"Don't take the Star back to Azura! The daedra are evil! They're the reason Malyn went insane!"
No Nelacar Malyn went insane because he wanted to cheat death and play god
Also if he was dying of disease couldn't he just as easily brewed a cure disease potion? Or become a vampire or werewolf? Not mentioning praying at a shrine cuz I am fairly certain that's just a gameplay mechanic
It was a particular fantasy, One you couldn't imagine many being able to physically replicate, but he’d disclosed it to you nonetheless. The idea that - despite how romantic it may seem - no one really knew one's body better than one’s self. He loved everything about you, every form of sex and love-making was absolute bliss, but it was still different from what he experienced himself on those nights when you were gone saving the world. He’d gotten warm just thinking about it, some kind of alternate form, a conjuration, perhaps, that knew him, just as he did - that knew all those little places that made him squirm, that could reach, that could press just right at the perfect speed with the perfect pressure. He’d gotten so riled up just talking about it, you couldn’t help fuck him there and then.
You wanted it to be real for him - you knew, if anyone could achieve such a feat, it was your wonderful star mage. And so, with lots of emotional and physical encouragement, he did. He had. He was doing so.
His skin had always been so beautiful, golden and gleaming, especially in the starlight, and here it was doubled, pressed against one another, golden hands tentatively gliding across it. Goosebumps rose in their wake, muscles clenching beneath the skin as they explored, familiarising themselves with a body well known.
Their lips pressed to one another's - to their own - teeth knocking gently together as both went to bite the others lips, a gentle, breathy laugh following shortly. Both knew what they wanted, but neither knew who should receive, who should give, creating a strange unsurety. Hands were easy, each knew where they wanted to be touched, where to pinch and soothe and squeeze. Lips were easy too, outside of a regular kiss, dipping to kiss at his favoured side of the neck, marks scattered as they took turns to litter the other with bruises and bites.
Golden, leaking cocks rubbed against each other, pressed between warm bodies, twitching in anticipation. He gripped his cock, forehead pressing against his own, a familiar hand rubbing up and down his shaft, flicking at the wrist before pressing his thumb into the tip. He bit his lips, hands simultaneously stilling to stave off that quickly approaching release. It would seem the situation was just as stimulating as the actions themselves.
Familiar eyes gazed at each other as hands stroked to the base, thumb and forefinger circling, gripping tightly in a ring as they rubbed the lengths together, hips cantering ever-so-slightly. He’d had centuries to learn the intricacies of his own pleasure, knew that the prominent vein at the underside was so sensitive when partnered with an oncoming release. So they thrust,veins encouraged and pressed together as seeping tips lubricated the skin, soft and slick.
He moaned - they moaned - breathing into each other's mouths tongues pressed together as they finally, frantically pumped one anothers cock, muscles clenching in tandem as they coated themselves in cum. One another cum, technically their own.
Somewhat confusing, utterly enthralling. An experience you had the complete pleasure to observe.
am i just thirsty for crunchy skyrim men or is nelacar hot? like in a snarky, teasing way? like lots of banter and late nights shit talking the college?
I'm replaying the Skyrim quest "The Black Star," and I find myself wondering why Azura, who can see the future, would direct her intended champion to a person who presumably opposes her goals.
If she can direct you to Winterhold, she could also have directed you to Ilinalta's Deep, and skipped Nelacar entirely. So why give him the chance to steer you toward turning the Star black?
We can all guess the metagame reasons, but in-universe, was she testing her would-be champion?
Did she WANT the Dragonborn to wield the Black Star - in which case, why not tell you so when you bring it to her?
Or did she just not care either way, as long as you got SOME version of the Star (which would still raise the question of why she sent you to Nelacar)?
On average, once the numbers are tallied and the proper percentages derived, Birna’s shop sees about one and a half customers a day.
It is, apart from Dagur’s meadhouse, the most prosperous establishment in Winterhold.
