Home of Grand Chancellor Abnur Tharn, (former) Overlord of Nibenay, the (ex-) Head of the Elder Council, (previous) Cohort of the King of Worms (deceased), and all around great guy, father, uncle, author, adviser, magician, Daedric lore expert, Renaissance Man and patron of the arts (and occasionally the crafts). At least until a better blog comes along, anyway. Abnur Tharn is here and ready to dispense little packets of wisdom, like an ancient vending machine of the genre you'd unearth in a moldy motel corridor, with a single packet of peanut butter and cheese crackers wedged halfway between the dispensing coil and the front panel. Ask him things. He'll appreciate the prattle. He might appreciate a solid thumping even more, but let's not get too zealous--you'll wake the other guests. 🍅 LOOK UP THE MANUAL FOR MORE DETAILS.
This response wiped the smile from Urcelmo’s face and replaced it with a scowl.
“That was an order. An order that you did not have the option of saying no to, and from a Battlereeve, no less. Now, I’ll tell you again, Her Majesty and I are ready to see Arlen As—”
“Shush, Urcelmo.” Ayrenn said, and Urcelmo obeyed. Yet his dour expression remained.
“You are small.” The Queen said, cupping the younger Urcelmo’s face in her hands. “And I don’t mean in terms of your height. I mean that you are insignificant. You are insignificant to me and my Dominion. A hundred others could have taken this assignment and done a better job with it.”
Ayrenn smiled, squishing the man’s cheeks slightly with her hands. “They also would have known that it is treason to lie to their Queen.” She laughed though it was clear that she did not find anything about this situation amusing. “Did you honestly think you could get away with lying to me? I’m a politician.”
"Like a dog," Razum-dar muttered. "And while Razum-dar has a sincere appreciation for all animals, he is not particularly a dog person, no?"
"No." Urcelmo was perspiring and he knew it, possibly right through Ayrenn's hand-tooled leather expedition gloves. "I mean yes. No, Razum-dar's a cat person--er--man. Cat man. Cat man person."
"Khajiit?" Raz said, his countenance crinkling. This one was a particularly sweaty Altmer.
"Khajiit, human, elf, I don't care! You cannot see Askew at this time." Urcelmo straightened himself again with a little knock of his boots. "For, uh, for he is also having his bath!"
"Askew bathes while he sleeps?" Raz asked, rightfully dubious.
"Listen!" Another knock. "Nobody gets into this cottage until--"
--the upper part of the bungalow door slowly swung open. It was altogether startling, a merciful end to the conversation and a stomach-churning melange of emotions that didn't sit well together, like the tangerine and pork gravy breakfast he had that morning. Urcelmo was not a cook, and he had become accustomed to the meals his young charge tenderly prepared for him each morning. That lad's sudden and mysterious absence nicked a pit into his gut in more ways than one. Askew had left a bowl full of Senchal tangerines on his table and Urcelmo knew there was a leftover boat of gravy from yesterday morning's breakfast still in the icebox.
Unfortunately, the rest of the place had been cleaned out.
Also unfortunately, the tangerines were wax, but Urcelmo didn't realize that until the thing was too far down his gullet.
But now the top half of the double door swung open. It was surprising. It was a merciful end to the conversation.
It was Arlen Askew, sunny as usual, clad head to toe in a sunshine yellow three-piece, complete with a white gerbera pinned to his lapel.
"What is going on?" he asked, politely. "I heard this dreadful commotion, but nobody came to fetch me. And then I assumed you must be engaged in quite the conversation and of course, that you would soon wish to take the conversation inside for tea and biscuits so you could have a proper, civilized conversation. Ah. Salutations to the most well-traveled and surely well-exhausted Queen of the Aldmeri Dominion and her entourage."
Arlen sketched an odd little bow.
Urcelmo fainted.
---🐝---
But as shocked as Urcelmo had been to see him, there was one person on Tamriel who would've been even more shocked to see Arlen Askew behind the door.
