#frothar

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Balgruuf the Greater, after there's an attempt on his life orchestrated by his kids: Wow, that sucked. Time to not think about that ever.

[throughtrialbyfire]

WIP Wheneversday!

hey there!! hope everyone's having a great (checks calendar) thursday HAHJKHGFDKJG

tagged by the amazing @boethiahspillowbook @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @thequeenofthewinter @mareenavee @umbracirrus !! thank you so much !! <3333

tagging the incredible @orfeoarte @totally-not-deacon @gilgamish @wispstalk @wildhexe @viss-and-pinegar @thana-topsy @caliblorn @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @aphocryphas and anyone who wants to hop in, feel free to tag me in what you're working on!!

this week, i'm taking a (very short) break from CotS to work on developing some characters we'll be seeing shortly. in the meantime, i started work on this new fic, following jarl balgruuf's son, frothar, around ten-ish years after the dragon crisis began! turns out, the last dragonborn may have just never had the chance to slay a dragon until now…

"Father," Frothar stood before Jarl Balgruuf, the older man seated sternly in his usual place, rooted like a tree to the forest floor, "I swear to you, if you let me go-" "Enough, Frothar," Balgruuf held up his hand, then sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "I will not hear any more of this dragon-chasing nonsense." "But the people of Whiterun Hold aren't safe without someone hunting these creatures," he protested, fists balled at his side. "And you think I will risk my eldest son going after them? Frothar, think with your head for once, son," he cautioned, watching as the younger man drew in heavy, slow breaths through flared nostrils. "You know as well as I do that if I sent you out there on your own, you'd never come back." "If I take even one dragon with me, is that not worth the fight?"

Irileth folded her arms over her chest, statuesque in her pose. "You and your siblings should listen, for once. There's a reason you're not being allowed to charge head-first into the lair of those wretched beasts." He stared into her ruby eyes. She'd faced one and lived. He wondered if she was speaking from a will to protect Jarl Balgruuf - and by extension, his children - or from her own fears. Coward, he mentally spat. She blinked. "You think you're so above any of the men who have tried," Irileth began, "but let me tell you, many have died thinking they could take on the same challenge. You are still a boy, you're not yet-" "I'm an adult," Frothar corrected in a sneer, "I'm sure I could handle myself." "You're still a boy," Irileth repeated, slowing her words as though this would make him listen, "you may have come of age in your culture, but I have been all across Tamriel, and have seen plenty a traveler your age torn apart by the world. How many attackers have you personally taken down, on your own, whilst hungry and thirsty? How many days have you spent out of the comfort of your father's castle? How many hunts have you been on, or battles you've survived?" "Irileth," Jarl Balgruuf exhaled, "I think he gets the point." Irileth stepped back, steadying her breath. "My apologies, Jarl." "None needed," he murmured to her, before turning back to his son. "Frothar, Whiterun needs you. Our people need you. One day, you will be leading them, something you cannot do if you go chasing dragons and abandon them. These past years…" He trailed off, inhaled slowly, and spoke with a measure of stone in his voice that failed to rattle his son, "…the people of our Hold need to be able to rely upon a future leader, not watch him go running off after beasts and flights of fancy." "Wouldn't it serve better if I did kill a dragon? They'd know I'm strong, they'd know I'm reliable, then!" Frothar protested, expression betraying his frustration, brow lowered, eyes widened. "Father, let me show our people that I'm just as capable a warrior as you are! Ulfric's practically at our front door, surely this would-" "That's all, Frothar," Balgruuf leveled his voice as well as he could, but the agitation slipped in through every crevice between his teeth. "I will not have you stepping into this war, and I certainly will not let you go off chasing a dragon." Frothar narrowed his dark eyes at his father. His cheeks flushed in the heat of the braziers, and he hoped this did not indicate the blood boiling in his veins. He eyed Irileth and Jarl Balgruuf, and without a word, he turned on his heel and trudged up the stairs, far out of sight of his father and his housecarl.

