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@strunlokmaar-archive
respect original characters
do not treat them lower than people that write canon characters because they are oc’s. do not make them feel unwelcome because you disagree with / don’t like the character. do not make them feel horrible about their oc. they don’t want nasty messages in their inbox, don’t put them there. if you don’t like them, don’t bother with them, but seriously. respect oc roleplayers the way you respect canon roleplayers
@ask-strunlokmaar replied to your post“I still think guns are better than magic, just saying.”
“For those with opposable thumbs, perhaps.”
“…I could make a gun for someone who doesn’t have thumbs! It’d just have to have a bit of a specialised grip.”
The dragon reared back slightly, stretched out one wing, and undulated his wingfingers in a highly-exaggerated motion to make the membranes between them flex and curve dramatically.
“‘Specialised’ would be aan understatement.”
He widened his eyes, bared his teeth, and started making a rapid, high-pitched wheezing sound. By now, Toaster could probably recognise it as a (blatantly facetious) attempt at mimicking laughter.
Evelyn, meanwhile, had spent the better part of a week in the Reach; most adventurers would have been deterred by the Forsworn presence, but the promise of hidden treasures buried beneath the earth was too tempting to resist.
Coincidentally, a source had informed Evelyn of one such treasure that had been unearthed; a Dwemer artifact, that was going to be delivered to Markarth’s museum under the protection of a large group of mercenaries. Her interest piqued, Evelyn had sent a carrier pigeon to Bromjunaar asking Strunlokmaar to meet her ahead of the cart’s route.
Well, that was assuming one of the draugr didn’t eat the poor creature, message and all.
She was beginning to think the pigeon had met that exact fate, or some fool had shot down her messenger (thankfully, she’d prepared for such an eventuality - the message would self-immolate should the bird fail to reach its destination) when she heard the tell-tale whoosh of air that foretold a dragon’s arrival. Still, Evelyn remained hidden beneath a tree until she could be certain of the dragon’s identity - the Reach was an ideal home for their kind, and more than a few laired in the mountainous region.
The dragon, luckily, was none other than Strunlokmaar; Evelyn slid down a slope to meet him, waving to catch his attention.
“Paaz lok, Strunlokmaar! Los hi pruzah?”
It didn’t occur to Evelyn that Strunlokmaar might have trouble recognising her; she wasn’t clad in her usual Stalhrim armour, instead having chosen plain robes worn under a battered set of steel armour. Although it didn’t provide the protection her usual armour granted, she was less likely to be noticed by another traveler - probably for the best, considering the Reach was practically crawling with Thalmor soldiers.
Evelyn didn’t even give Strunlokmaar a chance to respond before she moved onto the matter at hand.
“Our prize is not far; it is guarded well, but it should not be a challenge for us,” Evelyn pointed down the road, “the cart travels slowly, and they hired common sellswords as their sole defence.”
The Dovahkiin huffed and shook her head, “Fools.”
A lesser being would have flinched at how unexpectedly quickly Evelyn revealed herself, but Strunlokmaar was a well-practiced expert at hiding when he was surprised by this point in his millennia-long life.
The same couldn’t be said for his curiosity and desire to know everything he could, however.
“Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin,” the dragon replied, his voice unshaken in spite of his precarious foothold and the fact he was still trying to find where the human was. A small tingling of pride in his chest my have been a factor in that, over the dragonborn’s proper etiquette in using an alternative greeting over the traditional one due to her much lesser age.
A rattle of pebbles and the Breton explaining her reasoning for sending for him allowed him to zero in on her location, and the dragon’s eyes actually narrowed for a couple of seconds. No, no, it was definitely Evelyn underneath all that shiny metal: No other mortal he knew spoke with such disdain toward her own kind.
It was nice to get the occasional spot of confirmation that his attempts at nudging her in the right direction were being met with success.
“Dovahkiin, you appear to misplaced your Stalhrim,” he stated, completely serious in his delivery, “‘Common sellswords’ or not, this does not befit inferior protection. Sossedov nunon spaanne osos.”
One would think that The Reach would be paradise for a dragon.
