Missed a few weeks of these (as usual 😅) and have been tagged by @theoneandonlysemla @inkoherentwriting @chiqita @skyrim-forever @unironicallytes @heavy-metal-dick @nuwanders
Tagging you all back + @pocket-vvardvark @elavoria @silly-little-diary @gilgamish @justafoxhound @sylvienerevarine @wispstalk @babyblueetbaemonster @madam-whim @ladytanithia @bosmerblood @sulphuricgrin @hircines-hunter + anyone else who feels up for it :)
Today I supply some more Raminus being bummed out about his new job and the current state of the Mages Guild:
Nowhere in the King and Queen was truly quiet, let alone private, especially on a Fredas evening, but with a bit of good fortune, they settled into an empty booth sandwiched between a band of loudly arguing mercenaries and a pair of Journeyman perched catatonically over their beers, looking so shell-shocked that Raminus could scarcely imagine what unfavorable score they’d received on their final exams.
“Well,” Nim said, sliding into her seat beside him, “we’ve had better times in worse places than this.”
Raminus stared blankly into the depths of his ale as if it might offer some kind of guidance. The truth was, he did want to be here, simply hadn’t the faintest idea how to behave now that he was. What had it been like before? The late nights laughing too loudly, drinking too much, talking about nothing and about everything. Now, seated in the same tavern where he and Nim had once shared such innocent evenings, when Raminus touched the memories, they bruised.
And now every gesture, every smile, felt like a performance. The Arch-mage wouldn’t slouch, wouldn’t fidget, wouldn’t kiss his lover in public. The Arch-mage couldn’t simply be. Raminus had never thought much about how Hannibal carried himself before— how effortlessly he’d worn his mantle of wisdom and restraint— only knew that as Arch-mage every word he spoke had been measured, weighed, authoritative. Here, surrounded by former students who had once seen him spill ink across his lectern, Raminus felt ten years old again, just a boy playing dress-up in his tutor’s robes.
Raminus took a slow sip, hoping the drink might wash the thought away, but it lingered, bitter as the dregs. A year ago, the most dreadful thing he’d had to deal with was a spoiled Apprentice hounding him for a recommendation letter who had never heard the words ‘work ethic’ or ‘no.’ He’d thought those days exhausting at the time but would give anything to trade his current burdens for such petty annoyances, when now the complaints came in the form of death tolls and missing names, in distraught mothers turning up to the lobby red-eyed asking after their sons and daughters.
“For a man with a perfectly good drink in his hands, you’re certainly not doing much drinking.”
This is a rough look at my upcoming Oblivion fic which follows Ruma Camoran as the last Dragonborn to survive the Oblivion Crisis. Baurus repeatedly attempts to change her morals to align with the imperial throne, but she does not budge. Baurus gives up and pursues the Knights of the Nine, much to Ruma’s chagrin, but when she tries to intercept she finds herself in Pelinal Whitestrake’s shadow and is cursed with his own madness.
This was supposed to be a 1 day animatic but ended up turning into a 3 day animation ,:] whoops. I had fun tho. Hopefully I can start working on my fic trailer again now that this is out of my system
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim, Baurus/Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil, Male Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim
Characters: Male Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil, Trans Man Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil, Original Trans Character(s)
Summary:
The Oblivion Crisis was over. Martin Septim - dear, sweet, passionate, honest, bookish Martin - was dead. Or ascended, or mantled, or whatever he'd done. He had been, he had changed Veran's life irreparably, and now there was a statue of a dragon where he'd spoken his last words. Veran stood there until his knees gave out, and then he knelt in the mud as the rain replaced the tears he could no longer shed.
travel time maps for cyrodiil and solstheim! the key takeaway here is that cyrodiil is massive and solstheim is a lot bigger than you think it is (just over half the size of sicily).
the gridlines here are on the same scale as the skyrim map (which i’ve included again for reference), i.e. each tile is 40 x 40 miles. this roughly lines up with the in-game claim that mournhold is 250 miles from red mountain! i’ve also included a map of tamriel so you can see how they all fit together. you can find the original skyrim map, including guidelines for use, here.
i’ve also done maps for morrowind and vvardenfell, which you can find here.