That person was, of course, Arlen Askew himself.
He was not wearing a sunshine yellow three-piece. There was no white gerbera or tidy straw boater in sight. Hell, even the sunshine itself was a precious commodity that showed itself only intermittently through the slaty low clouds that often characterized the West Weald of Cyrodiil.
Arlen now trudged along in soaking grey wool and rubber boots, beside another crooked lump of dark wool who was pegging little dips into the mud with an ornate mahogany cane. Their journey started in the darkest hours of the new day. Unfortunately, the day only got darker, even as the sun came up.
"I reckon sun's out full force in Arenthia now," said Arlen, at last breaking the silence. "Gods. Dreary, inn't it?"
The other lump said nothing.
"I always remember this place being sunny. Really beautiful, with the buttercups and Alessia's lace and strawberries everywhere. Ah. But I only ever came here the legal way. 's new for me."
The other lump grunted irritably.
"Mr. Tharn?" Arlen addressed it. "Well, we've been going since the wee hours. Aren't you hungry too?"
Finally, the lump stopped walking. Creaking mightily, he unfurled and pushed away his hood; his bald head would deflect the raindrops well enough. Abnur Tharn, for the first time in months, had showed Cyrodiil the full extent of his face, against all odds (and threats to his life, well-being and whatever was left of his dangly bits).
He was back--! And he felt... He felt...
...peckish.
"What?" Tharn glanced at his companion. "Hungry? Oh. Yes. Well, if you must. I know a friendly place around here..."
Upon having heard that two individuals of familiar looks, one having been instantly recognized as the traitor Abnur Tharn, Mannimarco had been sceptical. This must have been some kind of ruse. Why would they come back after they once managed to escape? This seemed far too convenient to be true. Yet, he inevitably felt gleeful of the prospect. Molag Bal would be pleased with him, most likely, but more so, the grudge against Tharn and his compact size cohort was more of a personal nature. Especially since Tharn was painfully aware of his true intentions, which in no circumstances were allowed to reach the ears of... Well, anyone at all, preferably.
When the Dremora general who informed him of the incident stood in waiting for him to give orders, he snapped out of his thoughts.
"I shall go greet them personally", he said finally. "No matter what the circumstances are, I would not miss the chance to witness it. If you sent anyone to check on them, be sure to call them off. I will be the first one to see that fetcher Tharn's face if it truly is him."
When he appeared from the portal, the genral in his tow, there was quite a crowd waiting around the door of the lightless prison room. News travels fast in Coldharbour, it seemed.
"Make way", he growled to the crowd of Kyn, stepping through the dividing mass of individuals in swift steps. He had hoped for a bit more intimate meeting, but then, if this was to be some kind of trap designed for him, it was good to have a decent amount of backup in hand.
He took a breath of anticipation before reaching out his hand to the door. If the news was true, this was going to be the highlight of his week - no the whole year, really. But what if it was a trap? He conjured an aegis around himself, preparing for the worst.
And then, he slowly opened the door. The crowd was silent is anticipation.
Light crept to the room, and the vision that greeted him was one of great amusement. The aegis dissipated. There sat indeed Tharn, not quite in his usual arrogant demeanor - and the Bosmer, for a reason only open for the wildest of speculations, seemingly fondling a severed head next to a pile of other atronach parts. The necromancer smirked, his mood instantly risen to a new high.
"Well well", he sighed out blissfully, and leant against the door frame. "If it isn't my loyal servant Abnur Tharn. And the short one, with underlying inclinations towards necromancy, it seems. What did I hear him call you again... Askew, was it? I wholeheartedly welcome you back. How thoughtful of you to return after such a short time."
"Thoughtful?" Tharn said, still squinting at the sudden influx of light. "Think nothing of it, my oldest, dearest, oldest friend."
He did mean oldest, every wizened hair of the word. Mannimarco exceeded in many things, years chief among them. Showmanship was another, though this recent entrance of his lacked a certain flair.
