Based from a joke @otvlanga made lol
The way he says cube is funny
Based from a joke @otvlanga made lol
The way he says cube is funny
The fight was a little buggy, so sorry for the weird clips. But these are some of my favorite enemies from the Colorful Magic Mod.
in an act of console-commanding hubris, i made my skyrim character a little bit shorter than the game intended, and now i am trying to reach one of the stones of barenziah (on a shelf in wuunferth’s lab) and i am too short to get it down.
marcurio. marcurio, be a bro, please grab this stupid rock for me.
a fun, short little Z Nation story designed to replace the shitty ending to season 3. Starts off in season 1, but quickly moves to season 3.
Warnings: Graphic language, graphic violence, suggestive situations, possible abuse.
Chapter 1 - How They Met
Chapter 2 - With His Eyes Unwavering Upon Them
Chapter 3 - He Was Particularly Mean That Night
Trixie & Hancock
I wrote this originally a long time ago, and I recently revamped it due to school-related stress, so I thought I might share. Why not?
This is a story based off Skyrim and Oblivion, taking place around the time of Oblivion but using certain characters and aspects of Skyrim. It also uses the incredibly well-done follower, Kaidan, which I will link in a future post.
Warnings: Language. Violence. Mentions of abuse. You get the picture. 18+
Ainsel never truly embraced the cold of Skyrim.
Perhaps the cold was a nice change, from the fiery wreckage she’d left behind her, but that was almost two days ago and she was deep in that autumnal space they called the “Rift,” walking through the shallows of a river in the hopes of losing or at least delaying whoever was tailing her. The so-called Rift was more temperate than the icy mountains she’d come down from, but not enough to keep the wind from cutting through her “borrowed” leather armor. That made sense; it was nothing as slick and crafted as her old armor, and wasn’t even properly lined.
But she’d lost her old armor when the Imperial patrol captured her. She’d looked for it, once she’d given them the slip in that little town, but then those gods-damned daedric sons-of-bitches the Dremora had appeared from the high ground and burnt the whole forsaken village to cinders.
Hm. She was sick, too. That couldn’t be helping the cold much.
Ugly memories with shriveled fingers clung to the insides of her skull, whispering haunting sentiments as she drifted in and out of oblivion, fever nearly stealing her consciousness. She saw those Imperial soldiers, and the ways they wronged her—violated her—and she couldn’t help but wonder at it. She was here for a reason, after all.
In her dealings with Daedra, they had kept her from harm’s way. So now she found it hard to believe that they could allow her to befall such tragedy. She was their mortal Champion, was she not? She was their ever-faithful dark paladin, their wicked Knight-Errant, their…
She glanced over her shoulder. It had been long and far enough that she’d lost the Imperial scouts or Dremora or whoever it was that had been following her.
Now, with a hop and a skip, she crossed the river and continued, light-footed, into the forest. She was supposed to follow the river, north until it built into a raging waterfall, and then cross to where the ruins of a prison that had long since given into the unyielding force of water were being used as makeshift interrogation quarters.
Another hour or so’s journey, the sun dying overhead, vivid between the trees and painting her with crimson strokes of sunlight, and she stood at the base of a waterfall so loud that it briefly drowned out the calculations in her mind.
There, a ruined shack, felled trees, the crumbling remains of what was once a formidable fortress. There was no word from the Daedra, her mind achingly empty, but according to her fragmented scraps of a journal and map, this was the correct fortress.
Eerily, she felt as if an unnatural force drew her in. That was how she determined that going in through the front door was not her best option, even if she had been blessed with the graceful silent step of an assassin. If there was some clever mage’s handiwork at play, attempting to seduce her into an ambush, she would not be rooted out so easily. No, it was time to find another entrance.
She poked around the base of the waterfall for a while, but if any tunnels had been dug, erosion had long since destroyed them. There was nothing more to look at, so she walked around the base of the low mountain, digging through fallen trees and looking for anything useful. There.
It was an old metal grate, sunk in the mud of the river bank hidden by a screen of trees and rubble. From this angle, it was easy to pick it out, but from anywhere closer it was indistinguishable from its surroundings. If she took care with the extraction, this could make for an equally invisible escape route.
