WOO, WIP Wednesday Time. I get to do that tagging thing people do to me for a change? Neat!
I am tagging @crimsonsairina, @archangelsunited, @oblivions-dawn, @saltymaplesyrup, @kookaburra1701, @gilgamish, @thequeenofthewinter, @juliette-has-a-pencil, @paraparadigm and whomsoever else has a WIP to post :>
Still not sharing the title for this one, but here's a snippet from my fic I'm writing for AU.
Fandom: TES
Genre: TROPES
Title: eheh (:
Word Count: 477
Teldryn, unfortunately, knew this was no time to gawk, or he’d have spent time openly admiring the man. Bolstered by the confidence that Athis would not, in fact, fall so easily here, he let out a raucous laugh. The noise felt strange coming from a throat that had been tight with nerves not moments ago—almost strangled. But it served its purpose. A few Ash Spawn broke off from their ill-fated attempts to land a hit on Athis and lurched in Teldryn’s direction. As soon as their backs were turned, Athis dashed forward and slashed through them, shoulder to hip, one after the other. They were close enough that Teldryn could hear the clank of the blade’s edge skimming over the odd texture of the heartstones. But it was enough. Two more crumbled to dust—or ash, really—and none rose up to take their place.
“WATCH!” shouted Athis, sprinting in Teldryn’s direction. He dodged and slid under a wayward sword strike before the sound of his voice even reached Teldryn’s ears.
Teldryn turned at the warning a second too late. Pain exploded as the Ash Spawn’s jagged blade bit into his ribs, tearing the fabric of his shirt. He felt blood oozing down his side and into the waistband of his breeches. The Ash Spawn yanked its blade away and ripped at the raw edges of his new wound. The fringes of his vision flashed white, then everything started to pulse red as pain began to numb out all other sensation.
He fell to his knees, Chillrend slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground with an unceremonious puff of ash.
“Fuck,” he muttered, deciding against reaching for his own tried and true Firebolt spell. He was good with those—but the trouble was, such spells did next to nothing to these things. It would be a waste, and with his hands shaking, it’d be a coin toss if he’d even hit the correct target at this point. He groaned and tried with whatever strength he could muster to keep himself from listing to the side and flopping into the ash himself.
Athis screamed from somewhere the darkening of Teldryn’s vision blocked from view. The sound made no sense—it was something Nordic, maybe, or that odd Dragon Language the bards talked about in their stupid spiraling tales. The words faded to the noise of clashing steel against volcanic glass as blow after blow was parried somewhere not too distant. Wanting to help, Teldryn scrambled to reach for Chillrend, gritting his teeth against the searing pain of moving his abused ribs—he couldn’t just sit here, bleeding into the dirt. He clamped a hand over his wound and channeled a Healing spell instead—though not a particularly strong one. It would have to be enough. He had to help before Athis got overwhelmed, otherwise both of them would be up the creek.
Hi friends! I have not posted a WIP in I think y...ears? Years at this point. But I am plunking away at a gift for @archangelsunited. (Spoiler alert, friendo~ But I did tell you I had no chill whatsoever lol) @saltymaplesyrup tagged me!
Tagging the above two as well as @crimsonsairina, @paraparadigm, @kookaburra1701, @gilgamish, @tallmatcha, @thana-topsy / their other blogs, @oblivions-dawn, @thequeenofthewinter, and whomsoever else is writing to throw words onto their blogs.
Fandom: TES (of course)
POV: Teldryn Sero
Work Title: (TBD, no spoilers here.)
~422 words.
“Do you think it’s just the posh old fools that still hold hatred for the Nerevarine,” Teldryn said, pausing to clear his throat which seemed to be closing in on itself all of a sudden, “fucking off to Akavir instead of protecting Morrowind like Azura told him to?”
Athis stayed silent for the time it took to weave his fingers together and unknot them again. “The Nerevarine would have come back, I think, if he could have. He probably died out there. Nothing in the prophecy says he can’t be killed by weapons, or starve to death, or dehydrate, or worse.”
“I didn’t pin you for an optimist,” Teldryn said, half a grin finding its way back onto his face.
“Why did you get the tattoos, anyway, Sero?” Athis asked.