“Enthir,” she says to the soft creak of the door, not looking up from polishing the counter—she knows her first customer of the day by the way he stamps his boots on her worn rug. Behind her, just south of the moldstain shaped like a bird, a leak in the ceiling drips snowmelt into a pail. “My supplier won’t be back until the thaw, but if you let me know what you’d like me to order in—”
Her customer, cold-flushed and unshaven, silences her with a frantic flick of the hand. He glances left and right. Then he nods and leans so far over the counter that Birna, adopting a look of polite interest, can count the sparse hairs on his chin.
“I need—I need a cauldron,” he murmurs, narrowing his eyes. “A silver cauldron. Now, listen, it has to be silver, because hydrofluoric acid eats through most other substances. And I need three pear flasks, and a box of twelve or so test tubes, and a hatchet—”
* * *
“D’you sell mice?” asks the second customer of the day.
Birna stares at him. “Mice.”
“Mice,” the mage-prentice agrees, giving her a pleading look. Like most of the students who come down from the College, his robes are rumpled, his eyes bloodshot, and his smile more panicked than polite. “Little skittery things. Long tails. You know. I need—as soon as possible, mind—a, a certain quantity of mice.”
Plick, goes the water in the pail. Plick. Plick. Plick.
“We don’t sell mice,” says Birna.
“Dammit,” the apprentice mumbles, tugging his braid. “Knew I should have gone to Enthir.”
* * *
“—and a filter flask, and a pair of round-bottomed titration flasks, and a retort, and two barrels of methylamine—are you writing this down? I think you ought to be writing this down—”
* * *
“I don’t buy stolen goods, Malur,” says Birna to her third customer of the day, her voice flat as trodden snow. “Give it back to Nelacar, grovel a little, and he might not fry you like a bit of buttered cod.”
“But you’d—you’d fetch a fine price for this staff, my chilly friend,” says Malur Seloth, smiling at her as a prisoner on the block might smile at the approaching headsman. “Look at the, uh, the fine carvings on the—”
“No, Malur.”
“Might make enough coin to fix your roof, selling this genuine—”
“Get out of my shop, Malur.”
* * *
“—and three greased pigs—”
“If I get you a tub of lard, Enthir, can you—do you think, maybe, that you could grease the pigs yourself?”
“Yes, yes, whatever. And I’d like one of those lozenges. And I hope you won’t object if I pay for everything else upon delivery, not before—”
* * *
Plick, goes the water in the pail. Plick. Plick.
Birna, who hasn’t seen a customer in four hours, slowly lifts her face from her hands.
The tall stool in the corner, the one that her brother had promised her he’d fix, still wobbles. Of course it still wobbles. She drags it out anyway, wedges a book under the short leg, and climbs up to scowl at the leak in the ceiling.
“Might make enough coin to fix your roof,” she mutters, twisting her face in an uncharitable, but not inaccurate, impression of the Jarl’s shiftless steward. “Ought to fix his roof. Enthir’s, too, the old—”
The door bursts open as if kicked by the wind, whirling snow upon the shoproom rug. Birna shrieks and grabs the nearest beam. The stool clatters to the floor.
“Good—good afternoon,” she calls with desperate cheer, dangling from the rafter. She feels for the stool with her toes, without success. “How can I—help—you?”
“Hullo,” gasps the same apprentice as before. Wild-eyed, his hair sticking out in all directions, he clutches the counter like a seaman clinging to the last storm-tossed plank of his ship. “D’you—please, d’you sell cats?”
* * *
Birna has sold a grand total of one lozenge by the time Nelacar sweeps in. Grandly.
“Birna, bright Birna,” he says with the usual pomp, put on to make her smile. “How burns thy star?”
“Dimly,” mumbles Birna, unsmiling. She rubs her temples—she can feel the coming headache in her teeth—and sinks down upon the stool. “Plummeting earthward. Nelacar,” she adds, staring at the town’s sole wizard, “what, uh—goes on—up at the College?”
“These days it’s moneylaundering, I imagine,” murmurs Nelacar, scanning the shelves. “Though I wouldn’t rule out piracy. Or ritual sacrifice. I don’t suppose you’ve got any staves?”