He didn't even have so much as a Scamp with him.
Tharn knew why. He bared his crooked, sparse teeth, a gesture not to be mistaken for a smile. "Besides, I'd imagine you'll want to keep this reunion brief and uneventful, considering what you've been up to and what we've been through," he said.
And it had been a nasty knuckleduster; immediately after Tharn and Arlen "artfully rearranged" the deadbolt on the door to Tharn's old office, they were ambushed by two Kyn who had the good mind to "artfully rearrange" a few something elses. Teeth, for one.
In Tharn's mind, that fight was nothing more than a vague recollection of stars and stripes. But Mannimarco had cast a dismaying light over the situation and now Tharn could see the actual results of the bout.
In short, it was another notch in the loss column. Tharn's Imperial Battlemage Elite Rank armor was missing a few fringes and pips and an epaulet. He wanted to stand, but his leg ached tightly, like it'd been compressed into his greaves like a sausage into its casing.
His partner had thankfully abandoned his heroic attempt to revive a severed head and was now sniveling quietly behind him. Arlen was not taking any of this well.
"Are you going to kill us?" Arlen asked, trying to steady the tremolo in his voice. Tharn could hear the tiny bells sewn into the lad's mittens, jingling faintly.
"Askew, hush."
Arlen stepped forward. Tharn noticed the lad's spectacles were all frame and jagged, smoked holes where the lenses once shined. A foolish warrior never thought twice about approaching something he couldn't see, and right now, Arlen Askew couldn't see anything.
"Are you going to kill us?" he asked again. "I would kill us, if I were you."
The Cricket in the Wormhole (RP - Abnur Tharn + Arlen Askew + Mannimarco ...and the rest!)
It was a funny old thing, darkness. Abnur Tharn knew that under better circumstances, he'd probably be laughing at the whole situation. The entire thing, from the conception of the ill-fated mission which had gotten him and his partner incarcerated in Molag Bal's finest, to the actual ill-fated mission itself, which had been ill-conceived, ill-fated, ill-performed and ill-making (that part came later).
Perhaps because he hadn't laughed enough at the plan. Nobody had laughed when he proposed it. If they'd laughed more, those stupid Companions, Tharn supposed he wouldn't have gone through with the blasted plan to begin with. They didn't need the Scrying Box from his office, not really. There was no reason at all to come back to Coldharbour, was there? Stupid, stupid.
So why didn't anyone laugh at the stupid suggestion? Why didn't anyone bop his head and call him a big stupid? Did they want him to go back to near-certain capture?
Is that what they really really really wanted? Did the Companions hate him that badly?
Tharn had a lot of time to ponder it, projecting the entire thing against the empty canvas that engulfed him. Yet, he had a difficult time working with it, even with his imagination; this was the kind of darkness that transcended all senses, including sense of humor and sense of scale.
Tharn was at once infinite and infinitesimal. Both possibilities amused him, whether he was a speck of grit against an enormous mirror, or simply a behemoth in a hat box.
An unusual idea for a prison, he mused. Quite subtle, but a very effective punishment to lock grave offenders in a lightless oubliette that deprived one of all senses--though not the Lightless Oubliette, Tharn knew that much. And not even an oubliette! After all, a Coldharbour oubliette was the real thing, a Lock'em-Up and Throw Out the Key deal.
Which left him with lightless. A lightless wait in an unknowable prison until the first dreadful crack of light at the door (wherever it was), which would signal the arrival of judgment. Tharn sighed with a well-practiced flourish of regret. He had tried not to convince himself that a real oubliette would be preferable to what awaited him, but now his only solace was the knowledge that he wouldn't be going through it alone.
"Askew?" he whispered into nothingness.
Arlen made a pitiful noise.
"I can't see a damn thing. Can you?"
"Mr. Tharn," Arlen whimpered. "They broke my glasses."
"Just as well, you're not missing anything interesting."
"Mr. Tharn..."