“I wasn’t born in Morrowind at all,” Teldryn admitted. “I was orphaned in the Imperial City as a child. I was supposed to be left with a relative in Blacklight, but I ran away once the ship docked. I ended up rolling with the wrong crowds for years, because I didn’t have any other choice. I was young then. So young. I got drunk enough to handle the pain in one long sitting and spent a month’s pay them.”
“Sero, you don’t look much older than me,” Athis scoffed. “There are Nords back home who still call me ‘boy.’ I suppose if I had parents, they’d still do it too, considering Farkas is, if we do this by life stages instead of years, a little ‘older’ than me.”
“How old are you?” Teldryn asked.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Ah. Yeah. Nords call anyone who looks younger than a 30-year-old human a child—and you do, for what it’s worth.”
“And I will for a while, being Mer,” Athis said with a smirk. “So what, that makes you…? Forty? If that?”
“Ahaha, no. But thank you. I am not that young,” Teldryn said with a bit of playful sarcasm. He shrugged. “But you’re, eh, close enough.”
“Not going to tell me?”
“Nope. I already gave up one mystery for you, sera.”
“Fine, fine, I see how it is. Get your patron to talk nonsense all day, and you get to stay silent,” Athis said, chuckling as he elbowed Teldryn again.
“Oh no, you’ve discovered my secret plan,” Teldryn answered with yet more sarcasm. “Whatever will I do now?”
“Fuck off, Sero,” Athis laughed. “And get some sleep while you’re at it. I figure we wait the storm out and trudge on through the dark, if we can.”
WIP Wednesday. Oh. I GOT THE DAY RIGHT FOR A CHANGE.
Tagging @archangelsunited, @gilgamish, @juliette-has-a-pencil, @oblivions-dawn, @crimsonsairina, @thisauthorisscreaming, @ssshiversss, @saltymaplesyrup, @kookaburra1701, @paraparadigm and ANYONE else who would like to join in. Gimme writing, gimme art, gimme dnd campaign / character concept ideas, gimme screenshots. Let's just celebrate incomplete and pending creative projects today.
STILL not sharing the title for this one, but here's a few lines from my fic I'm writing for AU. We've been doing writing sprints together a few feet from each other as I work on this. I'm finally on part 2, but I will not be publishing until I'm done with the whole thing. An exercise is having chill for a change for me. 🙃
Fandom: TES
Genre: TROPES
Title: Noneya.
Word Count: 503
Voices floated through the void first before Teldryn had any awareness of where he was, or how much time had passed. Both of the speakers were Dunmeri, though they spoke common. Teldryn tried to open his eyes, but failed to accomplish even that. His body ached in a way it hadn’t in time out of mind, like he’d been raked over barnacles after a shipwreck, then left to dehydrate in the sun, sand and salt.
“The mercenary,” said a familiar, but particularly grating voice, “is stirring.”
“Thank whatever gods,” said another familiar voice—Athis’s.
It was a blessing to hear in this state, that was for certain.
“Eh, the gods are through with that one, trust me,” said the annoying one. “Have been for a long time.” There was an odd pause. “Painful as it is to admit it, he lives because of your quick thinking out there.”
“Thank you, Master Neloth.”
“Don’t thank me. This is simply pure fact, not a compliment on my part,” Neloth scoffed. “Besides, my skill with Restoration was what ultimately knit the arteries and bone back together more sufficiently than dumping potions in an open would ever would.”
Athis sighed, barely audible. Teldryn would have grinned if he could, but even the smallest movement was torture at the moment. He’d drained all his magicka to the dregs, pulled every muscle on his body, and nearly bled out.
Lovely.
There went his reputation as the best swordsman in all Morrowind, but that was neither here nor there. He survived. Athis…saved him. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Wasn’t his job supposed to be having that man’s back? Isn’t that what all the gold was for?
Teldryn groaned. He did manage to open one eye, but shut it immediately. The lantern light in Tel Mithryn flooded his brain in a burning rush not unlike downing a bottle of skooma. It was horrible.
Athis was at his side immediately—Teldryn felt his weight on the mattress next to him; could smell the campfire and ash on his skin.
A callused hand smoothed back his hair which had stuck to the sweat on his forehead.
“Hey, you made it,” Athis said, voice quiet with a hint of somber laughter.
“Suppose so,” Teldryn said through a grimace.
For whatever reason, Athis had let his hand linger on the side of Teldryn’s head. He resisted the urge to lean into it. The warmth was nice, especially right now.
“Was a near thing.”
