#finsaraan

[cursedmenagerie]

@finsaraan​ finds a lost traveler

　　　"FATHER!” 

　　　Harsh winds whip at Atreus’ face bearing a harsh chill and snow that threatens to blind him, swallowing his words amidst their own roaring. The young lad is no stranger to frigid weather like this. He is familiar with biting ice and bone-chilling cold but this. This cold feels wrong. This isn’t Fimbulwinter, most brutal of seasons, herald of the end. If he weren’t so terrified he might joke that this blizzard feels like spring compared to the years-long winter gripping his home. 

　　　But he is terrified, not least of which because regardless of what this strange weather is the storm has separated him from his father. He knows his father will fare alright - not even gods have been able to strike him down - but Atreus, for all he’s learned and all those he’s fought... He doesn’t want to be alone. 

　　　A silhouette materializes through the haze of snow and his heart jumps in his chest. “Father! I’m over here!” Atreus takes off trudging through the snow drifts towards it, hope and desperation overpowering most of his common sense, or else he may have noted that the figure did not match Kratos’ towering frame.

[kohledtouch-archive-blog]

What’s the Dragon Word for Shitfaced? ||Closed with finsaraan||

@finsaraan

"Do you have anything that won’t immediately knock someone on their ass?” Ayalea asked. 

Geldis raised an already arched eyebrow. “You’ve never had an issue handling your drink, Ayalea,” he responded.

“Not for me. It’s been a while since my, uh, friend has drank,” she explained. “I have to ease him into it. There’s no reason to cause alcohol poisoning on the first drink.”

Ayalea was guessing, of course. She had no idea if Miraak even ate, let alone drank. Did he even drink in his mortal life? He never spoke much of his time before being trapped in Apocrypha, unless he was bragging about how powerful a man he was. 

The barkeep nodded and wagged his finger. “I got just the thing,” he assured.

After pulling a few bottles from under the bar and mixing them, Geldis placed an ornate mug down in front of Ayalea. 

“Here,” he said, pushing it her way. “Take a swig.”

She did as she was told and gave him an appreciative nod.

“He should be able to handle this,” she replied. “Can you give me, uh, I’m not even sure how many... you know what?”

She pulled the wagon she had snuck into the tavern to the open side of the bar counter.

“Just fill this up,” Ayalea told him, tapping it with her foot. “Half with what’s basically flavored water, and the other half with what you gave me last weekend. It went down easy and didn’t dry my coinpurse.”

“Never knew you to have friends,” he remarked, chuckling as he set to mixing the wagon’s worth of drinks Ayalea ordered. “You know, I have to charge extra for the labor.”

Ayalea rolled her eyes, making small talk with the Dunmer as he worked to fulfill her order. Once he finished, she dropped a pile of coins into his hand, the gold spilling out onto the counter. She headed out of Raven Rock and made her way to the hovel she called home, for the time being at least. 

Going around the small house, Ayalea ensured each window was closed and covered before heading into her room. How she’d manage this, she wasn’t sure, but she was determined to try and get Miraak to have a bit of fun, lighten up a bit. 

After pulling the Black Book from her bookshelf, Ayalea circled the wagon a few times before deciding to just get in with the drinks. She tucked her feet between a couple of the jugs and took a deep breath; this next part was always unpleasant.

She opened the Black Book and cringed as the tentacles burst from the pages, wrapping around her arms, legs, waist, every inch of her body. As she was hurled out of Tamriel and thrown into Oblivion, the numbness that always accompanied the trip filled her limbs, and the heavy nausea set in. 

When she landed, she flew forward, kicking one of the jugs and breaking it, and fell on the stone ground. Her leg dragged on the broken ceramic, slicing through her leggings and breaking the skin. Blood stained the fabric, but she ignored it and the pain, instead focusing on the wagon and the surviving drinks.

She may have gotten hurt, but she was satisfied that overall, her plan worked, and she was going to get drunk in Oblivion.

[ashenxone]

@finsaraan:

    Nothing should be out here but plunderers and scavengers, picking through whatever it is that battle leaves behind. But as Kyne weeps for the sons and daughters of Skyrim, and sends her tears to wash the ground clean of gore, there is one figure that picks his way through the carnage without an eye for gains. The rain comes down so hard he almost cannot see, but what he seeks cannot be found with the eyes anyway. He listens to the soft pulse in the air. The Thu’um will do that to a person; change the very nature of them, until he can taste it.

