#valen-tesday

[mukuuji]

It's one of the most important days of the year❤

Happy Valen-tine's Day!

[rels-tenim]

❤️ Happy Valen-tines! 🐀

@valen-tesday

[hugostolz]

ITS HAPPENING.... AGAIN

you're invited to the third annual Valen-tines Day! join us in celebrating the great and beautiful and epic Valen Dreth of Elder Screlder: 4 Oblivions fame!

WHEN: February 14th

WHERE: tag @valen-tesday or use tag #valen-tesday

WHAT: anything and everything valen dreth! go wild! go mild! go sillay!

hope 2 see you there ✌️

[lady-iizsil]

Valen Dreth for valentines day! I was having fun on a doodle page and just had to include this, and congrats to this man for making it through the first round of the oblivion sexyman poll!

Sadly, his time on the poll was short lived, much like his life in prison! But he still survived no less and I a m so proud of him.

Please do not repost but you may like, comment, reblog :)

[ratcorner]

[ID. A digital painting of Valen Dreth in his jail cell. He leans on the cell bars with a smug expression. He is illuminated by a lantern to the left. Behind him in the distance is a silhouette of Uriel Septim VII holding a torch, the Amulet of Kings shining around his neck. The players prison is cut off, though the sunlight from their window bleeds out of their cell. End ID.]

it’s HIS day

[arcturite]

Have a happy Valen Tines day! @valen-tesday

[valen-tesday]

happy valen-tines to the... couple

[jiubilant]

“You don’t eat very heroically,” says Ormil.

“Yes, I do,” says the young Hero of Kvatch, licking fishgrease from her fingers. “By definition.”

She’s sitting on Ormil’s bar, one leg thrown out to stop sliding mugs, as the Bloated Float—finest inn on the water, she singsongs in her head, in all Cyrodiil—rocks in the wind. She is, she concedes, chewing with her mouth open. Not that anyone’s around to notice. Just some dockmen drinking and a strange man slinking in, his face puffy with bruises, as gaunt and grimy as if he’d just crawled out of the Imperial City’s prison—

The Hero almost drops her plate.

“Oi!” she cries through a mouthful of fish pie, spraying crumbs. “Oi, oi, oi—you!”

The man stares at her. Then his face curdles. He leaps for the door, but the Hero leaps faster, vaulting over a table to catch him by his shirt.

“They let you out after all,” she breathes, remembering the dungeon, the damp, the insults traded in the dark. She could laugh. She’s not sure whether to laugh or light him on fire. “Valen Dreth.”

“You,” gasps Valen Dreth, his face filling with consternation and dread. “You’re the, the—the one that the Emp—”

The Hero of Kvatch claps a hand over his mouth. The man keeps babbling, his frantic voice muffled in her palm—mm, mm-mm, mmph—until the Hero, guessing that he’s gone over the Emperor, the escape, and everything else that she doesn’t want the whole tavern to know, takes back her hand—

“—can hit me as hard as you like,” Dreth concludes, his voice rising almost to a shriek, “but it won’t make you any less ugly!”

An eager hush falls over the tavern.

The Hero stares at Dreth. He’s breathing hard. His eyes, red as hers, gleam with the frenzied terror of a fox about to gnaw off its own foot.

Or of a prisoner, she thinks, who’d twitched every time he heard a guard clank down the hall.

“Nesh, dear,” Ormil calls from behind the bar, prim as ever. “If you’re going to hit him, hit him outside.”

“I’m not going to hit him,” says the Hero of Kvatch. She looks Dreth in the face. She untwists her fist from his shirt—slowly, so that his legs remember to hold him once she’s not. “Oi. I’m not going to hit you.”

Valen Dreth stares at her. She watches him come back from where he was, from the dark, damp, dripping place where every shadow heaves with rats.

“Oh, how—heartwarming,” he sneers, his face flushing with relief and rage and shame. “How kind. Next you’ll—you’ll buy me a round, and the whole bar will clap.”

“Well, I mean,” says the Hero of Kvatch, “do you—d’you want a fish pie?”

She watches pride and painful need struggle in the face of a man who, if she remembers right, has not eaten fish pie for eleven years.

“It’s good,” she says, swallowing a strange tightness in her throat. She thinks of rats. Of the Emperor’s fine cloak trailing through the filth of her cell. “The fish pie.”

“And the peach pasties,” Ormil brightly adds, because the peach pasties are more expensive.

Dreth’s face wobbles.

“All right,” he croaks, looking away. “Yes. Fine.”

The Hero breathes out. The tavern, creaking on the water, smells of saltfish and hot stew. The hearthlight is warm on her back.

“Fine,” she agrees, and claps Dreth gently on the shoulder. “Here’s to not dying in there, eh?”