#relvinmeru

[simsfromthepast]

I just wanted to say that I love your blog, it’s a godsend when it comes to the Decades Challenge!

Aw thank you so much! I’m glad it’s a help to you! <3

[relvinmeru]

This is where Relvin has been lately: having adventures on Youtube! Follow along at my channel if you wish, I may return to text-based roleplay sometime but it won't be soon, my writing mojo has left me.

[bogleech]

Hi, have you ever read/heard about the War Against The Chtorr books? Lots of really cool creature designs in there, one thing I like a lot is that much of the alien wildlife is brightly coloured. The chtorr themselves are even described to look kind of like a goofy caterpillar from the Muppet Show, with bright fur and silly eyes, only they're the size of a bus and eat you alive. Colourful monsters can be cool too!

If someone’s alluding their monster to a muppet and still writing it as a serious threat then they definitely get me

[bogleech]

Hello, I just wanted to say thank you for writing a lot about spiders and arachnophobia :) you're helping me beat it. I live in Sweden where there is literally 0 spiders that can hurt a human, so it's a very unreasonable fear to have. I think one reason fear of spiders exists mainly in countries with few spiders is that it's easier to build up a fear of something if you don't see it every day. Same with fear of snakes etc. Could this be true?

Oh yeah, definitely

I wish I could find the sources again but I’ve heard multiple anecdotes about how people in some countries eat tarantulas as basically an after-dinner “junk food” to fry up and they consider it a children’s job to go out and collect big bushels of them.

......And then those same children find out that this fuzzy, small dessert causes the white tourists to fly into a panic and they have a field day

[shadows-of-almsivi]

Favourite/least favourite holds of Skyrim and why/why not? Best places to build a house? Horses: best for a stew pot or noble steeds? Pick any of these, sera

So eager to know so much! A quality that might serve you well, young mer, or lead you to ruin just as easily. Mind how you go, now.

Of Skyrim's holds, I find my fondness lying most to the south-east, by Lake Honrich. The Rift is mild and gentle, as far as Skyrim's climates ever are, its forests thick with the most beautiful flame-painted leaves long into the winter. Birch and maple offer up plentiful sap to the sugar-huts in the autumn, when the great-salmon streak their sides in red and rush upstream through fisher's nets and bear jaws. Bees and birds sing their endless work-songs, the deer are plentiful, and the wolves are shy and small. It is a place to ease a hunter's heart, despite the bands of soldiers and bandits in the hill-camps. But they keep their eyes mostways to the roads, often as not watching for each other to pass, while I make my own way amongst the trees and watch them both.

The worst, by far... I would spit upon anything north of Kynesgrove. The cold bites to the bone, as does most of what lives in it. The white glare blinds and burns the eyes, and the ground is steep and slippery with it, hiding sharp rocks ready to pierce a hoof or snap an ankle in a heartbeat. They say only the stoutest, most hardened Nords may prosper in the north, and by my measure, they can keep it. When Winterhold fell into the sea, it should have taken more with it.

The best place to build a house, sera... As far from the next as you can. High upon good, dark earth, close to wood and water and game. I've a born fondness for life by a riverside, and if I've a choice I'll never live far from one, but one must learn how far back and how high-built will keep you from the spring floods, and if alone it's a lesson most often learned bitterly. Lastly, though no less important than the rest: be sure the view is beautiful. Be sure it makes your heart sing to see it each morning, or else no measure of sweet water and rich soil will make up for it.

I've ridden and trained many, many horses in my time, and made close friends of several of them. I'd go so far as to say that I prefer the canter and heart of a good, swift Cheydinhal mare to even the finest racing guar. Horses hold a dear place in my heart, my friend, but even so I must concede their flesh is peerless sweet and rich, fit for lords and saints alike. I hate to see fine horseflesh die, however; I hold too great an affection for their kind, and cannot harden my heart to them. It is a mournful delicacy for me, like the tender songbirds the Bretons raise by hand only to drown them in brandy and honey, seasoning the morsel-meat with their tears.