"Sounds like quite a fight," Nelkir snickered, arms over his chest. The younger man stood with his back pressed against the stone wall, watching Frothar storm up the steps with a smirk sprawling over his thin lips. While Frothar and Dagny had both taken after their father, Nelkir had taken after his mother, with a weasel-like frame and spindly hands. If Frothar reached far back enough in his memory, he could touch the vague hand of a woman that their father had loved, once. Her high cheekbones and her warm countenance. Her kindness, her strangeness. "Shut it, Nelkir," Frothar grunted in return. He turned the corner, already snatching his armor from the chest nudged against the wall. "You don't understand." "Of course I do," Nelkir lowered his brow, the withering of his snarky expression catching Frothar by surprise. "You think I haven't been trying to convince Farengar to let me in on his studies? Or Kodlak Whitemane to let me into the Companions?" He pushed himself from the wall with his foot, Frothar donning his chestplate. "Come on, you and I both know what it's like to be denied something." Frother arched a brow. "What are you getting at?" "I'm saying, if you were to somehow… Oh, slip out the castle unnoticed in the middle of the night, I'm sure I could cover for you. Maybe I'd even come up with a rumor about some fair lady and some midnight rendezvous. That'd get the court talking for days." Frothar nudged his brother harshly with his elbow, Nelkir barely stumbling back. For all his scrawny figure suggested, he was surprisingly sturdy on his feet. "Oh, no. No. Absolutely not." "Aw, wouldn't it be a little fun, though? Come on, we all know I can be very convincing," Nelkir pouted comically. All tension left Frothar's shoulders, a laugh bubbling out from his lips as he pulled on his gauntlets. "I don't want you spreading rumors about some poor, sweet woman and I meeting up behind father's back. He'd hound me for days about her." They both knew this would be out of a level-headed excitement, but the idea of his father trying to dig into his nonexistent love life made him grimace. Nelkir scoffed. "Fine, have it your way." He turned, marching towards the stairwell. "If you need anything, you know where to find me." "Listening in shadows, as always," Frothar droned, rolled his eyes dramatically. Nelkir made it his business, everything happening within the walls of Dragonsreach, and no one was certain whether they liked his prying ears or not. On one hand, he'd thwarted a couple of attempts on their father's life. On the other, Frothar sometimes wondered whether this was because he wanted to be the one wielding the blade, instead.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Last Dragonborn: Would you slap the Jarl for a million septims?

Irileth, appalled: No, of course not!

Balgruuf the Greater: If you ever, I mean EVER, pass up the opportunity to win us a million septims, I will disown you right then and there.

Balgruuf the Greater: *says this as his actual children line up to slap him with the Ebony Blade for free*

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝑾𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒚 ♥

i'm a day late yet again, but its that time of the week!!

firstly, thank you to the phenomenal @umbracirrus @skyrim-forever @thequeenofthewinter @mareenavee @dirty-bosmer for tagging me this week!! <33

secondly, i'm tagging the lovely @orfeoarte @aphocryphas @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @thana-topsy @boethiahspillowbook @polypolymorph @viss-and-pinegar @totally-not-deacon @gilgamish @wildhexe and you!! cant wait to see what you've all been up to this week!!

i'm working on "Cycle of the Serpent", chapters 27 and 28 right now! i'm going to share a tiny snippet from both. they're in extremely rough draft form at the moment, but i'm happy with the direction i'm taking them as i send athenath into meridia's temple >:3c

i'm also going to share a snippet from my Dragonborn Frothar fic, "Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood"! i've not gotten much deeper into it, i'm afraid, but i am enjoying working with this character a lot <3

