The links never work for some reason :-| But this can be read as either platonic or romantic.
Edited note: Nebarra means unwanted. They somehow twisted the story of the founding spirits and made it a mournful tale of discarded souls. So, it started to mean outcast.
.......................
Nice casual day to be an aspect of a dead god travelling around with a potentially Thalmor agent, member of a faction considered your current mortal enemy. Is he reporting back to them about you? Probably. Is it a problem? Absolutely not.
Being a theoretically dysmorphic immortal dragon god in a body too small for your soul, there's a lot of disconnect. Sometimes, though, you just have inherent knowledge you can't verify.
Such as charming factoids to argue over with your unwitting elven companion.
"Nebarra, in the old tongue of the First Era -which your people had spoke back then- is part of a word- or, concept-- Neb-raahz-zah. That roughly translates to Afterlife - Star - Cloud. It's the glow in the night sky, said to be the fractured spirits o' Nirni's sacrificial Aedra, dancing together in anticipation for the next Kalpa - coalescing so that they may rain down and return together in mortal form as the fated chosen in the history of Atmora. It's poetic. Of course the Modern Altmer took something so beautiful and turned it into an insult."
His sword catches the glint of a flame flickering in your hand, just enough to see the stone road ahead. You keep your eyes away from the world. He scans the perimeter at all times for any threat to your unusually fragile life.
"You made that up." He grits back, keeping his gaze away from the shimmering auroras faintly drifting on the north wind out towards sea. Down here, the air is stiff. If only you could ride that ethereal light-ribbon on the jetstream into the early morning...
You do have differing 'religious' and political views, however obvious as that may be.
He, for one, thinks this whole 'Dragonborn' nonsense is just more made up propaganda. Sure, you verifiably have the same power as an overgrown lizard, but the Greybeards can also get loud and whoodoo things to death with their voices, and they're just old men. You're just some sort of, unusual mutant of a lesser species of mer, or, man. Probably mer, despite your ambiguous looks and undisclosed background. Would better explain your affinity towards magic.
"Nebarra." You sigh. Sweet and tender association to the name forgotten. This time, you cease your yearning for the dance in the sky, the place without war and fear and sadness, and you say his name as it was now intended, with that mortalness you now most certainly hold - you speak it as an insult.
"That was noticeably less tender, thank you." He snarks.
"I'd call you by your real name just to torture you if I knew it, but fortunately for you, I haven't pried - and I haven't forced you to tell the truth-" You snuff the flame in your palm - now a fist, and give his shoulder a good tap. "Though I have the means."
Forcefully bathed in darkness, your sellsword companion grunts out an annoyed, if not disgusted groan.
"See, and this is why I curse the robes that aren't healers." He mutters. Not that you haven't admittedly practiced a great deal of healing on him, despite his protests. You're getting good enough to not leave any marks, but he'd still rather take a reliable potion over any shoddy handiwork.
You could have cast Magelight for him and a Candlelight spell for yourself, but Flames generated heat. Though not so North that the air itself carried frost that settled in the cracks of armor, Nebarra was acclimated to warmer climates for most of his life. How long that life had been, however, you weren't sure. That impracticality of constantly expending magicka to keep the air in a close radius a few degrees warmer could not have been lost on him, for the logical thing was to light a torch and be done with it if that were the case.
You must be as pitiful as the City of Windhelm. A great relic of a bygone era, now left in decay. The power to topple empires, but a sleeping giant in the palm of your hand. That glorious castle silent and stoic, mourning the loss of the kingdom Skyrim, which has for the first time in recorded history since the beginning of all time, fallen.
After a bit of silence passes, you return with one small quip.
"Meet an old enough Altmer priest, and he might just remember his forefathers telling him so as a boy."
He has a rather specific distaste for your brand of know-it-all.
You speak as if you know more about the Aldmerian belief system than he, a natural born Altmer, does. (And the difficult part of that, that prickles him in all the wrong ways, is that a part of him realizes you were right.)
Sometimes you feel as if your ego were a vessel to trap the dust that fell from a sky with no moons, this dragon mannered creature. The dragons' tongue comes intuitively, but your knowledge of the ancient languages of man and mer speaks to some hidden time which had severed connection to your memory. Young in the body on the planet Nirn, old on the cosmic wheel of reincarnation. He has been warned of your struggles to reign in the nature of a being born evil by nature. Following the words of your spiritual mentor and predecessor Paarthurnax the White Dragon at The Throat of the World, you attempt to overcome that evil nature through great, formidable effort.
Getting Nebarra to sheath his sword in the presence of said Dragon was an ordeal that caused you many headaches with the light repremandment on behalf of Arngier of The Greybeards.
The switch in the air between god-touched and mundane. There are times you feel several lifetimes of exhaustion from stories solidly forgotten, and then as quickly as they creep in, they dissipate, like the morning fog.
The amnesia settles cold along the fine hairs of your arms, causing them to bristle, though there is no strong enough breeze to warrant the excuse of being cold.
As much as you argue, you admittedly like Nebarra. For he was witty, and loyal, though he spoke otherwise. Always complained of coin and carnage left in your wake, how he was cold, how this was a suboptimal arrangement, and yet as much as he said he was willing, he never once left your side.
"Just my luck, getting entangled with you." He hissed with an edge of sarcasm, but the double meaning, for which he and many other Altmer usually employed, carried the message of an unwanted fondness, despite the circumstances.
I still self-indulgently headcanon that Nebarra is part Chimer
Nebarra is a Lore-Friendly, Story-Aware, Custom-Voiced Follower with over 2,200+ lines of dialogue and his own Personal Quest. An Aldmeri Ve
...but they treat him poorly because his ancestral roots deviate from the Summerset Isles and only returned after they started displaying darker traits such as warmer ashland skintones and darker hair. (Thus, he seems "Mixed" but Chimer traits are extremely rare after they went extinct)
Like we could be talking one of the most pure elves if you consider the extinct Chimer an ancient race,
But their slightly darker tones are enough that the 'pure' High Elves (most likely mixed with wood elves and other subspecies) shame him to death and treat him like a plebian. The height might also be a thing, since they now selectively breed for it, but his purer lineage is actually anciently a more normal stature.
This would only be discovered on some sort of spritual woowoo quest where the ancestors of the dunmer ritual works on Nebarra for like zero reason and a pure blooded chimer shows up to the ancient untouched ash pile as one of the first burned and goes "oh hey, you managed to avoid the curse because your relatives were mixed with Altmer / in the Isles."
He could then get a blessing of the ancestors that the normal Altmer are locked out of.
Altmer royalty are shams. Inbreeding destroyed em so they secretly diversified with regal looking Ohmes-raht Khajiiti born mostly human looking under specific moons.
If a game has a bug that is not cause by Caine - he does not likes it. Caine genuinely wants players\testers to enjoy his levels. Any hardship on it - is unintentional (Aside from softlocking)
And Virus does not let bugs bother his precious.
Pomni does not revives, because of this weird bug
Spike and Virus cooperating - is a rare moment, but they do have a common goal currently
It takes the very short, single sentence story "I went to the store to get milk" and expands on basically every aspect of that story.
the biological mechanisms that allow you to walk
the history of urban designs and sidewalks
the history of commerce and capitalism
the history of milk consumption
the production of milk from the biological processes inside the cow to the milking, processing, and distributing
the history of credit and the complicated bureaucracy that keeps the financial system operating smoothly
and on and on
Each one of these topics could fill many books by itself. Which means that ironically this book would also have to keep a lot of long stories short or else it'll never be finished.
tangentwithtanner
2087
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