As the sun sank below the rim of the mountains clinging to the horizon, she wrapped her fingers around the rungs of the grate and lifted it as quietly as possible. She heard no noise from inside the prison, but she had not been told if there would be obstacles. She knew better than to ask: She had one purpose. Exact her Prince’s wishes.
Next she swung down into the tunnel. There, light was dim and everything was damp. The smell of mildew and mold hung in the humid air, signifying that nothing had been shifted in quite some time. That was good. If there was indeed a hostile threat inside, it or they didn’t know about this secret tunnel, or else didn’t consider it to be of concern.
It was hard to tell time as she walked through the tunnel. The light played tricks, even on her sharp eyes, and she felt a pressure on her ears at one point, but within a relatively expedient frame of time she found a patch of light, dimly shining down on her. When she looked up, she found herself staring up through a metal drain and into the rotting face of a corpse. A prisoner, from the looks of the ratty, mildewing cloth wrapped around its torso.
Long dead. This was not who she sought, or if it was, she had other problems at hand.
There was the matter of getting up to the drain, since it was evidently designed as a one-way passage, but she made use of her agility. Between the walls and her impressive athletics, she managed to reach the shaft leading to the drain with the rotting corpse on it. It took considerably more effort to keep herself up in the shaft, wedged against damp and slick walls, so she was quick to tug at the drain and test it for any give.
The rusted metal snapped, almost bringing the corpse down on top of her. She dodged the rusted metal, thanking her luck that it landed with a muted splash and did not ring out her arrival. Her muscles were aching, now, so she wrapped her fingers around the side of the drain and pulled herself up out of the tunnel.
Pushed herself away from the drain, sinking back into the shadows so she could safely investigate her new surroundings.
She was inside a cell, in a collapsing torture chamber that appeared just as damp and dank as the tunnel she’d crawled from. There were three other cells in the room, one next to hers and two across, and for the decently sized dungeon, there was but one torch on its dying breath flickering weakly against the wet.
In short, the place was dark, humid, and teeming with a sense of death and impending danger. Just as she liked her dungeons.
Ainsel cleaned her hands on the dead prisoner’s raggedy clothing, then pulled his bloated corpse to more securely conceal her escape route. Whoever it was that she had been sent to fight back was clearly an excellent host, having provided the necessary means for her arrival and sincerely encouraged her behavior by allowing her such a perfect exit. If this extraction went to plan, of course.
She rose and crossed the cell, reaching to push open the door.
One hand on it and she could already tell it was locked. As if that could stop her. She reached for her lockpick.
The rotation of the metal, the smooth click-click of the tumblers, the perfectly balanced and timed system was too much for her to pass up. The skill had come to her quite some time ago, and practice and trainers and Daedric gifts had refined it with age. She was a master now, and barely had to graze her hand across it before the door swung open.
To her right, against the wall, there was a broken skeleton in the corner, still dressed in decaying Imperial armor. A key was clenched in the bony fist, but she couldn’t stand the thought of going near another Imperial.
Hm. No, certainly not. She’d had her share of Imperials already. Shook herself from her reverie, and pressed forward, listening intently for the sound of any life other than herself and the fungus.
Then. As she’d turned on heel to clear another room. A soft rush of air. It sounded like pain and sickness. Her eyes snapped to the source.
There was someone in the jail cell across from her, curled in agony and breathing their dying breaths. She sank into a crouch, hands resting on her knees, observing the stranger through the darkness. Her eyes were well-equipped for this kind of activity, years of discipline and enchantments.
He was on his back, limp enough that his unconsciousness was not simply a result of sleep. He, too, was a prisoner, wearing nothing but threadbare sack cloth pants. In the cold of Skyrim, that was a death sentence in and of itself.
Abruptly, she experienced a moment of revelation. Mind no longer achingly empty, it was filled with a calling, a longing, melancholic keening, as her Prince spoke to her. She had felt it outside the prison; mistaken it for a mage’s handiwork, but it ended here, that strange calling guided her here, to this dying man.
She crept up to the bars. Kept her voice low, octave even and soothing, avoiding harsh syllables to keep from jarring him from his semi-unconsciousness. “Hey, you. Can you speak?”
Up close, it was easy to see the deep, darkly colored wounds inflicted on his shoulder and throat, rhythmic slashing. If the ugly stain on the bedroll below him could speak, she wagered it would tell of more injuries in a similar vein.
