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!
It Does Not Do To Dwell on That Which Can No Longer Be Overwritten
https://archiveofourown.org/works/64371652
A prompt from Jinumon, which has taken me months, because it is so weird. (:
Thank you, as always, for the shenanigans.
The Prompt:
First person, weirdly omniscient as if the PC is still playing the game all these years, and the Nerevarine (Teldryn Sero) is their character.
Solstheim isn’t the place I’d have willingly chosen to stick around for all this time, but it is run down enough for my purposes. I can lay low—though as the years drag on, I am more inclined to move my feet than I used to. Not that I couldn’t just leave— glitch out of the world and into some dark spaces between this realm and the next, unknown to most. Wouldn’t that be neat? It has happened before. Part of me wants to, to be sure, but by my path and schedule I am bound for now. That was the agreement, if I wanted to stay—and stay I did. There’s an itch, however, that I can’t explain—a weird nostalgia for places I’d visited long ago or events that have become scant footnotes of history in the lives of people around me these days. Such is the way of things, I suppose, waiting between one entry in the series and the next—and the next and the next. I doubt if that itch will ever leave me.
The town declines as shipments become affected by the Civil War. Patrons—only the townsfolk now—complain of the weather or similar pains after working the ebony mines or their merchant stalls. Tourists are few and far between, and have been for time out of mind. Here in the dusty foyer of the Retching Netch, the paper lanterns burn dim in the ashen darkness. As they sway in the wind of customers entering and exiting this…fine establishment…reflected light skids across polished and lacquered tabletops. I hear the sound of the innkeep pouring sujamma after sujamma, clay vessels clinking together in unseen faux-revelry I am not a part of. Whenever the door opens, chill air and the echo of a forlorn silt strider creep in. Each day is the same, and each day I sit with my back against the wall, face turned toward the front door. -> Read the rest on Ao3!
There had been a point where Athis thought for sure that nothing Nyenna could do would be enough for him to hold a grudge. Even as he stared up the hill at her, knowing full well she’d lagged behind to talk to that damned mercenary, he still felt a twinge of regret for all the anger he’d been holding on to. Still, when she waved to him, he didn’t return the gesture. He just grit his teeth and dove back into his grim thoughts.
He’d heard her back in camp a few days ago — he’d heard loud and clear her admission that she didn’t know how to love. What, pray tell, was it that they had, in that case? After their fight over that, he’d acted as if all was well, had even embraced her and offered soothing words, but most of that was to placate her. Had that been wrong?
At the end of the day, he wasn’t going to renege on the promises he’d made to her. Love wasn’t always convenient, he was finding. The both of them had a lot of room to grow, and the optimistic part of his mind still held on to hope — right there, next to all that anger.
He could try and sympathize with how overwhelmed she must be feeling. She had been correct in all their disagreements, however — he could never truly know the weight of the world like she did these days. Anyone would buckle under so much pressure. That she was still standing was a miracle, if you asked anyone else. But he knew how strong she could be. Athis had seen it first hand. And he wanted to preserve that — keep her hand in his. All he’d ever wanted to do was keep her by his side. He could support her with what skills he did have — and he’d been honing those for plenty of time. He could hold his own in a fight.
But the fear… The fear was something she couldn’t so easily let go of. It was insidious, and seeped into every thought. Worry consumed her at every branching path of her quest. He could sympathize with fear. Nyenna had trusted him with the worst of hers, and often still did, even when she talked in circles like she had during their argument. In the past, before even that, she’d cried in his arms enough times now when the grief of losing her brother hit like a tidal wave out of nowhere. She’d become convinced that whoever followed her into battle — or into whatever other chaos she was getting herself into these days — would never come back out again. That didn’t have to be the case. He’d repeated this to her and to himself a thousand times.
Athis let out a long, frustrated sigh through his nose and folded the map he’d been glancing at without absorbing any of the information. He knew that Riften was just up ahead. They’d be rejoining the main path soon enough. Thankfully, his earlier scouting revealed no Thalmor to be seen. Though he’d forgotten all the specifics, it was known that Riften had sided early on with the Stormcloaks, anyway.
He watched as Nyenna descended the hill and Sero managed to catch up with her. She threw the mercenary a worried look and then hurried down the path. Athis tucked away his map and crossed his arms over his chest, opting to bite back any scorn before he spoke. -> Read the rest on AO3!