"Oh, do stop that whinging, you sound like an old garden gate."
Arlen Askew started crying softly. Tharn groaned to himself, momentarily grateful that the darkness would conceal any similar shameful behavior on his own end.
"Where are you?" Tharn asked.
"Over here."
He was coming from everywhere and nowhere and for the first time since the onset of their imprisonment, Abnur Tharn began to feel really uneasy.
"O-over where?" Asked Tharn, with just a hint of a stammer.
"Here, Mr. Tharn, I'm here."
"Where, you defective witling?"
"Here!" Arlen sounded urgent. "I'm here! I'm right here! Don't you feel my hands on your face?"
The cold plapping of flesh against rubbery flesh had never sounded so nauseating.
"Askew, that--that's not my--"
But the dreadful crack appeared, at first an acute arc of searing, but algid light on the floor. But in that instant, the empty space became a room, and Abnur Tharn was sitting next to what looked like a nail keg with an axe to grind. Arlen (and whatever poor plapping lump of inert flesh he was attempting to rouse) was nowhere to be seen, likely sitting behind him.
The door was opening. The feet of Justice were now visible, followed by the legs of Due Process and the torso of A-Good Talking-To. If they were lucky, they'd see the arms of Letting-You-Off-With-Just-A-Warning-This-Time and the head of Off-You-Go-Now.
This affair had been going on for much longer than Ayrenn had the patience for. If she had her way, it would have been solved long ago on the gallows, but the Battlereeve had insisted on her thinking intelligently. “You must think of the possibilities, My Queen.” He had repeated to her what felt like hundreds of times until she gave into it. Oh, how she despised his rationality.
It had taken weeks of discussion to come to an agreement about how her agent should be dealt with, and only then did it happen because of a few bottles of baltic bitters and assurances that Urcelmo would handle all paperwork himself. Yet even though the Queen had certainly got the better end of the deal, she made it abundantly clear to all involved that if something were to go awry, Arlen Askew would not be the only one fitted for a noose.
Urcelmo was not worried by her threats, nor was he worried about the possibility of anything going wrong. He had worked too hard for that to happen, after all. So when he and the Queen headed to Arenthia, he was the picture of positivity, though this positivity did not do much to relieve Ayrenn’s own apprehensions, nor did it make her scowl any less.
They arrived on time in Arenthia and were greeted by spectacular weather which Urcelmo pointed out excitedly to his Queen, who responded with a quiet “mmm.” Her lack of enthusiasm was of no concern to Urcelmo, who continued to chatter more about the weather, provoking even more “mmm”s from the Queen. He smiled at her as he helped her from the carriage but received no smile, smirk or grin in return. Instead she just chose to make her way down the path, causing Urcelmo to hurriedly close the carriage door behind him so he could catch up to her and be by her side.
The man to greet them was the Sub-Commander of the Aldmeri Dominion Civil Forces, also named Urcelmo, evidently after the Battlereeve himself. He was a good enough lad, though the Battlereeve found him rather uncanny, but he was determined to not let that uncanniness get in the way of duty.
“Sub-Commander.” Urcelmo bowed his head respectfully. “Her Royal Majesty and I have been eagerly awaiting this moment. As you know, this meeting we have organized is paramount to the safety of the Dominion, and it is also of extreme personal importance to Her Majesty as well. You may inform Arlen Askew that we are ready to see him now.”
"Arlen Askew!" Urcelmo lilted the name, as if it was some hitherto unknown curiosity dredged from the depths of history.
He said it again, this time a revelation. “Arlen. Askew.”
"Yes. Arlen Askew,” echoed someone else, a strong accent coming from the bottom of the steps. When he did it, it was imbued with a sibilant, sullen profile, which was very hip these days.
"And Razum-dar." Urcelmo could identify him by voice alone; Razum-dar was the sort of fellow who could take any word and make it cool simply by giving it the once-over with his teeth and tongue. He had a strong accent that the more savvy would trace to the northern badlands, possibly around Dune.