There was no response, unfortunately, meaning she had to act.
Ainsel stepped over a shallow, reddish puddle of water, and picked the lock on his cell. It was much more sophisticated than the other lock. It had been updated, obviously, because the longer she stood there the more details stuck out to her. The polish of the bars—they had been replaced. Cracks and crevices inside the cell had been patched.
The lock had a tinge of magic to it, she could taste it on the inside of her cheek as she worked, a faint hum that reverberated into her skull.
But no obstacle would keep her from her task. She was merely doing what she was instructed to do by the upper powers, after all.
The lock gave.
Ainsel swung the door open as quietly as possible, but still the rusty creaking echoed off the stone walls. Far too loud. Anyone paying half a mind would be down to investigate sooner or later. Time was quickly leaving her side, so she slunk up to the prisoner to see what she could do with what she had left.
She thought maybe he was a soldier, from the solid, powerful muscled frame, the long-healed scars. It was hard to tell in the gloom, but he had such a large and imposing build that she would’ve accredited him for some oddity of a Nord, if not for the face.
Though, who was she to call someone large? Even for a Bosmer, she was willowy and thin, under average height, and what muscle she had was lean and sculpted to the work of a thief, of an assassin.
She checked him over, moreso out of curiosity than any bedside manner. He hadn’t been here long—his skin was taut over still-firm muscle, so he’d eaten well, though he was terribly dehydrated.
What was the point? Why leave him here to rot? It made no sense to her. Unless whatever information he held had already been gleaned. If this was meant to be an execution, there was fair evidence that she was too late to intervene.
Though her touch was brief and light, he was spurred into motion, beginning to sit up. It was disconcerting, the swinging, uncontrolled movement, like he was possessed by some evil spirit. His arm connected with her side and knocked her to the ground.
“Be quiet.” The words hissed from her lips. Her elbow throbbed indignantly from the blow as she caught herself on rough stone and scrambled back to a crouch. “Lay still. I am not with them.”
He didn’t have a chance to respond. Someone was clanging down the stair into the dungeon, bringing with them a flare of light from a torch, flickering and throwing exaggerated shadows down the stairwell. Not now.
She shoved the dying prisoner back down and stood, leaping into the corner of the cell and fitting herself back into the stone. Here, as she swiveled on her heel, she could easily make out the jailer coming to inspect what was happening.
“Not dead yet? ‘Ow many more sessions will it take before you tell the Inquisitor the truth? ‘Ow many more do you think you might survive?” To add insult to injury, the elf spit on the prisoner, and let out a forced laugh.
Posturing? Asserting dominance? Why? The man had collapsed, was breathing in shallow gasps, sweating, even. Certainly not a threat.
She swung her gaze back to the elf. Watched the clench in his jaw.
Daedric voice sang in her mind. Scared.
Appalled, she looked at the dying prisoner. The elf was scared of him?
Much to his credit, he said not a word, and after a suspicious investigation of the room, the elf left them, muttering something about skeevers below his breath.
As she made to stand, she felt a draft at her back and turned. Though it was difficult to tell through the shadows, she thought there was a passageway out the back of this cell, and put her hand to disgustingly wet stone, feeling for grooves, hinges.
It was there, though she couldn’t fathom the reason a second door would be needed for a prison cell.
What was there to do? Leave the prisoner to die in pain on the off-chance that there was loot or something important out this way? Had she mistaken the unnatural calling for a person when it was in fact through this tunnel, out wherever this mysterious door lead?
No. She stared down at the man, unable to move for exhaustion and blood loss. As little as she cared, or as little as she had been taught to, she was smarting, still, from her own encounter with cruel wardens.
She crouched by his side again. “Not a word.”
He nodded loosely, a barely-there motion. She could see tremors running all through his skeleton, rigid tension contracting his muscles, as if he thought she was going to kill him and he would need to fight back at any moment.
Ainsel started to turn him onto his side, more to inspect the severity of the wounds than anything else, and he immediately began struggling against her.
“Stop.” She laid the heel of her palm against the wound on his throat. He flinched at her touch, but stopped struggling. It seemed that he was looking at her, but light was low and she couldn’t make out much of his face.