A rolling, mountainous landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see, with no shortage of rocky crags climbing to the sky and valleys winding their way between the stony cliffs. Everywhere a potential perch with a commanding view, each gully a place to funnel and trap unwary ground-dwellers, and every cave a potential treasure trove for the sufficiently curious.
And Strunlokmaar was nothing if not characterised by his curiosity.
Today was not the day for him to exercise it, however. Back in the day, this region had been somewhat of a dead spot for the Dov’s empire, crawling with Dwemer guerrillas and the remaining Snow Elves they harboured. Only the particularly brave, foolhardy, or just outright bored bothered to try and eke out a living here, and no matter how much the dragon’s hunger for knowledge may have urged him to send his followers to collect anything of potential value they could from the cavernous depths, when there was an entire country’s worth of hidden secrets literally everywhere else, it simply wasn’t worth the effort.
In a sense, none of the above had really changed, only that the unwelcoming locals were now the infamous Reachmen, and Strunlokmaar’s attention was devoted to rebuilding the power base he had once lost.
Another thing that would never change, however, was that an occasional indulgent distraction helped with keeping spirits up.
Rounding the side of a particularly broad mountain, Strunlokmaar angled his head to the side when an old, stone bridge and the cobblestone path it was situated on became visible, alongside a small river nestled in the very bottom of the valley between two peaks. His inquisitiveness twinged familiarly, but the dragon stuck to the plan rather than follow it and instead angled away, swooping down and then upwards towards a narrow ledge.
He flared his wings out to break, then clattered unceremoniously against the rocks, scrabbling with every available limb to gain some purchase. Finally he got a grip, and was able to adjust his footing to achieve a position slightly less uncomfortable, and then, he waited.
The Dragonborn had said to meet her here, that she had an idea that could help him with one of his pet projects (which she had caught on to. An observant one, that mortal). Now learning what exactly she had in mind was simply a matter of time.
dovahkiin: is there a word that’s a mix between ‘sad’ and ‘mad’?
paarthurnax: malcontented, disgruntled, miserable, desolated.
odahviing: smad.
It wasn’t often that not even a single cloud dotted the skies of eastern Keizaal, so that the land sprawled out below like a ragged quilt to the horizon and beyond, pock-marked with salty lakes and the small, but tell-tale, cones of volcanic spires. Nestled in the foothills of the mountain range which would one day bear the name Velothi, farmers toiled away at their crops in the fertile soil of the region, paying no mind to the reptilian silhouette that soared overhead.
Because while a cloudless day was a rarity all throughout Skyrim’s history, no one would have thought twice of seeing a dragon during the days that they had ruled.
Sure, this particular dragon’s presence in this part of the empire may have managed to quirk a handful of curious eyebrows, the drab olive-grey and electric purple of his hide being a sight that was generally only associated with the capitol far to the north-west, but it wasn’t long before shoulders were shrugged and people continued on with their days. The dragon was soon forgotten about as his flight took him above the first rows of mountains heading east, and out of sight.
Because no one would dare to question the business of a dragon during the days that they had ruled.
And oh boy, Strunlokmaar was certainly here on business. Skuldafn wasn’t a short distance from his eyrie within Bromjunaar by any definition, the journey taking the better part of three days even with his Voice commanding the wind be at his back the entire way. That meant that the Guardian of History would be away from his base of operations for approximately a week, something that was nigh unheard of save for something exceptionally important.
The dovah’s black eyes glistened with barely contained hunger as he rounded a mountaintop and Alduin’s greatest temple came into view. Because this was important indeed: A message had reached him of a discovery by one of High Priestess Nahkriin’s followers, and the fact that these mountains were riddled with the tunnels and burrows that the Dwemer used to hide from the Dov’s might dictated that whatever it was, the delivery of such an item back to the capitol was likely worthy of his own presence and couldn’t be trusted to a mere collection team.
Strunlokmaar alighted in the middle of the temple’s main courtyard, before the intricately carved doors that led inside, rather than commit the folly of treading upon the great concourse that surrounded the portal on the next level up. Initiates and guards scattered in his presence, bowing their heads and muttering soft prayers for the dovah’s blessing, but he paid them no heed: There was only one mortal here worthy of his words.