“But Neloth called you competent, more or less. Heard him. He never does that.” Teldryn cleared his throat. “You saved my life.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. You’d have done the same.”
Athis sounded so sure of that, though they barely knew each other enough to make that kind of call. Teldryn swallowed hard against a throat that was, once again, seeming to close of its own accord. Teldryn gingerly reached up to squeeze Athis’s hand.
Tagged by @thequeenofthewinter, @saltymaplesyrup and @kookaburra1701!
Tagging @paraparadigm (need more Pathfinder @_@!), @gilgamish, @archangelsunited, @juliette-has-a-pencil and @crimsonsairina ESPECIALLY YOU GIRLIE, I'm NOT BIASED 🤣
A tiny snip from the gift fic I'm working on for AU.
Fandom: TES
Genre: Katie has thrown open the toolbox of tropes and is using them with reckless (but educated) abandon. We'll see what the tags bring when it's published.
Title: Nope, not sharing, it's more spoiler-y than the snippet lol
Word Count: 445
Ash Spawn—and plenty of them, encroaching fast.
“Shit,” Teldryn muttered.
He didn’t have any armor on, and neither did Athis. This could go sideways faster than one could blink—but what else were they going to do?
“Ugh,” Athis responded, voice heavy with sleep. “Hate when this happens.”
“You and I both,” Teldryn answered. “Know anything about Ash Spawn?”
“Not a clue,” Athis said, scrubbing his eyes while searching for his Skyforged steel sword.
“Well, you’re about to find out,” Teldryn said, unsheathing Chillrend. It filled the tent with a soft blue glow which was almost bright enough to blot out the pulses of red light coming from each of the encroaching Ash Spawn.
“Let’s do this, then,” Athis said with a nod, squaring his shoulders.
“Good attitude. Stab them in the heart,” Teldryn said with a nod.
“Isn’t that always the way?” Athis asked with a smirk.
“Good point.”
Despite the sleep deprivation, Athis knit his brow and got into fighting stance like it was nothing but muscle memory—as well it should be. Teldryn was still worried about the lack of armor, but Athis didn’t seem to care. Maybe this patron was a little bit less inept than the majority of others he’d worked with, after all. He hoped, anyway.
Teldryn untied the tent flap, then crouched in the shadows to get a better look at the trouble they were in. It looked less like the Ash Spawn were coming for them and more that they were surrounding this particular spot—maybe they’d just been unlucky to camp here. Most of the Ash Spawn looked skyward, brandishing uncast Firebolt spells or clutching onto blades made of the same stuff as their heartstones. Each looked like a ghost made solid somehow, ash shifting over the visage of what could have been a person at one time…maybe even a person whose life was extinguished as the ash from the Red Year first fell. Teldryn shivered, trying not to think too hard about it.
“Let’s go,” Teldryn said, voice low.
Athis nodded his agreement, following in silence.
Turns out stealth was not Athis’s strong suit. One misstep onto some trama root and, of course, the desiccated crunch got the attention of the whole horde of Ash Spawn.
Teldryn stepped forward to protect him, standing up from a crouch and brandishing Chillrend in one seamless movement. They came in fast but unfocused, shots blessedly far off the mark. He wasn’t even sure they could focus, being whatever they were, but still—one slice from a blade against unarmored flesh… Well. You didn’t need to be an expert to figure out how that would go.
@saltymaplesyrup did done tag me this week, so I tag them back as well as @archangelsunited, @crimsonsairina, @juliette-has-a-pencil, @thequeenofthewinter, @oblivions-dawn, @gilgamish, @kookaburra1701 and whomsoever else wants to share some art and/or writing this week!
I didn't write, I have to say, a hell of a lot in an actual document, because I am playing Skyrim once again. (SHOCKER.) But modded, this time! I was working on a new LDB named Eira Shore-Born. She is from Anvil in Cyrodiil, but like many LDBs, began her adventure near Falkreath. I'll talk more about her origin stories that are still in my head in a moment, but, for now, screenshots! I'm no screen archer, just warning ya'll. I am using the Constellations modpack and a few additional mods and replacers, and that's about the extent of it. ((Ignore the class/trait section on RM, I just pulled that up for screenshots a second ago.))
So...who is she?