Beyond that, Razum-dar’s origins were an enigma, much like his general demeanor, his presence in the caravan and his particular choice of fashion that day*.
"Raz cannot speak for the Queen and her tin-plated kettle-bell of a bodyguard, but this one is very familiar with the names being bandied around right now, yes," said Raz, folding his arms. "Unfortunately, we came to see the one in question, not merely utter his name. Unless, of course, uttering his name three times will summon him like some unholy urban legend—”
"—n-no! No no," Urcelmo stammered. "It’s just that. Uh. You can’t see Askew right now, he’s, uh—he’s sleeping."
(*As for the last one, Razum-dar had lost a bet. Not that he’d ever admit that.)
Throw Back the Little Ones (RP - Abnur Tharn + Queen Ayrenn + Arlen Askew + Urcelmo² + a Veritable Hollywood Canteen of Others)
And yes, the spectacular mid-morning skies over the city of Arenthia were threatening. Doesn't anyone ever take the time to contemplate what that actually means? Threatening skies. True, that sort of thing usually implies severe weather, the sort of fracas that accumulates in the distance as a darkening gloam.
True, the word package threatening skies rarely applies to the clear blue variety. A scraggly collection of white poufs never so much as ruffled a feather of a passing cormorant. However, from his post just outside of a small apartment cottage on Sugar Basket Ln., two right turns off the main city drag, Urcelmo looked upon those skies with dread.
Just the same as he would an oncoming cold front or a dark anchor, which he would've welcomed today, ironically enough.
To be specific about him (and not the world in which he dreaded), he was Urcelmo. 164 years old, 5'10" Imperial. Measurement, that is--Altmer, Alinor-born, Firsthold-raised, ranked Able Sub-Commander of the Aldmeri Dominion Civil Forces ("Promoting the civil use of force, when necessary").
His remarkable ability to gape in place for hours on end earned him a promotion, but burdened him with great Responsibility, capital R. This Responsibility was so germane to the security of the entire Dominion that they kept it under house arrest in a modestly appointed apartment cottage, all potential exits unlocked, with the front stoop guarded by one of their finest doorstops.
Briefly, Urcelmo wondered if a doorstop had ever been blamed (or worse, demoted) for any Responsibilities escaping through a kitchen window.
But only briefly, for he heard the clomping of his expected visitors, clamoring up the lane, a cloddering parade in celebration of itself.
Clear skies be damned, he spat to himself. They meant that the only delays the royal party had experienced would've been over trifles as minor as fleshflies in the Qha'lua or an error in Her Majesty's morning calisthenics. Certainly no reason to call off the entire junket and go galloping back to Elden Root.
Urcelmo knocked his boots together, bringing himself to full attention in front of the dainty cottage door.
"Your Majesty. Battlereeve. For the Dominion," he greeted the parade leaders stiffly.
Some of you have asked how I make these stickers, so here’s a vague overview of the process!
Starring everyone’s favorite awful Imperial curmudgeon, Abnur Tharn.
(I really like how this blog also displays a little icon of Arlen, so it frames them as some kind of really terrible and probably counterproductive crime-fighting duo.)
This entire conversation is hilarious once you find out that Abnur Tharn has no idea where Sai Sahan is, either.
Was that Bordello Red color scheme a requirement for all of Molag Bal’s minions or was it just a popular style at the time or what…?
"Now, you take good care of that pin," said Tharn. He was almost being totally dismissive about the wrought chunk of platinum, the emerald it framed now sparkling prominently on Arlen’s dull woolen scarf.
Almost totally dismissive, but Arlen noticed a distinct wistfulness to the crinkles in his eyelids. Tharn’s eyes were fastened to the pin as firmly as he’d fastened the thing to the scarf. Arlen could only imagine the shapes he was drawing behind his gaze.
"Is it quite old, then?" he asked, looking down to study the sea-green enamel adorning the filigree. Some of it had chipped away, giving it a mottled look.