The wounds on his throat and chest were deep, but scabbing. There might be hope for him yet, if she could get him to relax. If perhaps she could call for divine assistance. “I am going to help you. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Waited to be sure he wouldn’t move, and then she slid her hand down his chest. Though she was only attempting to placate his resistance, the rhythm she’d molded her voice into seemed to have just as much effect on him, because to her great surprise he spoke.
Or tried to. She couldn’t make much out beyond: “Haste.”
Her lip curled. Amusing. Kaidan the dying prisoner seemed to think it was his place to tell her how to serve her Daedra. She could leave him right here, right now, and he likely wouldn’t make it through the night.
She tsked at him, wagged a finger in scolding, and then gently slid her hand underneath his head, feeling through the thick strands of dark hair for any injuries to his skull. Evidently, whatever information he withheld was far too valuable to risk losing, because his skull was unaffected.
As she pulled her hand away, she became aware that he was staring directly into her face. But she wasn’t one for eye contact or small talk so she ignored it.
She placed her palm flat to the sticky scabbing wound on his chest, ignoring the jerk as his muscles contracted from pain. Her other hand lay flat against his chest, and she felt the air whistling through his lungs—one was punctured. How was he alive? He needed a court healer, not a thief who could possibly recall enough to patch up a scrape.
Seeing how this restoration spell was finally to come in handy, she felt perhaps a bit of guilt for robbing blind the wizard who’d sold it to her. But the past was the past.
With her free hand, she swept the loose, sweaty hair from his forehead so she could feel his skin. It was so hot to the touch that it may as well have been blistering, and suddenly the tremors in his body and the hazy look in his half-closed eyes made all too much sense. Here, in the dark and the rot, he had come by a terrible sickness and it was dragging him closer to the grave with every shaking breath.
The warmth of her healing spell pulsated through the hand she had pressed to his forehead, and after a generous couple of minutes, he began to loosen beneath her. She lightened her touch, caressing his face slowly and evenly, trying not to jar him with any quick movements.
As if waking from a deep sleep, he came back to his body, and shook her aside with a great deal of force. She slid on the stone and landed on her tail, which was already sore from a number of activities at Helgen.
Well, whatever. She dusted off her hands, the fading warmth replaced by a dizzying sensation of being drained, and stood up at the same time that he sat up, still looking at her. Eyes dark and tired, but the yellow pallor was fading from his skin, leaving it ashy gray. The wounds on his chest and throat were still dark, skin puckered near the site of the injury. Infection.
He cleared his throat. Looked around the cell, then back at her with rapidly growing suspicion. “How did you get in?”
His voice was strange, a delightful and unusual accent that had a frisson of pleasure moving over her skin.
Couldn’t be a Nord.
“That’s no concern of yours. I’m here for my own business, not for you.” Except she was here for him. “I’m leaving just the way I came in. Unheard. Unscathed.”
Climbed to her feet and pushed open the door to his cell, as quietly as she could manage. When she glanced back at him, he was sitting up at least, but didn’t look well at all. Not like he could stand. Let alone fight off any attackers. No, she’d have to do that on her own. But how hard could it be?
A couple silent steps and then one of her short blades, down their spine, or an arrow in the back of their skull, and that would take care of most anyone.
She retrieved her mostly-empty canteen from its place at her hip. “Drink. This sickness is serious. Stay here.”
Ainsel handed him the bottle, and then pulled the door of the cell shut behind her as she stepped out. There was no point allowing him a way out when he was too feverish to provide any assistance and could end up hurting himself beyond the threshold of return.
“Wait,” he said, so quiet that she almost ignored it. “The Inquisitor. He has my belongings.”
Yeah, yeah. Retrieve the family sword and shield. Forge some pretty armor. She’d done all these things many times for many different people. She waved off his words and stalked forward into darkness, senses attuned for any sound of the Inquisitor waiting for her arrival.
He breathed deep through muddled fog and hazy pain. It was a breath of fresh air, for the first time since being thrown into this cell, as if she carried the woodlands with her. Thickness stuck in his mouth and throat made it hard to speak, and wool in his ears made it difficult to hear, but she was there nonetheless. Gone now, of course, but she had been there. And she was no mage, or at least, not one with the Guild.
Kaidan wasn’t stupid. The longer he sat there, the more cool water went down his throat, the more likely it seemed that she was working for them. Another means of interrogation? She couldn’t be. He’d felt it, in the gentleness of her hand on his wound and the warmth of her spell.