This is Eira Shore-Born of Anvil. She didn't have the worst time of it growing up, except for the occasional racism against her Elven side—not to mention generally not totally fitting with either group because of that. They weren't poor, nor rich. They never went hungry. Her father was absent, for the most part—thought to be dead, but nobody could be sure. She is Half-Altmer on her father's side, Half-Nord on her mom's side. When her mom—a smith—passed without enlightening her about her family history, she took it upon herself to figure things out on her own. Apparently, her father was—or might still be—a mage. All she has from him is a ring, an odd affinity for magic, and a bunch of unanswered questions.
What does she look like?
She is a little taller than the average Nord. Her ears are a little pointier, her eyes a little more outlandish. Her skin is a pale golden color with freckles like her mother had, and her hair—while still technically blonde—is very nearly white. She wears a green mage outfit for traveling and uses a set of silver glasses. She has a few scars from misadventures while trying to follow leads about her father.
What skills does she have?
She is a very decent smith, like her mother. She wants to work on enchanting to combine her talents. She's not terrible with a sword or a bow, and is quick and light on her feet. You kind of have to be while traveling the countryside these days. While what magic she knows is powerful, she doesn't know a lot yet. She aims to change that.
Where is she now?
She crossed the border into Skyrim from Bruma, trying to make her way north and head for the College of Winterhold where she wants to study with professors who might have once known her father, if he was ever even there at all. She is headed toward Falkreath. If she had run into any trouble at all, it seems she'd have gotten caught up in the mess that happened in Helgen, but she missed the Imperial ambush. She paid attention to the news, but still isn't exactly sure what good the Civil War is doing at the moment. She did, in fact, see the giant black dragon as it flew from Helgen over the mountains. She and a few other travelers hid under an outcropping of stone, but she could have sworn the thing saw them. It paused mid-air and seemed to turn toward them, before deciding to fly away.
And For the Writer...
Q: Are you going to write a fic with Eira in it?
A: Perhaps, maybe. Not immediately. I do have another Dragonborn I'd like to write for first named Telare Velan (a Dunmer) of Solstheim who was in Skyrim to find her idiot kid brother, Arvel "The Swift" Velan and drag him home by the ear. (Her save file got corrupted, and no, Arvel didn't survive ofc, but that's why I'd like to write a fic.) Then shit, of course, happened, and she became the Dragonborn, and well, there's no way she'll let her little brother out of her sight to go play at being a bandit again, even if she has to save the world before they can go home.
Q: Will Eira's story occur in an alternate universe from Nyenna's story?
A: I am sure I am going to keep some headcanons here and there, but it'd be an excellent time for me to reimagine how magic works and fuck around a little more with that. I love Weird Magic Shit, as ya'll might remember from World.
Q: Who do you ship Eira with?
A: AH. Questions for the ages. (: Not Teldryn Sero. It depends. I think Rumarin or Lucien might be fun to write. Or perhaps she is bi or gay and falls for Remi or Mjoll or Lydia. Who knows? Maybe another OC? Maybe Athis? That boy deserves the world after what he's been through in World (;
Q: Can I send asks about Eira for ask games?
A: Yep! Any of my OCs are fun to wax poetic about.
Q: Can I borrow your screenshots for references or to try and remake Eira my way?
A: Go for it. You and I may have characters with the same names, but their stories will be as different as can be, I can guarantee.
Athis said nothing, letting Farkas ‘sing’ into the dimness while he grit his teeth. Home was just around the corner. The three of them continued on, Aela sighing audibly every time Farkas’s voice cracked when he tried to sing the ancient Nord version of the bard-song. Blessedly, after another mile, Farkas cleared his throat, complained of its soreness, and shut up.
That left just the sounds of the night.
Until, of course, those very same sounds of night were broken by a piercing screech the likes of which Athis hadn’t heard around Whiterun in time out of mind.
Notes:
For I_was_here_once.
This is nearly a year late, but happy birthday, @archangelsunited I put him back. (:
The fact that the Moons were out and the auras were shining across the cold Skyrim skies should have put Athis more at ease, but everything seemed somehow off as he and the rest of his party trudged along the cobbled path back to Whiterun. There was an anxiety he couldn’t quite place, and his temper was rising with every crunch of gravel under his muddy boots. Peace and quiet, for one, could have been achieved as they walked—if it weren’t for the ancient off-key drinking song that was winding its discordant way into Athis’s ears for about the billionth time since Farkas had “taught” it to an Orcish bard during one ill-advised stay in the swamps of Morthal on a longer job last Rain’s Hand. It had been miserable to endure then, and hearing the song now was near-equally annoying. It seemed no amount of practice could straighten out the deep bass notes of his friend’s voice into something sonorous.