chapter 27

"Listen," Emeros began in a steady voice, "there's certainly been a mistake. We're not Daedra worshippers, nor do we want anything to do with them. We're simply returning an object to it's rightful place, which would certainly prevent any other Daedra worshippers from finding it and enacting the will of…" "Meridia," the shorter Vigilant manage out. "This is the temple to Daedric Prince Meridia." "Right," Emeros nodded, "then if we return this and leave, that should be satisfactory. We've no intent to continue with the will of Meridia, we're simply putting things back where they belong. That's certainly something understandable, is it not?" "No," the taller Vigilant scoffed, "you've been carrying a Daedric artifact with intent to fulfill the wish of a Daedric Prince. In our eyes, that makes you on the same level of their worshippers." Emeros gave an agitated look to Wyndrelis, as if to ask if the Dunmer was hearing the same things he had just heard. "We've no intent to worship her, I can assure you. In fact, our friend-" he moved his hand in the direction of Athenath, "is a devotee to Mara! You've got the sense, I'm certain, to see how that makes him the opposite of a Daedra worshipper." "Anyone who does the will of-" Before the Dunmer Vigilant could finish her sentence, Athenath set the beacon in place, all five figures watching as a beam of light shot from the stone ground. Stumbling back, the Vigilants cursed and sputtered as Athenath stepped away from the statue, the pillar of light lifting the beacon into the hands of the statue.

Athenath stumbled. The world fell away and reformed under them, a new world, the same one, what did it matter? It swayed under his feet, the skies turned to melting gelatin, the clouds brandished heavy lights into their weary eyes. ------- As the world came back to him one piece at a time, he took in the sight before them. Emeros and Wyndrelis, poised in a standoff with the Vigilants. A faint, high humming thrilled the air, nerves spiking the hair on the back of their necks like an electric current run through the five at the statue's foot. Emeros gave one glance back at Athenath, Wyndrelis thickening a spark of magicka into his palm, blue against his fingertips. The Dunmer, too, turned his white irises back to the shorter of the trio, pupils landing dark, scrutinizing pinpricks against the Altmer's apprehension. Wordlessly, they understood. Athenath sprinted down from the statue's footing as lightning sprouted from Wyndrelis' hand, the sounds of battle raging above as they hopped from the stone down to another, until they landed squarely on the ground with a thud, the light of Meridia and the high-pitched whine it radiated calling to him. Pushing open the doors to the temple, they silently prayed to Mara, a plea of understanding. That she would show her compassion, and look down upon her devotee not with revulsion at the Daedric tampering in his fate, but with warmth, with love, with knowing how it was to be backed into a corner. The light of Meridia burned, the shadows split aside, and Athenath pushed forward into the ruined depths.

chapter 28

A foul air hung low around Athenath, thick in the darkness of the temple. Moss overpowered the stones, darkness shrouded in its blinding power, and the stench of decay wafted into the Altmer's senses. Athenath pressed their sleeve to his nose, forcing himself not to gag at the odor. He stepped forward, flinching as the noises of battle shredded the once-quiet air above them, using their sword to break apart spiderwebs that threaded through the temple's corners and crevices. The hair on the back of their neck prickled, skin bumping, spine aching with the all-too-familiar dread that sent a shiver down the column. The lit braziers up ahead offered both peace and terror. A presence had been here. The dark, then, seemed safer than the figure they knew lurked deeper in the temple. Still, he pushed one foot ahead of the other, against stone steps worn and slicked by the ages, into the depths of Meridia's temple, despite the chill radiating around them.

"Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood"

Frothar slashed away at the straw dummy before him, an intensity flaring in his eyes brighter than before, Nelkir's words ringing in his head. The promise of someone who could cover for him. It was almost too good to be true. The rumors perfumed the castle thickly of a dragon, nesting somewhere inside Whiterun Hold. Irileth had been debating the chance to dispatch a unit of guards to check it out, but Proventus and his father advised against it. His father. Frothar tore his helmet off and placed it aside. His father, who feared to lose him, an understandable fear. His father, who forbade him from getting involved in anything too dangerous, afraid to let Frothar out into the world, to watch his son get hurt, to watch his son burn up in the suns of the mountainous province. The Jarl, decorated war veteran, afraid to let Frothar so much as pick up a sword in the name of defending their Hold. He winced at the thought. Did Balgruuf not believe in him? Did the Jarl think he wasn't capable? Frothar had been trained by only the finest soldiers in Whiterun, from Great War veterans to young and talented people whose leadership was prized within the ranks of their guards. Irileth herself had tutored him in the art of wielding a blade, of stalking quietly, of keeping his head level, knowing when to stand down and when to fight. Yet even she denied him this chance to prove himself.