He waited in silence. If Nahkriin somehow hadn’t been expecting him to turn up the moment he heard of their find, then his presence here would become known to her shortly via her underlings.
tamrieltrinity:
“Well…” she said, staring back up at him, pulling a few hairs back behind her ears. “From what I can see, people are…what’s the word…they are lost. They either worship Divines who only rarely intervene and that’s only usually for something very important. Or sometimes they go and worship daedric princes and I think everyone and their dead grandmothers know what a risky strategy that is. I mean, obviously not all daedric princes are the same and some are…okay and some are absolute bastards.”
She became somewhat self-aware that this rant seemed to be going nowhere and to go into detail about why daedric princes are dodgy at best would be dull. She couldn’t help but smile at herself. All this talk about daedra was making her sound like a Vigilant of Stendarr.
“The point is, if people are desperate enough to go worship an abomination like Molag Bal or Mehrunes Dagon or what have you then there should be no real objections to worshipping dragons as they should. But, people have…foolish memories and would prefer to focus on the new. Since the daedric princes haven’t ruined a lot of people’s lives en masse in about an Era, then there is less inclination for them to shun away from them, I mean, for a good majority of folk, especially up in Skyrim, the Oblivion Crisis is ancient history. But Helgen, other dragon attacks, those are fresh in their memory. Yes? Which has it’s pros and cons. It’s good because it shows how powerful you all are which is no bad thing. No point in trying to…to…well, be worshipped only to show yourselves to have as much power as a nirnroot. But it has caused a lot of fear, a lot of hate of the dragons. Which…not so good.”
She sighed, trying to figure out how to word it. “What I think is needed is something to plant the seed into people’s heads that worshipping dragons is a good thing. Which it is, naturally. But showing off your power but to their benefit, that would be the key to winning over their hearts and minds. As well as suspicion spread to those who would work against you but that goes without saying. Aside from that, it is all more practical things like I said before. But that’s what I reckon is needed. A show of…merciful power if it could even be termed such a thing.” she said before nervously giggling. “But what do I know, I’m all very new to this and…and…well, yes.”
Strunlokmaar studied Ianthe closely as she carefully tip-toed her way through her answer, the dragon unmoving save for the membranes adorning his horns becoming more taut and the occasional flicker of the grey specks in his irises betraying the dilation and constriction of his otherwise indistinguishable pupils as he mulled over the orc’s word. The dragon was having a surprisingly difficult time trying to extrapolate her words and figure out what point she was attempting to make before she actually said it, a situation which made him feel both excited at the prospect of, and also a touch uncomfortable due to the rarity of the event.
In hindsight, Strunlokmaar’s inability to predict Ianthe’s answer should have been no surprise. Because no dragon would have naturally come to the conclusion that helping people could be a legitimate strategy for achieving his or her goals, no matter how logically-minded.
“Your suggestion is to...” he trailed off and flexed his jaw as if to test his choice of words, a deep rumbling bubbling up the length of his throat, “Placate, Kiezaalro joor. Show them they have no reason to fear?” It made sense, in a way: He and his kin had never needed to prove the limitless privileges they could bestow upon the ancient Nedes in exchange for their subservience, because it had simply been fact. The peoples of today could not remember that time, but rather the stories passed down by traitors who had sought to tear down their kings and country instead of exert the effort needed to find the power necessary to climb the totem pole themselves.
No matter how Strunlokmaar tried to convince himself, however, acceptance of this idea was a more difficult process than thinking it over. His mind argued with itself in circles and the blood boiled in his veins at the very thought, the gurgle in his throat rising to a growl aimed at nothing in particular.
Terror was his namesake, more than just a single note of his existence. To defy that was to look at the tones of reality’s fabric and deny them - an impossibility.
“Zu’u nis. Faas fen kos.” Teeth were bared momentarily, then the dragon suddenly snorted and tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed and fixated upon a nearby, weathered statue jutting out of the snow. “Nuz... Sometimes one can be afraid of even that which is their best chance, hmm.
“You give me much to think about, mal ogiim,” he said, regaining a more neutral stance and posture, “A foundation has been found, geh, but only after building upon and refining it, shall we see how strong it is.”