Do these answers serve, sera? I hope so. I hope you find yourself, some gentle evening, riding beside the clear blue waters of the Treva, and turn a kindly thought to me.

[relvinmeru]

In Hibernation

This blog is in hibernation now, my new character is @madran-khajiit. 

Don’t worry, Relvin won’t be gone forever, he’s just sleeping. 

[relvinmeru]

Flames of Gold (Anaril)

The two mer had been sitting on the rock for about an hour now, feeling the sun warm the rock and hearing the hiss and bubble of the hot springs around them. It was volcanic ground, this, the hot region between the birch forests of the Rift and Windhelm’s snow-covered woods. Anaril had chosen this place for their meeting.

“So, Relvin, have you ever experimented with magic before?” Anaril said, his face still turned towards the sun, basking in its warmth.

“Not really, no. My sister could make fire in her hands and would do these… I suppose they were like drawings in the air, made from fire. It was pretty. I tried to copy her but I couldn't. It was fairly embarrassing, you know, being upstaged by your little sister like that.” Relvin looked at the Jerall mountains in the distance, seeing the dancing fires Limaran made with his mind’s eye. “Anaril, do you have any siblings?”

“Hmm. Interesting, about the fire. And no, I am an only child, no siblings. I wished I had a brother or a sister sometimes, though, it could get lonely when I was a child.”

They sat in silence for a while, thinking of what could have been and old memories, feeling the warmth of the sun and listening to the slow bubbling from the hot springs and the distant forlorn call of a loon.

“Now, I suppose I'd better tell you why I brought you here, Relvin”, said Anaril and broke the silence.

“Oh, why is that? I thought you just meant a meal and a pleasant chat between friends”, Relvin replied with a small smile.

“I figured it was time I taught you a thing or two about magic. I've noticed the way you look at me when I use it, and I can see you're eager to learn.” The Altmer’s tone was friendly and his voice was calm, yet Relvin felt a small knot of worry twist in his stomach.

“Anaril, you're very kind to offer, but…” His face felt hot as he blushed and he was certain he had to be bright purple by now. “I mean, I'm no good with magic. Never have been. So I don't think there's any worth in you trying to teach me, you'll just be wasting your time.”

“That we shall see. We will start simple, and don't you worry about it; I asked you to come here, after all, it's no burden for me to teach you something.” Anaril smiled and looked at Relvin with kindness in his eyes.

“Well, all right then, I-I suppose…”

“Here we go, then. Relvin, I would like you to close your eyes and put your hands in front of you, palms upwards, cupping your hands.” Relvin did as he was told, feeling faintly embarrassed and hoping this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

“And now”, Anaril continued, “I would like you to imagine a fire. Right there, in your hands. Think about the way it looks, the way it feels, the heat of it, the scent of the smoke. Focus your thoughts on that fire.”

Relvin tried his best to think of a fire in his hands, screwing his eyes shut and trying to ignore all the other thoughts racing through his head, thoughts of how he was the family disappointment, upstaged by his little sister, how Anaril might laugh at the Dunmer without magic.

“I think that's enough”, Anaril’s voice cut through his thoughts, “now open your eyes…”

Relvin did so, and stared at his own empty hands, without any sign of fire, not even a single spark or a tuft of smoke.

“Well, let's just try again. Concentrate all your willpower on the fire. There is nothing else, just the fire in your hands…” Relvin followed Anaril’s instructions as best he could while silently begging his ancestors and the Three for help, prayers floating through his mind as he focused his inner eye on imagining fire. Still nothing to show for his efforts but empty hands and a blush that crept from his ears to his cheeks.

“No matter, give it another go, Relvin. Just close your eyes…” Relvin heard Anaril’s voice as though it was far away, so deep was he in concentration. Please, ancestors, hear my plea, I am Relvin Meru and I seek your guidance, Relvin thought while imagining a blazing orb in his hands. Ayem, Seht, Vehk, please help me, please.

And suddenly, something changed.