Slowly, he pulled his helmet back up from the table. He examined his armor. He wasn't too tired, no, he'd not let himself wear out on sparring. And if he packed quickly enough, he might even escape with the changing of the guard at the front doors of Dragonsreach. Of course, there was always the barracks, but sneaking through there in full armor sounded like the worst idea he'd had since he voiced his longing to hunt the dragon terrorizing the countryside. He would not tell anyone. Slowly, Frothar marched to his room, slipping between the corridors and snaking his way out of the sights of any and all who might still be awake at this hour. He pulled open the creaking wooden door to his room, hissing quietly when it echoed out into the night, and shut it quickly behind himself. He snagged a pack from beside his bed and tugged a small purse from his bedside drawer, filling it with a handful of septims. He had plenty of healing potions, he tended to stock up for when sparring with guards or Irileth or his brother got too rough, and he ensured they were packed so tight they could not rattle. He could hunt for his food. He would be fine. As he slung the pack over his shoulder and began the slow march to his window, he gazed down at the craggy plateau Dragonsreach rested upon. He knew this would not be an ideal route. He'd need to find some other way down, some pathway out.

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝑾𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒚 ♥

oh man, it's that time of the week again!! i've been busy irl with the semester coming to an end, but i always look forward to wednesday around here!

tagged by the lovely @thequeenofthewinter , thank you so much!! <33

tagging @dirty-bosmer @totally-not-deacon @viss-and-pinegar @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @orfeoarte @thana-topsy @archangelsunited @rainpebble3 @boethiahspillowbook @gilgamish @umbracirrus and you!! and there's no pressure to participate, no worries!!

this week i'm sharing some long snippets from 2 different wips - "Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood", my fic centering Dragonborn!Frothar and taking place 10-ish years after the dragon crisis began, and a snippet from the rough draft of chaper 28 of "Cycle of the Serpent" in which athenath is going into meridia's temple to get rid of the necromancer, malkoran! hope you enjoy <3

Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood

He'd heard of dragon lairs distantly, and in every story, he hoped they were exaggerating. The grass crunched under his feet as he approached the stone outcropping among the mountains. This dragon must breathe fire, he surmised. The ground, once rich with soil and plant life, cracked beneath his boots. The plants, as he'd gotten closer to the beast, appeared so sullen and dead that he'd wondered if this spot in Whiterun got any rain at all. His gaze darted around at the once-thriving soil, the dirt, the clay, all of it splitting and dusty and strange under his feet. Then, he finally allowed his gaze to land on the dragon. Sleeping atop a wall inscribed with strange markings, he could see the scales, the glinting of red, the horrible shape of it. The beast laid atop the stone like a cat on a fence, it's scaley figure breathing in slow noises. Each breath puffed out small embers and trails of smoke, rising to the sky and dissipating into the air above. Frothar tightened his armor, securing himself as well as he could. He unsheathed his blade. What was his plan, exactly?

