#sinderion

[galoogamelady]

those are definitely some people

[hinako-supremacy]

i can make a picmix of basically any oblivion character and i think thats beautiful

[saesar-the-journeyman]

Halloween is a day that the souls of those who had died returned to visit their home

Which means it's Obon of Japan.

ということで、死んでリオンことSinderion

[mukuuji]

August 8th Leaf Day

A potted nirnroot and Sinderion

[teamcapwasrightandishouldsayit]

as someone who played skyrim before oblivion, i cannot express to you how i felt to be referred to sinderion and receive a quest called "seeking your roots."

it was like this except if the guy was also scared

[wish-i-could-fly-like-superman]

Sinderion

one of my favourite oblivion npc:s simply because of how nice he is

[jiubilant]

what do you think little aduri’s first impression of avrusa and sinderion was…

"And this," says Sinderion, leaning with a grin across the shoulder-carriage bench, "is Asplenium regelliam."

The toddler on Avrusa's copious lap stares, cross-eyed and scholarly, at the sprig of green tickling her nose. Then she squishes her face with a thoughtful gurgle.

"Yes, indeed," says Sinderion with utmost solemnity, "it's named for the estimable Chivius Regelliam, whose work has proven invaluable to we who crawl through hedgerows in his wake. Very good."

"Don't listen to him, sprout," says Avrusa, raising her eyebrows. "Never crawled through a hedgerow in his life. I did all the field work." She bounces her new charge, winning a giggle, then peers with mock severity into her face. "What's A. regelliam in the vernacular?"

Little Aduri gives her a rapt look. Then she reaches up to pull Avrusa's lip.

"Ouch," says Avrusa, amused. "Nirnroot, that's right—ouch."

The shoulder-carriage jostles through the City of Gems on bright and crowded streets, bobbing around foot-traffic like a boat. It has windows. Avrusa tries not to look at them. Outside, the city brims with light and noise: the rattle of pushcarts, the sizzle of frying scrib, the shouts of the chairmen bearing them from her father's squalid palace to the rooms they've rented over the market-square. Not cheap. Nor is the chairmen's fee—but the child can't walk, Avrusa reasons, and Sinderion will be two hundred and ninety next week.

And her father, she thinks, bitter as wormwood, has willed the sprout some pocket-change.

Sinderion, replacing the nirnroot in his bottomless bag, looks sidelong at her. Then—with that awkward, punctilious insight of his—he takes her hand.

"I'm all right," Avrusa rasps, then clears her throat. "Will be." She shakes her head, struck with amazed grief—how suddenly it comes and goes, like the gusts of ash that had once rolled through Ald'ruhn. "He used to keep such a clean house. More than clean."

Her mentor's hands had been lively, once: scribbling notes, sketching lectures in the air, flicking her fingers when she held a pestle wrong. Now they tremble with the simple strain of squeezing her hand. "Orderly?"

"Yes." She looks with bewilderment at the toddler—her half-sister, for gods' sake, two hundred years younger than herself. "And he—n'chow, Sinderion, he was older than you. I just don't understand—"

The shoulder-carriage bucks. Avrusa finds herself doing several things at once: clutching the toddler to her chest, cursing, kicking out a leg to keep Sinderion's bag from flying into him. It crunches. The ungrateful old twig cries out and swats her knee. "You harridan, my retort!"

"Bother your retort—"

"My flasks!"

"Were you planning to brew elixirs," demands Avrusa, righting herself, "here in the sedan—"

Aduri giggles again. Sinderion's grin reappears, as it always does, like an ancient light sputtering on. "Funny, are we?"

Avrusa sets the squirming toddler on her knee. The sprout is scrawny, she thinks with a frown. She smells sour, milky; she'd screamed and kicked the maid who, an hour or so ago, had shoved her at Avrusa with a desperate smile. Avrusa had understood them both. Part of her, she thinks, had wanted to kick something, too—had wanted it ever since she set out, across countless leagues and second-guesses, to fetch home a child she hadn't known existed—

The toddler puts her hand in her mouth. "Bah."

"That's right," says Sinderion, the old cellar-dweller. "Species Plantarum is our art's most inviolable text."

Their new pupil takes her hand from her mouth, studies it academically, then puts it back. Something in Avrusa's chest moves.

"Excelsior," she says gruffly, and tickles her sister's skinny ribs. "I'll read you some."

Aduri laughs. The sound is bright and sweet as a nirnroot's chime.

[helgiafterdark]