It was nearly imperceptible, but something about the wind from the Eastern mountains and the heat of the sun and the scent of ash and sulphur in the air changed him, went through him and inside him. He felt the presence of many people, their eyes on him, and the air seemed heavy with age and ancient dust. Every hair on his body stood up as though lightning was about to strike. He saw nothing but darkness, and the darkness thickened and formed shapes, figures, faces, mer of all genders and with grey skin and red eyes, some covered in wrinkles and others mere children, their eyes shining like coals. A susurration of voices arose, dry as dead leaves, old as ancient stone, sounding like the whisper of turning pages.

“Are you Relvin Meru?” the voices asked, papery dry whispers surrounding him, the words in Dunmeris.

“Yes, I am Relvin Meru”, he answered them, his voice loud and clear as a bell in this thick dry air, heavy with age and meaning.

“Good. We have awaited you, child.” The voices were distinct yet they all spoke in unison. He could hear the croak of old men, the high voices of children and somewhere he thought he heard traces of his mother’s intonation. “You seek magic, child?”

“Yes, yes I do”, Relvin said in crystal clear Dunmeris.

“You are a strange one. One borne of ash yet living in this land of ice and Northern men. We thought you lost until now. You have shown that you are still of house Meru, blood of our blood, bone of our bone, child of ash and fire, and for this we shall help you in your task.”

The voices echoed inside his mind and he could feel power all around him, flowing over him like a coursing river, yet at the same time he was the river and the power floated around him in the air and inside his veins and in the ground. He took a deep breath and thought of fire. A ball of white-hot fire rested in his cupped hands, and he heard the voices sigh with pleasure, a sound like the wind over dry plains, and the sound of a girlish giggle and the softest whisper: “Long time coming, brother”. He thought of fire again and saw the ball growing larger, fire travelling up his arms, his shoulders, his chest, flame without burning him, smokeless and soundless in this strange space, he let the flames rise—

“Relvin, are you all right?” Anaril’s voice sounded like it came from far away, and Relvin opened his eyes, blinking owlishly at him.

“Yes, I think so”, he said, his voice hoarse.

“Are you sure? How do you feel?” Anaril sounded worried.

“I feel…” Relvin hesitated, trying to put his feelings into words. “I feel good. Strong. How’d I do, did I do alright?”

Anaril chuckled, all traces of worry gone from his voice. “Alright? Oh, you did far more than that. I've never seen anything like it.”

“Really? What did you see?”

“You went all quiet, barely breathing, and then you got this huge ball of fire in your hands, white like the hottest smithy, and your entire body was covered in flames and it looked like you were almost floating in the air there.” Anaril had a wide grin on his face now. “I've never been able to study the magic of a Dunmer specifically, but I never thought I would be witness to something like that. It was beautiful but almost frightening, seeing you like that, completely covered in fire.”

“Huh. That's good, then, I suppose.” Relvin felt the smile spreading across his face, and he felt almost giddy, as though a great weight had been lifted from his chest. “You know, I'm pretty hungry, how about some food, huh?”

The two mer unpacked their backpacks onto the flat rock; Relvin had brought a loaf of bread, some cheese and a small jar of blackberry preserves he’d been given by a farmer’s wife near Riften for getting rid of the wolves near her farm, while Anaril had brought a small pouch of tea leaves with a strong and spicy scent and two roasted chicken thighs neatly wrapped in linen. They drank some wine mixed with honey that Anaril had brought, and Relvin found that he could make a small fire in the palm of his hand to toast the bread and melt the cheese. After the meal, Anaril took out a small redware teapot with three stubby legs and asked Relvin to make a fire underneath it so that they could make tea. Using some of the dried-up grass growing around the hot springs, Relvin found that he could move the fire from his hand to the grass and make a small campfire. Anaril added water from his waterskin as well as the tea leaves, and the resulting brew was delicious.

[shadows-of-almsivi]

When you were in Riften, who did you typically hang out with or at least talk to on a semi-regular basis? Was there anyone you enjoyed being around? Who did you /hate/?