She is off from the main of the battlefield. Lying by the swollen river, her blood puddling between the pebbles, as the water threatens to drag her away. He pulls her from it’s grasping flow. Somehow she breathes still, shallowly, whatever fabric poking out from beneath her armour stained dark red. Knelt beside her, he wonders what, truly, he is doing here; what he intends to discover, or gain. But he does not have time to ponder - or rather, she does not have time for him to ponder. So he puts a hand on her side, where straps have been cut and the blood is the worst, and feels for what within is damaged. He heals only enough to staunch the bleeding, as the freezing rain is likely to undo whatever benefit he provides faster than he can give it, so that he can safely lift her into his arms, and carry her back across the battlefield, where bedraggled crows and wolves watch them pass, towards eagle-headed towers and a crumbling ruin between the trees.

Ciri was convinced this was to be her death. She’d been careless, too focused on one particular enemy and hadn’t noticed the enemy soldier behind her until his sword was buried in her body, entering from the small of her and protruding from her abdomen. The Imperial hadn’t let her off easy either. He’d twisted the sword inside her before yanking it back out of her. But the minutes dragged on and she was still breathing. That much was a miracle, but gods she hated it. She couldn’t move, and seeing as she’d been left for dead, she could only assume the Imperials won this battle. 

So the Nord princess lie there in agony, awaiting death. But it never came. What did come, though, she couldn’t say. Her vision was too blurred from blood loss, not to mention it was raining too hard to really open her eyes. But she could feel the hand on her side-- had she the energy and ability in that moment she’d have drawn her blade on whoever snuck up on her like that. But she had neither of those things and could only hope it wasn’t another Imperial come to finish the job. She was pleasantly surprised when the unknown person healed her; at least to a point where she wouldn’t bleed out. Then they picked her up and she became wary.

It was a struggle but she did her best to turn her head just enough to look at her savior. Even more of a struggle was her attempt to address him given all the blood in her throat and mouth that she had to first spit up. But after doing so, she finally croaked out a question. “Wh... who... are you?”

[ofheroesandstories]

Random starter for @finsaraan

Children should never wake up before the sun rises- at least not for more than to go to the bathroom and get a drink of water. James however- was not really an ordinary child, the boy slipping very quietly from his room. His big brothet is still asleep- but it is not his big brother's turn today for magic lessons. Of course this was suppose to be an -after- breakfast sort of thing, but the little boy was too excited to wait! He adored his lessons while Jackson complained.

James had left their shared room quietly enough, but the sound of him entering their father's bedroom was like the beginning of a thunderstorm. Loud and unexpected. Teddy bear still tucked under his arm, and not even changed out of his pajamas, James scrambled up onto the bed, tugging insistently at the covers and sheets. Shaking the sleeping Nord on the bed- who had a pillow over his head.

“P-p-papa! Papa g-get up!” he said, “Come on y-y-you said we w-w-were gonna do m-magic today! You promised!” 

[aaznu-aldak]

♖ !!

Nonsexual acts of Intimacy meme :  [not accepting]

♖: Having their hair washed by your muse

There had been an exceptionally friendly mouser that roamed the halls of Bromjunaar when Ea had been a young initiate. It was always eager to be shown affection and would purr empathically when pet, especially when scratched behind the ears. Now, decades later, as Miraak’s fingers move deftly across her scalp she thinks if she had the ability to purr, it would be as loud and delightful as that cat’s had been.

Steam rises from the water around the couple as they lounge in the bath. It is the most relaxed Ea has felt in weeks. As the baby inside her grows, so do the aches and pains of her body. Not a day passes now that some part of her is not sore. Even sleeping has become a painful challenge. Yet here, with Miraak settled behind her in the bath, massaging soap into her hair and combing through the tangled strands, she has finally found some relief.

“Close your eyes.” He murmurs, and she complies, tilting her head back slightly. She doesn’t manage to stop the moan escaping past her lips as warm water cascades across her head and hair. Behind her she feels more than hears Miraak chuckle. 

“Feel better?” He asks as she settles back against him, resting her head against his shoulder. 

“Mmhmm.” Ea hums. “Do you think there is some way to enchant the tub so the water stays warm forever? Then I would never have to leave it.” 

Her beloved does laugh at that. “If anyone could find a way, it would be you, love. Though you might begin to prune.” 