tumblr ate the quality so DM me if you’d like higher quality copies :)
further notes under cut
cyrodiil
1. you can tell oblivion is an older game: it feels very sparse compared to skyrim, especially considering it’s supposed to be the cosmopolitan heart of the empire. for the sake of realism i upped every settlement by one increment: villages become towns, hamlets become villages, etc. but as you can see from the huge swathes of empty space, there’s still plenty of room for worldbuilding and creating your own settlements :)
2. on this scale the imperial city has a diameter of about 30 miles, which is roughly the same as modern day london. realistically the iconic wheel layout would probably only make up the very centre of the city -- i imagine it sprawls far beyond these bounds. the island itself is also more than large enough to contain plenty of farmland in addition to the city
3. i also added a bridge on the imperial city’s eastern shore because it makes absolutely NO sense for a city with as much traffic as the imperial city to have just one entry point. i know the game is tiny and walking around the loop takes like 5 min so it’s not a big deal, but as soon as you up cyrodiil’s scale to something even vaguely realistic (here it’s about 520 miles from north to south, which is roughly the same as germany -- so still not even that big), the necessity of a second entry point quickly becomes obvious: the journey from cheydinhal is reduced from 16 days on foot to just 8.
4. on this scale, (and assuming the HoK has a horse), the oblivion MQ would take an ABSOLUTE MINIMUM of three months. but realistically -- factoring in rest days, recovery times, random oblivion gates, distractions, taking the time to prepare for battles, waiting around at CRT for martin to crack the mysterium xarxes, etc -- you’d be looking at more like 6-12 months, depending on how focused your HoK is :)
solstheim
the dragonborn questline can be completed in a minimum of 20 days, starting from when the LDB arrives in raven rock and assuming that they didn’t bring their horse with them. again, however, it would likely take a little longer in practice.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
For Muld. Happiest of birthdays, my friend! Thank you for writing works which inspire me to push my storytelling further.
Thank you to @throughtrialbyfire for the fantastic beta read of this piece!
I couldn't get you, because you got me first
You were a fixture, I must have been a fool
I couldn't face you, because your face was mine
But I will be long gone, before I take your side
Through all that pitch and resin
You were somehow still breathing
But why have you been mourning
Ever since we fixed your head?
We're nothing but receding figures
Robbing each other of our final thoughts
— from Greek Fire by The Republic of Wolves
Fuck.
There hadn’t been any other vocabulary for whatever bullshit Teldryn Sero, best swordsman in all Morrowind, had just found himself running from. The memories of the disaster at Helgen crashed around in his head and resurfaced like some kind of monster from a cursed scene in a book, and he would swear again—sometimes aloud, much to the chagrin of his fellow passengers on the Northern Maiden. Not that they had room to judge him, all things considered. The hunk of plywood which passed for a ship drifted to Solstheim with about as much enthusiasm as he himself had for returning to Morrowind, but at least it was far from there.
It’d been a few years since Teldryn had been rattled like this. Here he was, minding his own damned business, when a fucking dragon had crashed out the sky and called down destruction right as he was about to have his skull separated from his shoulders. Now, he was used to the Gods intervening to remind him none too gently that his life (and, consequently, his death) had never been his own to do with what he wanted—but a dragon?
After the dimwit of a sorcerer in Whiterun had somehow convinced him to crawl around in an unseemly Nordic burial mound for some random chunk of stone, everything had changed for the billionth time in his life. In rapid succession, events unfolded like a courier opening a letter that didn’t belong to them. More fucking dragons eating more fucking people. Some kind of soul sorcery the locals insisted was legendary and not seen for time out of mind—especially not in a Dunmer, of all people. Angry, loud old men shouting down to him from a tall ass mountain he’d subsequently been forced to climb in the middle of the Godsforsaken winter. An uncanny, innate ability to speak a language he felt more in his chest than he could hear with his ears. And now here he was, once again fate’s plaything. He’d thought for sure he’d escaped the hero bullshit at the end of the third era. He’d done enough, and had the scars (and madness) to prove it, but no…
He scratched absently under the faded crimson scarf he wore around his neck and over his mouth. Prophecy never seemed to be done with him, not ever. Back during the Blight-and-Sharmat situation, they’d all assumed because he’d been born and orphaned in Cyrodiil before being shipped back to Blacklight, that was what was meant by ‘dragon born.’