"How old are you? I’m familiar with the attenuated lifespans of elves, but it’s certainly older than you," Tharn shrugged. "By a treble, in all likelihood. I received that after my fortieth year in service to the Emperor, as head of the Elder Council."
It was a bit strange to imagine Abnur Tharn receiving accolades for service, as would any other set of scuffboots in service to some higher authority. In Arlen’s mind, Tharn was the higher authority.
Now the man laughed, a strangled hack emanating somewhere around his upper sinuses. It sounded uncomfortable and discomforting, and Arlen was secretly glad he didn’t do it more often.
"It’s older than Clivia, for sure," Tharn honked. "My youngest child at the time was Decimus, I believe. Appropriately, he was ten at the time."
"What happened to him?"
Tharn honked again, derisively. His cracked lips stretched, showing his sallow, eroded teeth. “I don’t know for certain. Old age, I expect. Time, the great ravager. This was seventy, eighty years ago, Askew.”
For a moment, Arlen attempted to imagine what it’d be like to be Abnur Tharn, to outlive all of one’s progeny with unabated glee. Something curdled within his blood and he stopped at once, instead noticing the tiny reflections of himself against the eight facets of an emerald awarded for forty years of exemplary service.
draw me a thing. any thing. just draw me a thing ok only if you want to
Disclaimer: I’m not an artist. I just don’t…art.BUT ANYWAY you asked, so here’s a picture of the Captain of my Heart, Abnur Tharn.
He’s at Karaoke Idol, wearing a Cool Dad red diamond-sweatshirt and he’s singing “Young Lust” by Pink Floyd. You’ll notice he’s also clearly breaking the rules of the establishment. Also, my headcanon for Tharn is that he has disgusting teeth, so there you go.I’d submit this to theelderscrollsonline but somehow I sense this sort of thing isn’t quite what they’re looking for.
"As a whole, it was a fine, patrician gaming experience, akin to turning on a little George Benson while relaxing in one’s favorite wing chair, wearing a red brocade smoking jacket and quaffing a refrigerated bag of raw pork chop marinade. However, my chief grievance lies in its portrayal of the character Abnur Tharn. Occasionally, the text stooped so low as to depict him as a total goit, particularly at the mercy of one Lyris Titanborn (who was known to be little more than a drunken troglodyte with a low brow, bad dental hygiene and no fashion sense). This is historically inaccurate, and it is common—dare I say even elementary—knowledge that Abnur Tharn was never a goit at any point in his apparently inexorable lifespan. The writers, while adequately skilled in the semantic functions of the art, are shambolic neophytes who need to learn about fact-checking."
Score: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ (4 stars). Minus several for the occasionally egregious portrayal of Abnur Tharn.
Dear Mannimarco; Abnur Tharn showed me how to make a flesh atronach once, just from old parts lying around your castle. Is that Necromancy? Does that mean I'm going to Coldharbour when I die? Also, this is just a friendly suggestion but I think your castle could use more comfortable places to sit. Do you ever sit down? If not, you should try it. It might offer an interesting new perspective on things. Fond regards, A. Askew 🍅
I think you are too concerned on the fate of your soul, mr. Askew. I believe making one flesh atronach doesn’t make you a necromancer quite yet, but I urge you to continue on the said path. What I’m more concerned about is that that damned Tharn is wasting my resources again, apparently he slept during the conference I just arranged on this specific subject in question. Thank you for reporting this incident. He’s getting a demotion to soul gem polisher if this kind of behavior continues. But rest assured, you are not to blame for this.
I do sit down sometimes, but when I do, I prefer to do it on an elevated surface, so I get to look down on any passerby. When you’re the boss, you need to show it, you know? I had to make a hard decision between the elevated seats and a mug that says “Boss”, but I ended up with the high chairs. I thought it was a bit more fitting.
I look forward to receiving any further reports of the transgressions made by my employees, and wish you a good day.
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