I should make a post advertising my blog.
…
But that takes efffoooort. ))
*Suddenly appears after ridiculously long absence to PROMOTE*
@ask-strunlokmaar
I see you liking my things
>:3
Yeah but seriously hello! I’m not hiding, yesterday was just a pretty full-on day at work and I couldn’t words xD
Swamps Suck (Closed)
Strunlokmaar’s apparent loss of focus didn’t go unnoticed; although she was somewhat accustomed to the dragon’s habit of suddenly falling silent when distracted by some random thought, she didn’t quite expect it to happen while he was stuck in a swamp!
Evelyn huffed and folded her arms; normally she refrained from interrupting Strunlokmaar’s internal monologues, but now wasn’t exactly the best time… Thankfully, Strunlokmaar snapped back to reality before Evelyn’s patience ran out.
Strunlokmaar’s initial statement seemed to fly over the dovahkiin’s head, but the dragon’s command was heeded. Evelyn dipped her head in acknowledgement, then scrambled to higher ground - hopefully that would give the dragon enough room to prize himself from the muck. While she waited, Evelyn tried to wipe off as much of the slime as possible; her armour would have to be cleaned when she rented a room back at Morthal’s inn (and no doubt she would have to pay extra), but at least it didn’t appear to be damaged.
“… Perhaps I should have suggested another battlefield.” the dovahkiin hissed as she fiddled with her gauntlet; the only indication that she was paying any attention to Strunlokmaar was the occasional sideways glance.
Strunlokmaar’s head swivelled about on the end of his neck as Evelyn moved, eyes tracking the Dragonborn until he was certain she was at a relatively safe distance. From here one might call it an amusing sight - the normally proud and majestic figure of a dragon, now a gangly mass of limbs bogged in the, er, bog, with little mobility beyond his neck. That said, a dovah’s long, slim neck wasn’t something scoff at in terms of its mobility, and what Strunlokmaar did next took full advantage of that fact.
Neck craning up and in on itself so that Strunlokmaar could stare straight at his own clavicles, the dragon took a moment to assess his situation from upside-down. Then, a deep breath was taken - an warning that Evelyn probably knew all too well by this point.
“Yol... Toor shul!” most of Strunlokmaar’s form was engulfed by the screaming jet of flame, including the section of morass immediately surrounding (and entrapping) him. The faintest wisps of steam were rising by the time the Shout petered out, which was completely ignored by the dragon as he caught his breath and soon yelled out the ancient words a second time. The water within the mud and slime began to boil just barely this time, the heat enough to cause reeds to wilt and singe, and even after standing back the temperature would be at least a discomfort to the nearby Breton - but it wasn’t not quite enough to give Strunlokmaar’s desired result just yet.
“Ruth! You are not incorrect,” the dragon cursed once the flames died down a second time, though by this point there was enough steam rising that any fire was well obscured, much less the dovah himself. Movement could be seen through the veil, Strunlokmaar testing his position and - more importantly - how much give he had managed to pry out of the swamp’s grimly clutches. Finally, the scene lit up with the flames of a third Shout, the preceding words of power carrying frustration with the uncharacteristically high pitch of Strunlokmaar’s Voice.
By this point the evaporating water obscured enough that sound alone was the way to tell what the Guardian of History was doing, and the squeal of fire soon turned to the ear-piercing roar of a dovah. Strunlokmaar came barrelling out of the cloud a moment later, stumbling over his own wings as he tried to bring himself to a standstill following the momentum of the mighty lunge which had ultimately freed him from his earthy prison.
Finally bumbling to a halt, flanks rising and falling like a pair of overworked bellows, the dragon hurled a large glob of iridescent blue saliva to the ground with disdain.
“I much preferred this area, when it was low-lying farmland!”
Strunlokmaar, has anyone ever told you that you have an electric personality?
“Aam? Niid, no one - Dov or mortal - has told me this… Zu’u vis koraav druuv naan fun…” the olive-mauve dragon trailed off into thought, massive head tilting up and to the side as his lips curled back to bare his fangs.