The Gods were nothing if not droll. -> Read the rest on AO3!
a piece on the fate of the Brinehammer wreck in The Pale. takes place post-Oblivion, pre-Skyrim.
inspired by this song from Beyond Skyrim: Bruma
word count - 2,374
content warnings - death, injury
The ship was called the Brinehammer, though most have forgotten its name by now. Even the sailor himself had almost forgotten, often simply referring to it as the damned boat. Some say the way the boards creaked and groaned beneath their feet was a warning, jokes spouted here and there of how her temper must be a nasty one that none could spend time aboard her without feeling at best, watched, and at worst, loathed. Perhaps it was haunted, or it was the haunting, wrapped in wood, adorned with metal and gowned in high sails. Sailors were a superstitious lot, anyone knew, and when the ship itself seemed to hate the presence of the crew, that's when it was time to return to land.
He shouldn't have been surprised when it crashed. He knew the captain had a habit for skooma and strong mead, and the two seldom mixed well. The crew had been thinking of leaving him behind entirely, or whispering of mutiny whenever there was a spare moment. But not even the best laid plans were foolproof, and if the gods wanted a laugh, who were they - this damned crew - to deny them?
Morning cast an iron-soft light upon the seas, turbulent with an oncoming storm. He'd warned the captain, the Dunmer had, many times. He was an experienced sailor. This captain was new to the sea, though aged and weathered by his time on the front lines during the Oblivion Crisis. He drove them through waters none should have traversed. He'd been good at the start, or else the Dunmer would never have set foot on his vessel. But the sea challenged this. The hard conditions, the nights pacing the deck in case of pirates, the sleeplessness and the tossing and turning. The old Khajiit aboard cursed and muttered often of Hermorah, of the god that could tear a mind asunder. Perhaps their captain, then, had fallen into the clutches of the writhing beneath the seas.
There had been a crew of twenty-five when they began, but by this point in the voyage, seven were left. Too many got off the ship at ports, had seen too much of the abyss. The Brinehammer became a curse on their lips.
Ice sharpened like spears along the distant horizons, waves slashing through the frigid sheets. The captain, his hands shaking as they always seemed to, sipped at the bottle he clutched with hawk-tight fingers. The Dunmer watched him, red eyes examining every motion the captain made. He'd seen this madness creeping up over time, but today, something darkened in the wind. The Dunmer eyed the sweeping of the high winds, the cold air bashing against the figures aboard the deck, all shivering in it's breath.
"Are you sure we're on the right course?" He asked, words coming out much harsher than intended. The captain grunted. "Shouldn't we be-"
"We'll get to Solitude when we get there," the captain barked as he gazed down at his compass. The old Khajiit listened, ears twitching as he swept at the deck. It was a futile thing, salt and melted snow turned to sludge that none could hope to banish. But the Khajiit didn't care of that. He did it to listen, as the Dunmer knew from their endless conversations.
The crew was comprised of two Imperials, a Breton, an Orc, a Dunmer, a Nord, and the old Khajiit, whom the Dunmer respected. He was a sea-hardened, wise old man, a Cathay from a small family that lost some members during the Oblivion Crisis. He'd grown weary of trade and commerce in the Imperial City, and by the time the Dunmer joined the crew's ranks, he'd seen enough sea to last several lifetimes. Took the Dunmer under his wing. Taught him how to keep level-headed, even in the most dire of situations.
The Sea of Ghosts, they called it. Ferocious thing. Named well. The Dunmer looked out along the endless expanse of sky, the thousands of miles of nothingness, blotches of shadow indicating land just beyond their reach. The sky threatened more snow, or a storm. He peered into it, silent prayers on his lips for fair weather, but he'd stopped expecting answers. He'd long since given up the idea of anything beyond what he could see with his eyes, break with his hands, yet he still whispered to Azura to be good to them. To guide his fate.
He watched as the captain, stone-eyed, guided the ship forward, between the sharp and impending ice, between the rocking waters, the Brinehammer sliding along the surface even as the sea sloshed and churned beneath them. The boat had once been a sturdier thing, the Dunmer heard the old Khajiit tell him, but years in harsh condition and little time for repairs had done its damage. Sometimes the Brinehammer would creak under their feet as though confirming the old Cathay's tales. He seemed the only one that the vessel tolerated, or at least didn't loathe.
The captain ordered the Dunmer to head below deck, check on some cargo, "and by the gods, don't take anything," the older man added sharply. He knew of the Dunmer's past, something that he often regretted mentioning off-handedly when he'd joined the crew. The idea of a former thief on board tended to make the captain give him shifting glances, quick eyes that shuffled to and from his own ruby gaze. His cold hands clenched the helm, the aged Imperial keeping his sights set for land. Everyone was anxious to get to Solitude, unload their cargo, and spend some nights at the local inn getting hammered beyond fathom.