He’d felt sincerity, hadn’t he? Surely he hadn’t been fooled out of mere longing for a gentle touch? No, that couldn’t be. Little as he liked to admit it, sincerity wasn’t a trait he had a lot of experience with, least of all from elves.
It wasn’t sincerity without strings. But then, could such a thing exist?
She was back before he could come up with an answer, the shadows parting for her and yet hovering with her in a way he couldn’t quite describe, but could not look away from. She had with her his armor, which she handed over at once, but also his sword, which curiously she held onto (at that he wanted to laugh; the blade was longer than she was tall).
But his humor faded as he fought to dress, and she offered no help beside keen observation, leaning her weight against his sword very casually as if they were standing in a tavern. Finally, he staggered to his feet. With his armor on again, he was stronger, almost lighter, even though the metal was several pounds of added weight.
“Where did you find this sword?” She hadn’t even told him her name yet, and she was interrogating him, running her fingers over the blade in a way that nearly upset him.
He licked cracked lips and offered her back the empty canteen. “Get me out of here, alive, and I’ll think about telling you.”
She cocked her head, an out-of-character smile coming to her lips, fastening the waterskin back to her belt. Elves loved riddles, didn’t they? “I’ll get you out of here alive. And then you’ll really owe me, won’t you?”
Oh. No, she was simply over-confident in her abilities. It was weird, the way her words pulled at him, as if she had his arm twisted though she stood at the other end of the cell.
“Yes,” he said, carefully, searching for any hint of magic, any whisper of persuasion in her voice, “I suppose I will.”
She slid past him and pushed through the door to the cell.
“The Inquisitor?” He couldn’t easily picture her fighting. She didn’t seem to have a weapon with her at all.
She glanced at him. “I listened to his dying gasps and asked him to repent. Oddly, he spat in my face and cursed me.”
He was agape. And suddenly sensing danger. “There’s more of them.”
“Then we will leave.” She was crossing to one of the other cells.
“My sword.” He did not follow, rather, waited there, stubbornly refusing to move. “Give it to me.”
She turned on a Septim to peer at him. “Say, ‘please.’”
A mage, some lowly Journeyman, came barreling down the stairs, sending a handful of sparks her way. She evaded it with grace, ducking behind a pillar, and the lightning struck stone, vibrating in his skull quite painfully.
The mage was preparing another spell, and it was glaringly obvious that Kaidan’s rescuer was not equipped to fight back.
Kaidan came out of his cell, then, motions urgent and deliberate. “Please.”
Thank Talos, she turned ‘round the pillar and tossed him his blade. He turned even before his fingers fully met the hilt, twisting into a familiar grip that had served him too-well all these years, and dispatched the Journeyman with great vindictive pleasure.
It was a clean kill. He was relieved for that, for his muscle memory supplying what his physical state could not. He pulled his sword free from the body and looked up to see her watching him raptly. In the torchlight, her eyes were uncanny, the kind of vivid purple he’d never seen outside of magic before.
For a moment, they stood there staring at one another in the gloom, and then she walked into the cell across from the one he had been staying in. Kicked aside a body, and pointed downward. “Brace yourself.”
Then she jumped.
Unenthused by this turn of events, he followed her, bending down to look into the drain. It would be a tight squeeze, awkward with his armor and his weapon. But it would have to do. He wasn’t acrobatically inclined, so this would not be pleasant.
Unfortunately, the days of constant torture and abstinence from food and sleep deprived him of his usual sturdiness, and he landed quite poorly.
She was still out of sight, and remained so until he staggered further down the tunnel and came to a sharp corner. There, she was leaning against the wall, rather apprehensive. She eyed him, but said nothing and continued down the tunnel.
Her pace was rather aggressive, as if she wanted to be out of the fortress (and quite possibly away from him) sooner rather than later.
This silence was stiff and uncomfortable. But her pace was too fast for him to follow and simultaneously speak, not with his wounds and feverish aches. So silently they walked, and silently, they emerged into dim moonlight and (praise Talos) fresh air.
There was the sound of the waterfall, he remembered it from when they’d originally brought him here. There were the felled trees, the fresh scent of wood and pine. It was Skyrim, as he knew and loved.