“Ah. A joke,” while Strunlokmaar’s change in body language could have been taken as threatening, his words and the accompanying rumble in his chest reflected its true meaning: a grin. “Your intention behind these words was not to confound, but to amuse. Consider the job done, grey-faced one.”
rp pet peeve ; when writing with a villain, one continues to poke the bear but once said villain retaliates, other’s grow upset or perturbed.
always remember ; if you choose poke the bear, you will get bitten.
VILLAINS are not punching bags, they are opposition that pose a TRUE & REAL THREAT. antagonize one & you incur the wrath. do not smite the writer for their chosen direction as they are simply reacting as their muse commands. ( & believe me, if you’re writing a villain, the muse is in control ). villains are not teddy bears. villains are complex, multi-faceted. perhaps they react in one way to one & differently to another. bonds are formed different. villains can sometimes be unhinged mentally where reasoning is skewed or twisted. they are not to be underwritten as little puppies with attitude issues. they are rabid dog most tend to shy away from. they don’t need a little love or a sprinkle of fairy dust to feel better, to be good. some villains don’t want to be redeemed. some villains don’t want emotional connection. many are selfish & if an emotional connection is sought after the villain will usually ( ALWAYS ) put themselves first. always talk to the mun, get a feel for the muse, get to know the limits - what lines to cross, what lines to avoid like the plague.
goodluckdetective:
Protect platonic male/female friendships at all costs.
Write them. Read about them. Demand them. Decide the Harry and Sally law of “all male/female friendships will become romantic” is a bunch of bull and kick it to the curb.
Screw the guy getting with his girl best friend being the end of every romantic comedy. Have the guy go to his friend for advice. Have the girl tell him when he fucks up. Have them sitting on the porch when the sun sets, talking about their day. Have them hug and laugh, and shout for joy, and never feel pressured to bring them in for that expected kiss.
Not all soulmates are romantic. We should stop acting like it.
arngeir: the thu'um is meant to be used with respect to the gods and not for silly things like shouting at people
dragonborn: k
paarthurnax: shout at me and set me on fire
norokyolsil replied to your post:♪♩♫ Does music inspire your muse? What's one song...
//forbidden friendship is the most played song in my whole music library.
Mine’s probably Test Drive or Where No One Goes, but yeeeess, goooddd!
♪♩♫ Does music inspire your muse? What's one song on your playlist that reminds you of your muse?
♪♩♫ Does music inspire your muse? What’s one song on your playlist that reminds you of your muse?
I, ah. Never really thought about this? Now that I do, though, I’ve come to a bit of a realisation - yes, music can certainly remind me of certain characters (both my OCs and personal interpretations of canon characters), but thinking of something that I could relate to Strunlokmaar in particular is proving difficult.
I guess this isn’t helped by the fact that there isn’t much in the way of music that I actually like? I don’t even really have anything one could consider to be a real playlist - my computer contains a jumble of soundtrack scores, mostly from video games and the occasional movie OST (psst, How to Train Your Dragon best movie OST). It’s hard to associate atmospheric pieces that have no vocals (and therefore no topic, so to say) with a character! xD
This is incredibly ironic, considering the relationship between dragons and the Thu’um with song: the Voice manipulates the song which makes up the world, after all. Their respect for this could be a reason why the Dovahzul word for Dragon Priest can also be translated to “bard”.
✂ Do you like to format your posts? Why or why not? ♕ Do you like magic!anons? Why or why not?
✂ Do you like to format your posts? Why or why not?
I’ll admit, I do sometimes think about starting to use limited formatting. Just changing the font size of my posts down a single setting, but I honestly can’t be bothered: Tumblr is always changing its layout, which makes html coding a pain in the ass. It’s hard enough to just put Dovahzul translations in without the entire post getting botched or even self-deleting, I don’t want to risk anything more.
♕ Do you like magic!anons? Why or why not?
Generally, yeah. They’re an opportunity for a good laugh, and sometimes even good character development! The issue is that a lot of the time they’re quite… Perverse in nature, or just plain nonsensical. This is more a problem with the Tumblr community in general than the concept of magic anons, though, so I’m willing to endure/delete the crud ones in the hopes that a good one comes along every now and then.
