To see again her own true self.
A father mourns loss and gain,
A voice silenced but chords remain.
The doctor picks up the pieces of a mind.
Repairs the thoughts, memories, and pain.
His own drift through the tides with numb indifference.
Time and Fate rendering it meaningless.
Greed takes all, but never the truth.
That the knowledge, wisdom, and secrets will stay.
To those with the pages that bear the stain...
I was surprised at how decent my chibi skills turned out. The sign symbols is an added touch, these are all my major TES characters with more fleshed out roles.
Adelein - Breton conjurer, conduit of Hermaeus Mora.
Theodore - Breton alteration master, a mute sad dad wizard.
Bzegrida - Dwemer inquisitor of the Rourken clan, telekinetic cicada.
Ulsucant - Displaced Ayleid priest of Hermaues Mora.
Signe - ex-mercenary Nord and, innkeeper and a simple farmer.
Corentin - Battlemage blessed by Meridia, first Gardinier to become royalty.
Maeve - Argonian assassin, a Shadowscale child with an unconventionally positive view of murder.
Cerul - Imperial/nord appearing manifestation of Akatosh…or maybe Auri-EL? Maybe neither, maybe both.
Full ref, decided to whip together a Rourken clan Dwemer named Bzegrida. She’s associated with cicadas and uses telepathy (as an idea that @ancientspecter uses for the Rourken) to control multiple daggers. When the metal resonates with the blades the sound is similar to a cicada’s buzzing. She adopted the noise and did nothing to fix it as the insect was a common sight and sound in the desert. This made her use of the blades more stealthy.
Bze was an intelligence agent, an inquisitor who was sent to gather information on the other dwemeri clans and the falmer. I’m leaning towards the idea that she kept her memories in a device similar to what Adelein built, after-all Bze is a shrewd and organized individual who is highly motivated by her own profession. It would make sense that she dabbled in or built a machine that would help her retain more information.
You once wrote that the High Lords of Evermore have to hide their face or rather wear a mask in public (or something like this). Nevermind, what I wanted to ask (if my assumption was right) is: Does every High Lord have a unique designed mask or do the masks have a very similar look? And also, do they cover the whole face or just parts of it like the upper half?
Elodie Gardinier was the first to establish the Order of the Crow, which is essentially the rules and regulations that made House Gardinier secretive. She’s the original designer of the mask itself. Here she is:
(Irrelevant but she’s a redguard and a breton mix)
The whole face is covered and has a fabric wrap, each one is the same because the architectural designs of House Gardinier is very symmetrical, geometric, and consistent. It’s very similar to dwemeri work. This is a rough painting of the mask I made.
It’s usually dark gray or black and the cowl is dark gray or deep blue. Theodore is wearing a fancier version of the high lord robes in this, and it pretty much covers anything that you can physically identify a person with. (Though many noted the purples wrist tattoos that Theo has)