The Dunmer passed the Orc, a burly man from a small city in High Rock, who spent most of his time helping the captain keep an eye out for anything on the waters, for land. They spoke quick greetings to one another, a small bit of conversation before he climbed below deck, his grey hands working to steady him as he descended. He'd never liked the rocking of the sea.
All went well, for the next hour or so. He organized and reorganized and catalogued their cargo, ensuring everything was marked as neatly as possible. The Dunmer hummed and made idle comments to himself as he continued his work, keen eyes scanning bottles and trinkets and wondering just how much he would be paid from all of this when they finished their work in Solitude.
He was about to head up to inform the captain, when the world rattled beneath him. A noise, puncturing through his ears, loud as thunder and cracking like bone, and a force that sent him tumbling. The boat went sideways against something. Before he could scramble to his feet, a crate came scraping down towards him. He had no time to act, the wood crashing into his knee.
Seering hot pain scorched through him, burning every sense. His eyes squeezed shut. He cursed loudly, shrieking and shoving his palm over his mouth to mute the sound. A blast of cold air threw his senses off, his face tickled by something spraying at him, and when he finally opened his eyes, he saw why.
The hole in the side of the ship. Sharp rocks, jutting against it, and snow pelting inside unlike he'd seen in a very long time.
The old Khajiit came rushing down into the cargo hold, as though he'd overheard the cacophany. From beyond the door, the Dunmer could hear the captain cursing, shrill, barking like a mad animal at some god or other, a snowstorm, as sudden as the sun is bright. The Cathay knelt beside the Dunmer, examining his leg, grave expression digging into his fur.
"What happened?" The Dunmer demanded, but he already knew. He knew this ship was cursed, haunted, whatever one called it, the Brinehammer was too damned strange not to be.
"Snow," the Cathay breathed, words forming clouds as they left his mouth, "this one tried to warn the captain, but the Imperial would not listen, this one-"
"Oh, gods," the Dunmer groaned in pain, head lolling back as his vision blackened. The Khajiit rested a warm, clawed hand to his face, trying to keep the younger of the pair awake, "oh, gods."
The Orc ran in next, shouting at the captain, the pair back-and-forth arguing as he made it down the steps, clinging to the walls for balance. He spotted the Dunmer and the Khajiit, and in a hush that poured ice into everyone's veins, he whispered, "Where's Titus?"
The crew had long lost use for names. They didn't care, most of them were never aboard the Brinehammer long enough to use them, but Titus was the newest member. Youngest of the crew. Wiry limbs, wiry red hair. The only Imperial aside from the captain. Everyone else had been on deck or in their room. The boy snuck off to nap in the captains quarters sometimes, said the bed was more comfortable, the captain would never know since he hardly slept anyways, the boy hadn't been on the deck or in his room…
"Oh, by the Nine," the Breton sailor clutched a hand over his mouth as he pushed the door to the captains quarters open, apprehensive, "my gods, Titus…"
"What is it?" the Dunmer groaned. The Breton turned back, eyes shadowed by his heavy brow.
Beyond him, he could see blood.
The captain, finally, stormed down to see where everyone was and what was happening, the Nord behind him, her fists balled as though ready to throw the bastard off the ship herself.
"If you would just listen," she urged gravely, "then we wouldn't be in this mess!"
"I couldn't have foreseen the weather, girl," the captain sneered, "that storm blew in so fast it nearly took us into the water!"
"Onto the rocks is not much better."
He watched them bicker for a while as the Orc stepped slowly over, resting his large palm over the Dunmer's knee. "I can't…" he shook out, "I don't know Restoration, but there's got to be some potions here somewhere,"
"We unloaded all our healing potions last port," he grimaced.
The Khajiit stroked at his chin, thinking. "How far are we from Dawnstar?"
The question was enough to silence the crew. After a moment, the Breton made the awkward clamor up to the deck, staring out into the horizon. When he returned, he still looked grim, but there was a tinge of hope in his eyes. "I don't know, but I can see the Blue Palace."
"Our friend needs medical attention," the Cathay noted, gesturing to the Dunmer's broken leg. Shattered, probably. He couldn't move it, and all he could feel was enough pain to make the room spin if he so much as moved his eyes. "If we go looking for someone, a way to town, perhaps…"
The captain glanced around at his crew. "Alright."
