Thank you thank you God dammit thank you so much for sticking with me for this ride. This fic has been an insanely long time coming and I’m so excited to finally be officially posting chapters for it. If it looks any sort of interesting to you I’d be so flattered if you checked it out, otherwise I hope you enjoyed the trailer video <:]
Summary and such below!
The seat of the Empire has been without a Dragonborn for two hundred years. Cities are being burned by the first dragons seen in over six hundred years. Skyrim is a war-torn state with shadows in every corner. In the middle of it all is Echo, an amnesiac with a golden skeleton and no memory of their life before nearly being beheaded in Helgen. They are Dragonborn, destined for the Imperial throne, the only person who can kill a dragon permanently, and the one expected to mend Skyrim’s wounds. However, if they can’t even remember their original name, how will they successfully accomplish the expectations laid out for them? And will they be able to escape the grasp of the gods?
I think anyone who reads Agatha x Reader is familiar with A Study in Fate and Time by @hannah-0730
Well the fic is complete now, and I wanted to surprise my friend with an edit for the incredible world she has built with her words!!
If you haven’t read the fic yet, it will give you a glimpse into its premise. The readers will understand the choice behind every element of the edit!!
I’m so proud of you, Hannah🖤 I hope you enjoy the edit!!
Hello my loves! Hope you’re all well and having a good holiday season 🥰 sorry for disappearing for a bit again - I’ve mentioned before that the holidays can be a weird time for me, and these last two months have been a bit MUCH for a variety of reasons, exponentially compounding my Grinchness 😅😂 Normally I would try to escape into being on here with y’all and writing, but I’ve found myself fighting a bout of imposter syndrome that definitely fed into writers block 😭😭
That’s all to say, I miss you and the joy of this community, all your stories and the PPCU fandom sillies tremendously. 🥹
I have a few things in the works that I am approaching gently and slowly, so not to spook - one of which is the final part to Yǒng Yuǎn (forever), my Pero Tovar reincarnated lovers series. Here's a little edit/trailer I made to try and reawake my slumbering inspiration (um mild spoilers or the series so far, I guess?):
Thank you to everyone who has tagged me in WIPs, games, your stories or sent asks; I am slowly going through my notifs and each one makes me smile bigger than the sky 🥰🥰
ILYSMMMMM and wish everyone only the best for the rest of this year 😘😘😘
If you've read this far, Dez gave me the word ANGST so here is a little snippet from the same Pero story:
Pero wants to scream that he has no desire to be “free” of you. That in every lifetime, all he wishes for is to be by your side, share in your joys, hold you up when you’re down. His deepest desire is to forever kneel before you, assure you that your obvious hurt hurts him, and that with him, you never have to hide. But instead, he merely nods and lets you go with a quiet, but resolute, “Of course.”
And then you’re gone.
And a little something for the future, maybe:
“Din,” your whisper is but a croak, a rough breeze that barely escapes your ever tightening throat, “have you found your mate?”
The silence of the room is deafening, thick with heavy, as if the answer to your question weighs more than the words required to convey the Manda'lor's dreaded response.
Jactana Ludovitch is the latest misfit to be sent to the Greenbelt outpost, captained by the aloof Sorynn Lightspear. When their Ranger team is captured, the Captain makes an unusual request, putting Jactana in a difficult position.
I'm so crazy about these women you have no idea.
No timeline yet for when I'll start posting but I'm a fair way through writing and very motivated!
Summary: The only thing more dangerous than remembering… is forgetting who you are.
Trailer — Chapter 1 —
(I do not own any of these characters)
"It’s pathetic. Weak of you," Tara’s voice slices through the static, brittle and sharp. The voicemail ends mid-sentence, swallowed by the cold mechanical beep.
"You have an appointment with Dr. Zayne tomorrow—" says another voice, calm, clinical. Your nurse. From Akso.
You don’t listen.
The hallway smells of burnt toast and mildew. You shove your boots on, still damp from last night’s rain. The laces slap against the tile as you grab your coat, creases stiff from disuse and stumble toward the door.
You’re not thinking, not really. Just moving. Forward. Away.
You sidestep the overturned coffee mug on the counter, the brown liquid long dried into a ringed stain. Mold gathers in bowls by the sink. The wilted Endless Summers sag in their vase. It's a wonder you haven’t thrown them out.
You refuse to look. At the mess. At the sky. At yourself.
There’s only one place that lets you forget.
Work, Lumon.
Your hunter gear lies buried in the back closet, dust-coated, untouched. A life that ended before it even began. You can't look at it now. You can't afford to remember.
The pavement is slick under your boots as you jog to the car, eyes cast downward. You haven’t looked up in months. The sky is too much. It always is. Since that day.
Since you were the only one left.
Two lives, your grandmother and Caleb, taken from you in a single moment. No warning. No mercy.
The grief hangs around your shoulders like wet wool. But there is mercy still. The elevator.
That blessed machine that wipes it all clean. That takes the weight, the guilt, the unbearable fact of your survival, and leaves it somewhere else.
You blink against the morning glare and slide on your glasses as you pass through the glass doors.
Maxine, at the front desk, greets you like she does every morning, smiling. "You can proceed."
You nod, already unzipping your coat. The clothes you change into are too crisp. The fluorescent lights are buzzing and bright. But it’s familiar. Safe. The elevator doors slide shut behind you, sealing away the world.
And then it happens.
The shift.
You are gone.
And you’re back.
You step out. The chill lingers on your fingers, almost frostbitten with carelessness, but they’re still attached. Your outie, reckless as always. A miracle you haven’t lost a hand.
The halls are overlit, almost sterile, but you hum the elevator music under your breath. It soothes something. The absurdity, maybe.
Inside the analytics room, everything is exactly where it should be.
Paul is sipping something green and awful. Mr. Stunn is hunched over a calendar, squinting like it’s fighting him. Daisy is already buried in data, headphones in, unreachable. You sit. You log in. You work.
There’s talk about the new intern. Polite anticipation. Background noise.
You don’t think much about your life up there. Why would you? That woman, your outie, she’s a wreck. Rarely eats, you can tell from your sunken cheeks. Drinks too much. You're always nursing the hangovers. Never skips a day of work. You’ve learned not to care.
You don’t blame her, though. Whatever it is she’s running from, you don’t want to know.
“Colonel, how do you feel today?”
The voice is smooth, too smooth. Genderless. Synthetic, but almost warm. It echoes from somewhere above, just beyond the reach of the flickering panel lights.
Caleb turns his head toward the sound, though there's no visible source. Just the cold shimmer of a monitor screen, pulsing with unreadable code.
He doesn’t blink. “I feel nothing,” he says, each word deliberate. His voice is flat, stripped of tone. “I feel normal.” He sits perfectly still, on a narrow steel stool, bolted to the floor. His spine aligned to a fault. Hands resting neatly on his thighs.
The walls are white, seamless. Too clean. There’s no door that he can see, though he’s been here for a long time. Long enough to stop asking questions.
“Good,” the voice purrs, almost indulgent. “You’re improving. Let’s make things easier today, shall we?” There’s a soft hiss. A shift in the air.
Somewhere behind him, a panel opens with a click he isn’t meant to hear. He doesn’t turn.