And she was already several feet away.
“Wait here for a moment,” he called, as loud as he dared and quite breathlessly, “I’ve got a couple questions for you.”
She stared back at him for a long moment before shaking her head.
“Come away from there. We’re far too close to the fortress, we’ll walk downstream to the tributary and get a fire going.”
Walking more was the very last thing he wanted to do, but he resigned himself to his fate and followed after her. Too sick to complain, and hoping that if he compelled his mind to do it, his body would comply without question.
Sure enough, they made it just far enough for her to be pleased before he gave up and collapsed at the river bank, limbs too heavy and mind too muddled to move on any further. In this condition, it would be impossible for him to ask the questions he had in mind before giving in to sleep.
He felt some annoyance, then, because looking at the coy smile on her face, that had been her plan all along.
Regardless of elven scheming, sleep was inevitable. All great warriors break eventually, and he had broken days ago.
Still, he resisted a moment longer, focusing on the flickering firelight she had created, trying to keep his mind moving as fast the flames. “Tell me your name.”
He seemed to recall, from somewhere distant and blurry, that elves weren’t fond of giving away their names.
This elf in question was sitting by the fire, roasting a pheasant on the tip of a stick, head in hand and looking bored. She did not look as if she planned to answer him in any way. In fact, he was so absorbed in studying the creature that when she stood and walked to him, it took him nearly a minute to realize she was standing in front of him and no longer sitting at the fire.
“You have to eat before you sleep.” And she handed him the dagger. “The water is clean here. You’ll need to drink, as well.”
“Are you not hungry, elf?” Gnawing pain in his stomach. He couldn’t resist, and tore into the meat with his teeth. It was good, solid food, a bit tough in places and raw in others, but to him it was a feast worthy of a king.
Of course, no response from her. She merely put up her hands and retreated to the other side of the fire. However, once he had laid himself back, wincing with every motion, drifting already into unconsciousness, he finally heard her speak again.
“Ainsel. My name is Ainsel.”
stream tonight at 7-ish pst! (I gotta da skyrim)
I love her way too much lmao
Anyway, since there’s hardly any Karliah content, I’ll make it myself!
Farkas just started attacking me when I turned into a werewolf, like why tho???
Is it because I cured him of Lycanthropy???
Teldryn’s “what do you have in mind?” When you ask him to do something is so suggestive
like ok you slut calm down and just take my 17 dragon bones thabks
The Elder Scrolls 6 isn’t out yet, I have to play it! – Guest Submission
(Please don't add negative comments to these posts.)
Irileth, as the Dragonborn calls for Odahviing from the Dragonsreach porch: This is a bad idea.
Balgruuf the Greater: You said that already.
Irileth: Well, it’s worth saying again.
ok, not nexus this time, but its archnemesis.
the energy here though???
My Atlmer/Vampire/Dragonborn, Sos (Chaldwyn)
I can’t believe it but this Character is 10 years old this year. He’s the first ever character I ever made\played as, the only character I’ve ever “completed” Skyrim with, and I remake him every single time I play through the game. This is Mr Skyrim to me. I’ve been drawing and writing for this guy for a decade and I’m still not bored of him. I absolutely love this guy to death 🥺
As Tomas, a strong Nord of the Companion Circle, and his bride to be Bex the healing mage make their way to Riften to exchange their vows, he is plagued with wounds both old and new he wishes to spare her. But long before marriage unites them, Bex had sworn herself to love him and then as now as forever, she vows to soothe the woes that trouble him. The road could not come to an end any faster for them both.
Skyrim AU for Barneston with fitting names in universe.
Rating: General (2881 words)
Marcurio broke my horse
If you touch this watermelon, you're going to have to carry it around with you forever until you do Meridia's bidding.
#Repost @ataleoffantasy with @make_repost ・・・ Name this city! by @christiand_art 🗡 I🗡I #jax #medievaltown #leagueoflegends #thewitcher #witcher #geralt #geraltofrivia #ciri #skyrim #skyrimartwork #thehobbit #hobbit #lordoftherings #gameofthrones #elderscrolls #elderscrollsonline #elderscrollsv #fantasy #fiction #medievalfantasy #medievalrpg https://www.instagram.com/p/CQboK8Og_bx/?utm_medium=tumblr