I was a wreck in Riften when I first arrived. In honesty, I barely knew which city I was in, as wretched and close to death as I was, the skooma’s poisoning laying me low and screaming in one of the back rooms of the Bee and Barb. I’ve not yet been within Riften enough times to separate myself from the echoes of that agony I carried to the city’s first impressions. For all of that being true, the city itself draws me a little more than others, despite its clear degeneracy; the snow does not seem to quite reach it, so perhaps I will make its visitation more of a habit now that winter has begun to creep down from the north.

Riften’s markets yield many oddly decent and mannered merchants; not all, certainly, but enough to be notable within the constraints of Skyrim hospitalities. The smith is a decent sort for his kind (with an unexpectedly pleasant singing voice, I must say), who doesn’t mind a thin Dunmer warming his fingers and sharpening his weaponry by his forge. There is a Khajiit woman with bright eyes and a chattersome, curiously lustless nature, who sells flowers from a basket in between bouts of skilful vanishing when the guards make their patrols; she could likely convince someone to bankrupt themselves on cheap wildflowers, sweetly-driven thing that she is.

I enjoy speaking to Marise, when I have the energy. She seems to have some understanding of my unease around the crowds and noise at times; perhaps many Dunmer have come through this city with such a malady. Besides this, I believe Marise to simply be a naturally kind sort of mer, as kind as a place like Riften may allow her to be; it is not many merchants who make a habit of giving coins and food to beggars, not in a city of thieves. At her stall by the corner, away from the murmur of crowds, we speak much of her various travels, and little of mine. My habitual hunting seems to please her as well as I; when travelling tales wear too close to my bones, it is always pleasant to discuss game and fishing, cooking and the like. And of course, whatever local gossip has caught her ear.

The not-quite-Dunmer, Brand-Shei, is always a welcome face to me (and surely I to him, by the amount of gold I have already lined his pockets with). Though certainly too strange to feel truly kin, with swamp-hisses in his consonants and Argonian gestures flicking easily through his fingers, nonetheless he is kind to me. There is something to be shared, after all, between two grey-skinned mer whose speech and ways alienate us from the other local Dunmer. We share drinks behind his stall quite often, discuss his wares at length; for one who trades so deeply in Dunmeri goods, he knows rather little of them at times. Often I will find he has unearthed some rare oddity, something incongruous that only one as homelorne as I would desire to lay down good gold for. They mean the world to me.

There is a young mer there, very young, whose acquaintance I first made in Markarth. He goes by the name of Relvin Meru, a sweet and thoughtful boy with ember-bright hair and wide but furtive eyes that seem always a touch afraid. He’d always spoken to me with something like reverence, something I’ve grown disused to in these years. I’d wanted so much to stay by him and speak once I had made my way to Riften, we had kept up a patchy sort of running correspondence ever since our meeting in Markarth, but… I regret to admit that my pride and self-loathing could not stand his eye. He saw me as low as I have ever been since Leyawiin, and now that I have surely dashed all admiration he may have held for me, I cannot imagine how I would weather his disappointment. I slipped away, avoided his company, a shameful thing for certain but certainly, hopefully, understandable given the circumstances. 

He is young. He does not need to bear the weight of an old mer’s scars, or witness his hopeless weeping. If I return– or rather, when– I suppose I will have to find some ways to amend myself; it would be such a shame to never speak again, but not yet. Not yet.

As for one whom I hate… I have not spent enough time within the city to kindle decent grudges, not that that has ever stopped me previously. I despise thieves above most, so it was clear that Riften would pose a few more trying difficulties to my civility than usual. The tall, unctuous man in the market square drew my ire immediately, if not for his fulsome lies and blatant charlatanism (crimes enough to my eye), then for the oily familiarity with which he speaks to me, as though he thinks me akin to him. Brynjolf, I believe his name is; the more upstanding members of the market spit on it often enough. His arrogant smirk makes me daydream of littering the cobblestones with his teeth. His man by the city gates, too, irritates me more than most men, a hulking, boar-voiced brute with the stench of rot in his leathers; I am not easy to intimidate, and less easy still to force into compliances. I’d do away with them both, if they were not such shiftless wastrels that their daily loitering and extortions had become part of the city’s routine. 

Still. A mer can dream. Or hope for some swift and fatal sickness. A bad meal, perhaps…