Ea’s face skews a little, finally opening her eyes to see him smiling down at her and she cannot help but return the gesture. 

“I’d be willing to take that chance if you’d stay with me. We could prune together.” She teases, only to wince a second later as the baby’s foot collides painfully with her side. 

Above her Miraak frowns, reaching out to settle a hand over the swell of her stomach. “While it does sound like a wonderful plan, it doesn’t seem like our little one is too keen on the idea.” 

“She does not seem to be keen on very much at all lately.” Ea huffs. 

For a brief moment he pauses, looking curiously down at her. “She? It’s a girl?” 

Only now does it occur to Ea what she’s said, and the resulting color that rises to her cheeks is not from the steam. “I…well there is no way to know for sure until the birth but…she just feels like a girl.” 

When she looks up to him again, she sees a brightness in Miraak’s eyes that makes her heart stop. 

“A girl. A daughter.” He breathes as a smile begins to curve at the corners of his lips. 

“A princess.” 

At that he beams. “The High Princess of Skyrim.”

Looking down at the swell of her stomach Ea settles her hand over his. “Long may she reign.”

[leviathanwielded-moved-blog]

@finsaraan

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Miraak.”  He was remarkably young for someone in his position, though she presumed that a cold little island like Solstheim was bound to not be subjected to as much of a competition as the major cities. Still, he was an ordained Priest of the Dragons and he was owed the respect that came along with such a position that was not earned lightly - no matter whether in Bromjunaar or in Solstheim. 

  “My name is Ignes. My father, you surely met him already, asked me to please show you around so you will not find yourself lost in Bromjunaar.” She should not be forced to carry out such menial tasks that should be left to someone of lower importance than her, though she understood that her father probably wanted her to make connections. One day, when she wanted to ascend herself, she could use the favour of the other priests. In that case, it was best not to be entirlely unknown to them.

     “I am ready to go anytime, if you do not wish to attend to other matters first.”

[goldenhaircd-moved]

@finsaraan

     They had brought back music and dance into halls where no one had danced in ages - the Emperor and his Empress were not only terrifying enemies on the battle field, always accompanied by dragons, but they were also shrewd and well capable to navigating the dangerous waters of politics - especially the Empress, a woman well known for grace and beauty, while the Emperor was known as a cunning man of ancient power. The Thalmor trembled before them, Janna was certain, for they knew that their final hour would come soon, when the Empire came for the provinces it lost... they would take it back with the fire of dragons and the power of their own voices.

       “Have you spoken to Ambassador Vaerendil yet?”, she asked innocently. All eyes rested on them, as they opened this evening’s first dance. “... I would propose to proclaim Ladies’ Invitation for tonight and invite him. I assume in that case, his companion, Elenwen, will approach you. There is no place more intimate than the dancefloor, after all. I did not want to charge ahead without hearing your opinion first.” 

[mountainmage]

starter for @finsaraan

There was always dust. Whether it be from the decaying bones or simply the passing of thousands of years, freshly opened tombs always reeked. Especially the temples whose foul magic coursed through the halls like an infection in the blood.

Pierre bit back a grimace as he spat out the grit on his tongue. Course powder of ancient corpses clung to his skin and got in between his fingernails. Draugr were usually filthy and these were no exceptions.  He supposed that this Vokun, a priest of some sort, cared little for the condition of his thralls. Staring down at what could have been a few of his own ancestors, Pierre pushed around their bodies for anything of value. It took a bit of effort and shuffling but he managed to pull his war axe free from one of their skulls. With how relentless they had been, he must have been close to the main chamber. After prying out a dagger hooked onto a crusty corpse’s belt, he shoved it into his pack and tilted his head towards the large door before him. Either that led to the Hall of Stories or the priest themselves. Quietly, he placed his hand on the chilled iron.

But there was a sound. Not the strange dragging feet of the undead. But something more akin to a scuffling boot against weathered stone. Like a startled animal, he withdrew to the darken corner of the room. A candle reflected off his eyes that glowed slightly from a nighteye spell. Fortunately, there was still a small amount of magicka poison dripping from his axe, giving him a slight advantage over a mage but only slightly. Pierre could have easily ambushed the stranger but the chance that they were some Morthal delinquent following him out of boredom was too great. After all, he had told the local alchemist of his destination.  His blood boiled at the thought of conversing with another yet he spoke. 

“Don’t be a fucking coward! What do you want?!”