The World on Our Shoulders | Chapter 41: The Choices We Made
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
5th of First Seed 4E 202
Nyenna’s heart seized in her chest as she watched Athis glare at her and leave their tent, heedless of the wind and weather. His skin was bare to the elements below his cloak, having forgone his armor in his haste, but it seemed his anger was such that he barely felt it. It was as if nothing — not even illness or worse — could quell the fire. And that, she realized, was her fault entirely. Without much hesitation, she exited their tent as well, jogging to keep up with him, her own cloak billowing out behind her.
Her thoughts were racing as if she’d encountered some grand danger, not just the anger and hurt of her husband. The words he’d shouted seemed to glance right off her like water from the backs of ducks. Her mind couldn’t hold them and she wasn’t sure if that was due to how heavy the conversation was or her own confusion.
“Athis, please!” she said, voice carrying over the settled snow and ice that spread itself thin over the side of the mountain. She’d kept her power from the words, and did not let them shake the earth beneath her feet.
He’d made it pretty far before he started shivering. He wheeled on her and trudged back a few paced, face twisted in a scowl.
“I asked you why and you had no good answer for me,” Athis said, voice low and dangerous. “No. You — you refused to answer.”
“It’s not — Athis, I didn’t refuse to answer, you just didn’t like what you were hearing!”
He crossed his arms over his chest, but Nyenna didn’t miss the way his arms were shaking, or how his fists were clenched tight enough to leave marks in his palms.
It was a moment again before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was low with a rage burning in the background. “Why would you forgive him? Forgive that? Why would you allow yourself back into the same chaos you’d left behind?”
“I told you this already. We have to work together. We don’t have a choice.”
“We do have a choice, Nyenna! That’s what you’re not seeing.” He paused and let out a sigh. She watched as shivers began overtaking him. Her own budding rage prevented her from moving to his side to keep him warm as she normally would have. “You don’t need to treat him like some kind of friend — or more. His presence has a purpose, and when that is done, he can go. We can be rid of him and go about our lives as we intended.”
Nyenna ground her teeth and flexed her fingers. Something primal screamed in her head, or deeper still within her bones. Somehow, she managed to ignore it. Her own heart beat furiously in her chest, as if it was itself a dragon, wings beating to help it escape the confines of her ribs. And she was angry. She was, but she knew the reason: Athis was right. She hated to be called foolish in not so many words. He had a point. His pain was valid. But that didn’t mean he knew everything.
He couldn’t know everything. No matter how much she explained the situation, or the danger, he would never grasp it. Not in its entirety.
Good. This is not a life I would wish on anyone. -> Read the rest on AO3!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
A birthday gift for @rhiannon1199!! And special thanks to @crimsonsairina for the isekai inspo, of course, and for Konrad. (:
Without further ado:
The Heist
Given exactly two minutes to come up with a decent retort, Teldryn Sero could lie his way into—or out of—just about any situation. That’s what he’d have liked to keep telling himself, anyway. Staring up at an ancient, half-crumbling, barely-living silt strider on the east side of Nowhere, Solstheim, he began to wonder exactly what he had agreed to be part of. Wonder, however, but not question. The pay was good, and it was better to ever so slightly lowball the other offers other mercenaries would have given the wayward Nord so that he could get a slice of the pie instead. It didn’t matter, really, what nonsense was on the horizon. Teldryn had been, up to this point, quite used to unorthodox employment—and just by the look on his employer’s face, this job, too, would be something to remember. Hopefully, barring any further incidents with overconsumption of sujamma.
Teldryn stood on the edge of a cliff that served as a home base of sorts to the creature’s keeper, pondering his life choices for the span of maybe a second or two. There had been no initial misgiving that he was conscious of, but occasionally pausing to adjust one’s moral compass never hurt, especially in this line of business. Upon inspection, his true north was still somewhat metallic—just as it had always been.
As if in direct response to that, a great deal of gold coins clinked merrily in his pockets as he finished tying a rather impressive series of knots. Revus Sarvani—that was the mer’s name—had somehow succumbed to a rather nasty bump on the head while he was going about his otherwise ordinary business. Teldryn had obliged to restrain the poor fellow and stash him away in the piece of fraying canvas that doubled as a sorry excuse of a tent.
The wayward Nord was currently busy stacking an absurd amount of stones of various shapes and sizes inside the unkempt cabin in the silt strider’s back. They weren’t all large, but the tedious work would have worn out the average person by now, or so Teldryn thought.