“But a day shall arise when the dark dragon's lies
Will be silenced forever and then—!
Fair Skyrim will be free from foul Alduin's maw,
Dragonborn be the savior of men!”
He glowered back at Farkas—fresh bear pelts were folded over the towering Nord’s shoulders and he walked on as if he didn’t have a single care in the world—and frowned. Aela caught Athis’s eye and shook her head in mutual dismay. They all had done their job as well as expected, and with a decent amount of haste—but stopping to have, as Farkas had called his antics and drinking, ‘an early dinner,’ had put them far behind their expected return schedule. Vilkas and Kodlak would have words for them, and to be honest, Athis didn’t want to hear any of it. He just wanted to get home, wash up, and get to bed.
As of late, he’d been taking on more work than was strictly necessary. There was an itch in his bones to be out under the skies when he was at home in Jorrvaskr, and then an itch to get back there as quickly as possible once he was already out and about. Aela had warned him to rest, but resting seemed more and more impossible. His life felt like something he’d been doing by rote; it’d been as if he was barely awake as he moved through his routine. It wasn’t that he didn’t have it good—he was the only Dunmer fortunate enough to get a spot in the Companions’ ranks, after all—but somehow, the days were beginning to blur together despite all he’d achieved. There was, unfortunately, a sense that reaching farther was not for him. The Circle was full, and recruitment—and thus the opportunity to become a mentor—was at a standstill because of lack of space and work, and well…. Despite everything, Athis did sometimes feel like he didn’t quite belong—and probably never would.
Not that he had made even a semblance of a plan to go anywhere else. Maybe that was part of the issue.-> Read the rest on AO3!
In which Nyenna still refuses to understand how her actions affect those who love her.
10th of First Seed 4E 202
Nyenna hadn’t exactly been sure what to expect here in Riften, the Thieves’ Guild open to her as if she had always been meant to end up here. Certainly, she didn’t think she’d be face to face with the very person her family had tried to match her with.
“I — ” she started, then cleared her throat. “ — I had no idea you’d come all this way after what happened in Valenwood.”
She tried to keep her voice even, but it was on the verge of breaking. She’d worked so hard to leave that part of her past behind. Odd how she’d mentioned Niruin in passing to Teldryn, only for the man to show up here hours later. Maybe one never did escape the ghosts of their pasts.
“It’s so good to see you,” Niruin said. He lurched forward as if he, too, was disbelieving a mirage — or couldn’t otherwise trust his own eyes. His voice hitched with emotion in a way he’d only ever allowed to happen with her when they were younger. Otherwise, he had to put on a strong face — as did she.
That said, his eyes sparked with joy. He didn’t look stressed. There wasn’t a trace of exhaustion. He didn’t curl in on himself as she was prone to do. There was a confidence that wasn’t manufactured — this was something natural to him now.
Gods, and his hair. The coppery curls were gorgeous. No wax to weigh them down and tame them as was the expected for noblemen back in Haven. It was sort of symbolic, wasn’t it? Even though he’d been forced to leave, he’d found some kind of freedom. He looked so different from the way he existed in her memories — but this version felt right, somehow.
She let the barest hint of a smile cross her face, but it faltered. Too much of her own anxiety crept up her throat and the joy felt wrong as it escaped her heart.
She didn’t know him anymore, really. And he had no idea of the hell she’d been through. They had been damaged as children, but had they ever recovered from all of that? Was it right to ask?
“It’s good to see you, too,” she whispered. Something was cracking inside her as tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. She’d thought she’d been done crying. She didn’t think this phantom from lifetimes ago would prompt such a reaction.
“Oh!” Niruin said. “Please — I didn’t mean to upset you, Nyenna.”
There was a strangeness in the way the other thieves shifted uncomfortably, glancing sidelong at him. Nyenna had noticed.
She dragged in a difficult breath and scrubbed away the errant tears.
“No, it’s not you,” she said, voice coming through unsteady. Athis gripped her hand tighter, grounding her. “I am…I… No, it’s just tough to put to words.” She swallowed hard. “It feels like I’ve lived a thousand lives since Haven.” -> Read the rest on AO3!
