#azaron

[raven0id]

Number 16

Azaron

[plaguetrolls]

This has been sitting in my WIPs forever so I just finished it.

Taucer family picture!

[raven0id]

the OGs!! (part 1 / 4)

the original image has 22 characters so I separated ‘em into a couple smaller parts. The OGs consist of ocs I made in 2017 or earlier!

Characters featured:

Aeros | Azaron | Dr. Evason

Hollow | Jackelot | Kenny

[raven0id]

IT IS DONE!! After one month of work, I finished this big piece!! Im super proud too I’ve never done something this big before TwT

Here is an alt version with hard to read name tags for each character~

Also a link to the image on toyhou.se so you can find all the ocs and read about them!! uwu

~ https://toyhou.se/RAVEN0ID/art?page=3#25635454 ~

[spellsword-archer]

Nchardak was a creepy place, but then, in Azaron’s opinion, most Dwemer ruins were.

The constant rumblings and grindings and ‘thump'ingsof machinery, still hard at work even after thousands of years of neglect, stood his fur on end. They made it hard to hear approaching footsteps and low voices, and the smell of oil and soot was nearly everywhere, and masked most other scents within the stone walls. The Khajiit relied quite a bit on his senses, and not being able to use them irritated him to no end. The only one he could still use to good effect was the natural Khajiiti night vision, and even that was rendered moot by the strange lanterns of the Dwemer (at least, what few of them still burned).

Solstheim itself put Azaron on edge; the ash mixed in with the snow and wind clogged up his nose, and played havoc with his whiskers. He could not easily detect the Ash Hoppers and Ash Spawn that hid beneath the sooty ground, and already, he was certain that he’d lost a few years off his life expectancy due to all these surprise creatures.

Had he been on his own, he would not have come here.

The big Khajiit kicked idly at the grey dirt beneath his feet, raking it around with the claws of his boots as they waited. Their client had requested the pair meet them on the shoreline just beyond the bridge to the half-sunken ruins, and there they waited, their backs turned against the wind. Tarene’s cloak easily blocked out the ash and the cold, and Azaron couldn’t help a spike of jealousy. But he’d turned down the chance to buy a cloak in the town of Raven Rock, so he had to settle with scooting close to his shield-brother, and hunkering down in his armor.

He hoped their client would arrive soon. Dwemer ruins were preferable to this wet, ashy mess of weather…

[spellsword-archer]

A chilling howl drifted across the plains of Whiterun that night. Deeper than the haunting call of any pit wolf, it carried with it a rumbling undertone not unlike a sabercat.

The sound made the guards on duty outside the city’s gate shiver, but they stood firm at their posts. The werewolves of Whiterun hold were just stories….but none of the men were brave enough to ever venture into the night to see for themselves. They held to their stations, passed out their warnings, and left the mystery to the darkness. Meanwhile, beyond the city walls and the warm glow of its torches, the very beast the guards feared prowled across the plains. It was a risk, hunting here; a pack of werewolves were already well-installed in the area, and trespassing was never taken lightly. But it had been so long since the wolf had been given control, and the fish its host was so fond of weren’t nearly filling enough. The wolf had a hunger for bloodshed - one that it hadn’t been allowed to satisfy for a long while. The deer and elk were plenty, here, as were the challenging sabercats that hunted them. The wolf had its pick of prey, tonight, and it wasn’t long before its hunt was successful. The sabercat had fought hard, but the werewolf had fought harder. Hunger was a great motivator, after all. Blood splattered across the grass as the body cavity was torn open, and steaming organs spilled out into the cool night air, and before its prey’s heart had even stopped beating than was the wolf digging in. Bones were snapped with an eerie ease as the were tore its way past the ribcage to reach the goodies within, but just as the wolf leaned down to feast, a sound caught its ears. The werewolf slowly lifted its head from the corpse, bloodstained lips pulled back into a territorial snarl as its amber eyes sought out the intruder. It would not be sharing this kill - not even with the local pack. This was their kill, and they would not give it up!

[spellsword-archer]

By the time he reached the bridge crossing the White River, the sun had already reached its apex in the sky. 

He kept his eyes narrowed against the light, though his vision was slowly adjusting back to normal. He’d spent half the night and the better part of the morning clearing out a dark cave system in the mountains east of the river, and torchlight simply couldn’t compare to the strength of sunlight. As he came up and around the curve to the main city gates, the guards on duty turned to watch him approach, but didn’t move to stop him. The normal restriction against Khajiit entering the city was a little hard to spit out when the Khajiit in question was as towering and well-armored as this one.

His was a familiar face, besides, for though he hadn’t lived in Whiterun for neigh on four years, Azaron still made frequent trips into the city for both business and pleasure.

As he pushed open the city gates, Azaron allowed a small smile to cross his face as the familiar sight of Whiterun’s Plains District opened before him. The familiar sounds of Warmaiden’s forge, the murmur of shoppers in the market ahead, and laughing children surrounded the sellsword as he headed up the winding road, turning his mind back to happier years with ease. He weaved his way through the crowds of the market square, heading for the steps to the Wind District, until he felt something collide with his elbow.

"Ah!" The towering Khajiit immediately stopped short and looked down to be sure he had not flattened some poor shopper with his momentum. It would not have been the first time. "My apologies, stranger. My mind must have wandered too far, and I did not see you. I hope you are unharmed."

[spellsword-archer]

The sky was bright and clear that Tirdas morning, and a stiff breeze was snatching up the loose snow deposited the night before and carrying it east. The road was all but empty, and dusted over with this windblown snow to the point where the stones were barely visible. A tall, lonely figure trudged along the road, a compass cradled in one hand, and a large greatsword carried along in the other, resting across shoulders shrouded in black, spiked metal, but ready and waiting for any sign of danger. 

The Khajiit - for he could be no other race, with such a long tail waving in his wake - would occasionally glance in the compass in his hand, whenever the stones of the road would disappear beneath the blowing snow. Otherwise, he walked confidently southwest, heading down to Morthal from Dawnstar.

Fortune seemed to have favored him so far, as he had only encountered a single troll and a few wolves as he traveled, but that did not make him any less wary when a strange form began to appear out of the white. The warrior stopped, and watched the form approach for several moments before letting out a low growl of warning, and shifting his grip on his greatsword.

“Who goes there,” Azaron challenged. “Friend or foe?”