He wanted to kill it. The thing had been terrorizing locals. This was his duty. As the oldest son of Jarl Balgruuf, he should be keeping his people safe, right? Surely this was how things went. This was his duty. But how to approach, how to take it down? Did he even have a real plan, or was this all folly? Frothar swallowed the ball of anxiety lodged firmly in his throat. He watched as the creature slumbered. He wondered if it would have been smarter to grab a bow and some arrows rather than risk it with a sword, but-

He didn't have time to think. The eyes of the creature, hearing a twig snap from a far-off deer - damned deer - thrilled open. The pupils, like slits, widened at the sight and then shrank into long, black lines. Frothar's own gaze went wide as he dashed behind a large stone, missing his death by mere inches as the beast spat fire in a way that sounded like screaming. He covered his ears, the heat searing through the rock, hotter than any summer's sun he'd ever known. He waited. The moment the dragon rose to the skies, he sprinted to another rock, watching as it flung another breath of fire at him, and ducked down low. Gods, what had he been thinking? He'd really been this stupid to march up the side of a mountain to fight a dragon wholly unprepared! He'd done this all for what? And now he was going to die here, he would die on this hill and it wouldn't be for anything or for anyone, just his own selfish fucking- The dragon landed, the ground shivering with the impact. The whole earth repulsed at the feeling of it's existence, the land quaking as the dragon tread one foot in front of the other, wings lightly rising, then lowering, sending waves of dry-sucking heat out around it. "You seek your death, little one?"

The words thrummed through Frothar's chest. Like hearing the sun speak, like feeling every lick of flames against his face. It burned from the inside out, the sound, the way they rattled through him. The words themselves burrowed into his lungs, and he clutched his sword tighter, his own throat closed in fear. Sweat poured out of him, drenching the back of his tunic, his blood racing in his ears so loud he could hardly hear, but the words… He could understand them. It was in no language he'd ever known, a language he would never be able to fully articulate, but it was not with his ears or mind he understood, but something far older. His heart raced, slamming against his sternum, breaths barely having enough time to lodge in his lungs before being pushed out of him again. "Do you come to die? Perhaps your bones will nourish me, child." Frothar knit his brow. His father. He thought of him. He thought of Jarl Balgruuf and how, no matter how many times Frothar proved himself again and again, his father would not let him out of his grasp. Whiterun needed a leader when Balgruuf was gone. It fell on the eldest's shoulders. It fell on his shoulders. It was his duty. Whiterun needed a capable leader, a good leader, a brave leader. He would not die a coward. At the least, he'd go down and he'd do it swinging.

Cycle of the Serpent, Chapter 28

A foul air pitched low through the corridors, thick in the winding depths of the temple. Moss overpowered the stones, shrouded in its blinding dark. The stench of decay wafted through the Altmer's senses. Athenath pressed their sleeve to his nose, forcing himself not to gag at the odor. Meaty and slithering, sweet like overripe fruit trampled under the foot of a count's horses. He stepped forward, flinching as the noises of battle shredded the once-quiet air above them, using their sword to break apart spiderwebs that threaded through the temple's corners and crevices. The hair on the back of their neck prickled, skin bumping, spine aching with the all-too-familiar dread that sent a shiver down the column. The lit braziers up ahead offered both peace and terror. A presence had been here. The dark, then, seemed safer than the figure they knew lurked deeper in the temple. Still, he pushed one foot ahead of the other along the well-worn stones, creeping low as to not draw the attention of whoever - or whatever - had contaminated the temple of Meridia. A burning ache at the back of his throat caught them as they continued forward, caution in every shallow breath they nearly feared to breathe. Guilt should be for later, he told himself, but it threatened them now in here, the guilt of aiding a Daedric Prince. Was what the Vigilants said true? Was this doing the bidding of something that would merely toss them aside when through? It's not like he had a choice. They hadn't seen the light, the Lady of Infinite Energies, the way she hovered as a bright and shining beacon in the skies above Solitude. And Athenath, unfortunately, had. Still, it did little to stop his hand from clutching the amulet of Mara beneath his clothes.

[....] He lowered himself once again, creeping towards it, and picked the lock with ease. For a moment, they were glad that Emeros and Wyndrelis were above, fighting off the Vigilants. It saved him the embarrassment of the other two pointing out the door to the half-distracted Altmer. Then, shame filled his face with red, as he wrapped a hand around the lever. He shouldn't rejoice their absence right now. They were up there, fighting off the Vigilants so that Athenath had a chance to investigate the temple, as they all wanted to. Who knew how the battle above was going? Who could say if his friends were dead or alive? Athenath stifled the thought, smothered it deep until it choked out. There was nothing saying that his friends weren't alive and waiting for him. They had to have hope.