“And what, may I ask,” he began, wiping the dirt and ash off of his gloved palms onto his pants, “were you planning to do with a half-dead silt strider, sera?” -> Read the rest on AO3!
Hey.
Anyway time tag ya'll! Are we writing like the wind this week?
@paraparadigm, @changelingsandothernonsense, @thequeenofthewinter, @thana-topsy, @kookaburra1701, @oblivions-dawn, @throughtrialbyfire, @polypolymorph, @archangelsunited, @miraakulous-cloud-district, @dirty-bosmer, @gilgamish, @elfinismsarts, @saltymaplesyrup, @inquisition-dragonborn, @snippetsrus, @expended-sleeper, @wildhexe, @rainpebble3, @nuwanders, @sylvienerevarine, @demonablack83, @viss-and-pinegar, @late-nite-scholar, @greyborn2, @skyrim-forever, @rhiannon1199 and YOU yes you if I've forgotten your tag, it's actually HERE, you just can't see it. Tag me back :> Do the thing. Write the words!
So for this week, we have finished the Raven Rock arc and moved on to chapter 31 (of The World on Our Shoulders) and our favorite bean is back getting into a Situation~
More fresh-from-the-braincells content below the cut! Some overlap with Arc things, but some new words, too :>
6th of Sun’s Dawn 4E 202
Athis dodged out of the way as a glass greatsword came crashing down from out of the darkness. He jumped forward and stabbed into the weak spot between plates of glass armor. The Thalmor shrieked and pulled a Heal spell into his hands, greatsword clattering to the ground. Both sounds echoed down the stone passageways. In the distance, Avulstein was shouting something incomprehensible, answered by the shrill death throes of yet another Altmer. He had to move. There was no time to faff around with theatrics. The rest of these n’waah would be converging on them like draugr any second from now.
With a sickening crunch, Athis withdrew his sword. The Thalmor scrambled to press the magic into the wound, to no avail. Blood bubbled up out of his mouth as the light left his eyes, guts pooling inside his armor. Athis frowned and flicked the blood off of his sword as the man slumped forward into the mess of his own viscera. A terrible, inhuman howl answered Thalmor screams, which sent a shiver down his spine. Such was the way it had to be, apparently. So much for sneaking.
If Thorald was still alive, he’d be in the dungeons. That would be below ground, the best Athis could wager. Northwatch keep seemed to spiral in a purposefully confusing pattern, not unlike a Nordic tomb, built backwards and lopsided, prone to collapse. He wondered if that was on purpose, perhaps to keep the doomed from ever finding a way out again. With a quick glance around at the cells, it seemed that was the case here, at least. So many corpses, shattered limbs dangling at odd angles, stored in cells. For what, he didn’t want to know. The Thalmor liked to look proper on the outside, but all he’d ever known of them was darkness.
They’d driven his wife away, after all. Even if that wasn’t the full truth, it was enough for him to focus his fury at them. He’d said it before. He’d strangle the life out of every single one of these bastards with his bare hands if it meant making Skyrim safe for her again. He glanced up at the ceiling once the flash of anger passed, the sound of dragon wings still haunting his waking thoughts. As safe as it could ever be, anyway.
He adjusted his cloak, annoyed at the stains blooming over the fabric. He checked his armor — none of the blood was his, thankfully. He was too fast for them on their best days. He tightened his grip on the Skyforged sword, knit his brow and marched on. The roars and and shrieks above him hinted at exactly the kind of fate these Thalmor had brought down upon themselves when they decided to take Thorald.
Athis would have preferred to get in here and get out without drawing so much attention to themselves, or without bringing the ire of the entire faction onto their shoulders before Thorald was safe. The fights could have come later when they were more prepared and not as outnumbered. But Farkas, being who he was, had shifted with the Moons and the low-burning rage he’d been holding inside for weeks. Aela and Fralia had told him to wait before trying to figure out exactly what had happened — in the end, it was more Civil War stupidity.
The increase in Thalmor activity lately had troubled Athis incessantly. He thought about how odd their encounter on the road home had been before Nyenna had run off. Jarl Balgruuf did his best to keep the roads of Whiterun Hold clear of them, but they crawled now like insects, swarming where they shouldn’t. All this after Tullius had made a point of encroaching on some fort or another. Athis hadn’t paid that much attention. After that, the chaos had started to get more and more uncanny, like inroads were being paved for these bastards.
