Dragging ourselves through the week through the chaos <3
I've been ill but writing has been a balm! I'm gonna share a few snippets with you.
Was tagged by @thana-topsy (HUGE HUGS! Aiden and Sarel are adorable and you DID IT. You did the thing!) and @kookaburra1701 (I'm still waiting on Book 32 of your fic universe, and will cheer until its ready!)
Tagging especially @changelingsandothernonsense for the Sad Wars which have produced amazing content as of lately from me, for being writing exercises hehe. Not to brag, I'm just really fond of the work! And of course the amazing @paraparadigm, @thequeenofthewinter, @snippetsrus, @wildhexe, @nuwanders, @oblivions-dawn, @miraakulous-cloud-district, @throughtrialbyfire, @expended-sleeper, @inquisition-dragonborn @archangelsunited, @dirty-bosmer, @viss-and-pinegar, @ladytanithia, @polypolymorph, @gilgamish, @tallmatcha, @rainpebble3, @late-nite-scholar, @greyborn2, @saltymaplesyrup, @orfeoarte, and YOU. Because yes. You are tagged. Tag me back if you have stuff to share! I love to see it.
Below I have a few samples from some WIPs! I'll start with World, as I'm restructuring chapter 31 <3
This selection is long, too! 1,050 words, below the cut!
1) The World on Our Shoulders, Chapter 31
Athis's POV as he goes through Northwatch Keep to save Thorald. 219 words.
Still, there was something unsettling about how unnaturally quiet this part of the keep was. The hairs on the back of Athis’s neck stood up, some instinct he couldn’t place screaming of danger. Something was wrong. He’d felt this way once, years ago, before a bear charged out of the woods that time his hip had been shattered. He’d almost died, then, if it hadn’t been for Farkas and that priest out of Falkreath. Odd, that, as it was a priest of Arkay. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Now, however, was not the time to lose focus.
Athis pressed against the wall that lead out of the twisting passageways into a room that looked, from what he could tell, like some kind of torture chamber. Only, the air rippled with some kind of magic that felt like static on his skin the closer he crept. He remembered how it felt when Nyenna used certain spells nearby; this one didn’t feel like anything he could recall, and that didn’t bode well. None of it did, if he was being honest. He got the sudden notion that perhaps it wasn’t worth all the trouble — that Thorald might already be dead. But no. If there was the slightest chance that he was still alive, Athis couldn’t leave him here. He wouldn’t.
2) Storms Like This
A secret WIP I'll be editing and finishing soon for a friend. 266 words.
He’d thought back to one of his favorite memories of her, besides their wedding. Before they’d decided to adopt and start a family, they were living comfortably in Proudspire Manor in Solitude. He’d been overwhelmed at first by the city he’d only ever passed through before. Living in it meant becoming entangled in the political nonsense, which Sigyn seemed to take in stride. She’d come home, fancy clothes thoroughly drenched from the rain after being gone a particularly long time on what was supposed to be a local errand, and deposited an old hip bone into a chest by the door. Unnerving, sure, but not too atypical for her.
She took him by the hand and dragged him out into the storm, onto their back porch, all while Jordis silently judged them both from her perch at the kitchen table. Sigyn had said nothing, only smiled as he’d exclaimed from the cold downpour the further she led him outside, but then, even over the thunder, he’d heard it—the Bard’s College, practicing for the Burning of King Olaf, bright and clear, almost enhanced by the storm, music reverberating through the very stones of the building next door. They danced together, on their porch, regardless of the weather. It was if, for a moment, the entire world consisted of only them. She’d laughed even as their sodden hair clung to their faces, and as water ran freely into their eyes. [He] knew then, despite all of her chaos, he would follow her absolutely anywhere for as long as he lived.
Storms like this always reminded him of her.
3) Fragment - part of The Bitter, Bitter End (Unpublished as of yet.)
Featuring Nevena Ules as the POV and Orvas Dren. (Yeah. Ew.) 209 words.
Orvas was leaning over the stone parapets, looking down into the courtyard where regular people milled around on business relating to Vedam’s gathering. The moons shone overhead and, besides the noise of the crowds and bards inside, all was silent. She cleared her throat, and Orvas turned to her. He smirked—the same sarcastic look he’d won her heart with when they were younger and under far less pressure—and closed the distance between them.
His eyes, blood red in this light, held storms. She knew what had been worrying him, but she was trying hard to ignore that part, until it was safe to talk about it. Vedam’s overreaching included parlaying with the Empire and solidifying trade between Morrowind and other provinces. Only, there would be an embargo if the Blight situation got worse—which it already was, by the day. And if all of that work was so new, the newfound strength of House Dren would be the first to collapse. Orvas had said as much, and had been bringing it up in their conversations more often as of late, because Vedam wouldn’t see reason. He thought he could see a solution, but even thought of it scared her.
He wanted to ally the Camonna Tong with the Sixth House.
4) Fragment - part of It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn (Unpublished as of yet.)
This one is is Danger!Bean Varlais's POV. 353 words.
Varlais never felt like he belonged anywhere in particular, to be fair. His parents had been elevated slightly after a few turns of events when they’d moved with Ondolemar’s family to Skyrim. That was, technically, his doing, all those years ago, but they were still othered by most Altmer of any rank, Thalmor or not. It was complex, of course, and he didn’t have the energy to parse it all. He’d leave that to Ondolemar, who seemed like he could hold every political detail in his head, as if his mind was some kind of tome.
All he knew was it had to do with the Ayleid ancestry that refused to fade into the background for his family, no matter how many generations. Aerissa, at least, never looked down at him for the blue eyes, thank Auri-El, but she was back in Alinor now, doing clerical work for the Thalmor. And, of course, he was stuck here. But at least, if he was here, he could try and save her from them. No matter how badly he missed her, he’d keep fighting. Before she became a thrall, well, she’d always stuck by him. He looked down at his ring, the gold band glimmering with a faint enchantment, the metal worn and scratched. Somehow, likely by Mara’s direct intervention, he’d not lost the thing, nor had it torn through his skin and bone in some horrifying way. He touched the edge of his left ear where he’d lost an earring that way, and was grateful at least in that moment, his magic worked to stanch the bleeding.
As of late, he’d been feeling even more unmoored than usual, despite Ondolemar’s best efforts—the man was seventeen different kinds of distracted, after all. They were and always had been close as brothers, but with so much changing and hanging in the balance, Ondolemar had to focus on the plan. They had a goal, after all, as impossible as it all seemed. The Civil War and the Dragons were mucking up pretty much everything. Varlais also tended to make himself a problem, though never intentionally. Not really.
« I am the Nerevarine. Reincarnation of Indoril Nerevar. I have slain gods, assaulted the Red Mountain and destroyed the second Numidium, Akulakhan. Lady Azura herself watches over me, she gifted me with Moon and Star and the blade of my predecessor Trueflame, and led my self to restore peace to Morrowind. But, below all those layers of titles lays a simple man, who was born on a uncertain day, by uncertain parents. Orvas. It’s my name. »