The room fell quiet, aside from the whipping of the wind and snow, the high shrill of sound.
"If we make it to Dawnstar, we'll be able to bring a rescue party, get you patched up," he pointed a wrinkled finger to the Dunmer, "and get us to Solitude."
"Shouldn't someone stay behind?" The Nord asked. The Orc held up a hand, but lowered it when the Khajiit said that he would.
It was settled, then. The others would go to Dawnstar. They would get help, and return to rescue him. He watched them leave, and the Khajiit set to work creating a space for them to rest, to keep warm. He pulled a couple of bedrolls from a crate - grinning as he did, knowing full well the captain would toss him off the crew for it - and pulling a lantern, igniting it. He brought in some books, a quill, and the pair sat there together.
The Dunmer knew by the third day that all hope was lost. The Cathay had said all he was going to do was try to light a fire outside, maybe attempt to boil some water, but the look in his eye… The Dunmer knew.
He waited. And waited, as the hours ticked by in the dark. He was lucky to have not frozen, but dehydration had set in long ago. He could barely think. He reached for his chest, as though fumbling for something, and murmured to himself of an amulet he'd long tossed in the sea. He'd once been devoted to Azura, in his youth. And in this moment, he had nothing to remind himself of home, of her. And to die here, near Dawnstar, where rumor circulated of a shrine being built in her honor, seemed nothing short of fate.
He flipped open the pages of the book he'd been reading and re-reading. Father of the Niben. He grasped his quill, dipping it in the half-frozen ink. One final plea, one final prayer. In the back of the book, scribbled down, the sailor's last request. That Azura end his suffering. That his soul may find peace.
He had no idea what may become of it. Perhaps, like himself, it would be forgotten. Another shipwreck and damned crew. Perhaps, he added bitterly, his crew had gotten piss drunk off in Dawnstar and forgotten all about the two sailors back at the ship, and the rotting remains of Titus. The cold had prevented him from stenching up the entire cargo hold. The old Khajiit had said he'd been crushed by a chest, and the Dunmer was glad he hadn't been able to see it. Still, he wrote, and used his strength for one last moment.
One day, maybe someone would stumble upon the wreck. They would find the skeleton of the elf, and his last prayer. They would find the bones of Titus. What would become of the words scribbled on the inner back of the book, he would not live to know, but the words would live on in his stead.
As the Dunmer allowed his strength to pass, laying back and closing his eyes, he swore he heard a voice, and felt the warmth of arms around him one last time.
an Oblivion fic in which I attempt to justify my HoK's terrible life choices
"Everyone is highly disappointed in you, Crusader."
The Prophet's tone was more pitying than disapproving, and Sacha had the sudden urge to slap him. "Believe me, I know," she replied, keeping her voice neutral. "It's all people talk about when they meet me. 'Oh Sacha, we thought you were a holy warrior, but it turns out you're as awful as anyone!' I'd like to know what makes my moral compass their business."
"Can you blame them for being confused?" the Prophet demanded. "You faithfully served the gods, helped defeat Mehrunes Dagon, assembled the Crusader's Relics... and suddenly you turn your back on your holy order of knights to become a petty criminal. What are we meant to make of that?"
"What good are the Crusader's Relics to me?" Sacha shot back. "Oh, they were helpful in getting rid of Umaril, but none of this went the way I hoped. I couldn't..." She bit off the end of her sentence. "Never mind."
"Couldn't what, Sacha?" the Prophet asked, his voice more gentle now.
Sacha looked down at her feet, feeling about ten years old. "I couldn't bring Martin back," she said quietly. "I thought if I had the armor, if I had the gods' favor, I could summon his spirit back from the other world. But it didn't work."
"We all mourn Martin, sister..."
"You didn't know Martin," Sacha interrupted. "Not as a person. He was my best friend, my brother, and I failed him. I couldn't protect him, I couldn't protect my sister Falura, I couldn't do anything. In the end, what does it matter if I'm a hero or a thief? It makes no difference to those I've lost."
The Prophet shook his head. "And the countless lives you've saved? Do they mean nothing?"
"Not nothing, and yet not enough, either." Sacha sighed. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you."
"There is hope for you yet, Sacha Llervu," said the Prophet. "But beware. If your actions do not change, I predict for you a path of madness and chaos, far beyond the world of what is good and just."
Sacha refrained from saying what was on her mind: that at this point in her life, chaos and madness sounded fairly suitable.