[....]

The further Athenath went, the more they clung to this idea. Sometimes, a moment of idle collection of breath and thought, they clutched the amulet hanging out of the collar of his shirt. They wondered if Mara had sent them to Skyrim for a reason. Surely, her devotee would find a place to spread her compassion and her love in all its forms, in this land claimed by war and its aftermath? Maybe it was no mistake Athenath would be attending the Bard's College, after all. Training with them, then going off into the world, maybe this was exactly where they were meant to be. Even though pain soared through their body from various injuries, even when hope dimmed when he drank the last of his healing potions, they pushed onward into the temple. Meridia had asked it of them. Mara was commanding them. Mother Mara, lady of compassion, of love, of family, the lady Athenath looked to when the world crumbled and the stars burned out and the sun breathed its last. The lady who forgave him, who gave them a new life, unwasted here. This was an extension of Mara's compassion. It had to be.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Balgruuf the Greater, after Frothar drags Dagny away so she doesn't rat out Nelkir: You gotta be ready to listen to your children, even if they have nothing to say.

[ch4rmsing]

The Heir of Whiterun While there were many perks of being heir to a Jarl, the requirement to be present during tedious political meetings was not one of them. Frothar supposed he should have had more of an interest if he were to lead one day, and managed to feign attentiveness at the words that were being exchanged. He stood beside his father and uncle while being briefed by Legate Cipius, the Imperial commander stationed in Whiterun. "Our spies have reported something stirring in the East—all the lingering Stormcloak leaders have been recalled to the Palace of Kings," Cipius explained as he pointed toward the few small, blue flags strewn across the map, tracing the paths from them back to where Windhelm was marked. "Our blockade has been successful as no aggressive rebels have broken into Whiterun for six months. Tullius expects them to call a surrender soon." "That's what he said seven years ago after Ulfric was beheaded. He was wrong then and is now, you Imperial lot have always underestimated Nord stubbornness," Hrongar argued, blunt and contentious as always. Legate Cipius flashed a look of annoyance at being contradicted. The point was valid though. No one expected this conflict to drag on for over two decades. It seemed as though Skyrim would never have peace again. "They can still receive supplies through their port, though," Barlgruuf mentioned, tapping the area above Windhelm—the Sea of Ghosts. "Who would supply to them? We hold every dock across the northern coast all the way to High Rock. Those in Morrowind are unlikely to provide aid—they are cleaning up from an invasion, and House Redoran knows how unfriendly Windhelm has been to their people." Frothar was barely paying attention now, he felt his eyelids droop slightly before catching himself and opening them again—only because Whiterun's steward entered the room with a bow of apology for interrupting. "Please excuse the intrusion, my Jarl. A courier has brought you a message from General Tullius."The Legate looked stricken, and the Jarl furrowed his brow. Frothar kept awake enough at the new development with growing curiosity—why would one of the Empire's Leading Generals be sending correspondence straight to his father and overlook the commanding officer? Proventus handed the folded parchment to the Jarl and Balgruuf took it. His father also lifted a dagger that was laying on the map table to cut the seal. He unfolded it, seeming to glance over the writing and finally made a thoughtful grunt—not speaking to whether he took the penned words as positive or negative. "Jarl Kraldar is dead." Read More

[skyrimconfessionss]

"My scariest moment in Skyrim happened during exploring the Jarl’s quarters in Whiterun during nightime. I walked into the kids’ room, and there, one of the boys were standing over the girl, watching her sleep. He turned around after a while and said: father says I’m too young to train with a sword, so I practice with my fists. That freaked me out more than any Dwemer ruin ever."

skyrimconfessionss.tumblr.com

- Image credit: [x]