A regular, normal, run-of-the-mill Dragonborn goes offscript. To disastrous results.
How the Dragonborn destroyed the World (Skyrim)
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Chapter 1: A perfectly ordinary adventure?
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 1: A perfectly ordinary adventure?
In all honesty, being the literal savior of Tamriel, Skyrim, blah-blah, isn't all too exciting. There's kind of a script, a normal heroic set of words you can choose, and then there are some other choices that usually lead to the same result. Sure, saying them is more fun, sometimes she likes to just even choose them randomly, just to see what would happen, but still, it ends all the same. Get quest, kill bandits/Falmer/trolls/dragons/ etc., get reward. She's only been at this for a couple weeks, but it's safe to say, she's got the whole she-bang figured out. Not a lot of agency, surprising for being the chosen hero. But she guesses, it's in the name. Chosen.
So she usually stares off into some random direction when people talk to her/at her. Like she's doing right now. That's a nice mammoth tusk, wonder what Hulda-Hilda whoever is in front of her uses it for.
"-the Jarl's youngest son-" Blah, blah. Quest. Something she's figured out, is that you don't necessarily need to listen to everything the quest-givers talk about. Just the location will do. Then the smart part of her head- that may have listened or just put together the context clues- will figure the rest out, and she'll head over to the blinking direction of wherever. If it's far away, she's also got a handy-dandy little trick of a complete auto pilot. Teleportation, basically. Just with her mind though. Her body still has to make the journey, as she found out by way of being sore, exhausted, hungry, and sort of dying on her regular trip to pawn her junk off to Belethor.
Sometimes she'll end up in some random place she's only ever been in once, for no reason and just kill a bunch of things there. Why?
Uhhh. That's not important. What is important is the loot afterwards. Shinies and gold just call out to her. She'll blame it on the dragon part of her. They always seem to have the most loot shoved up their corpses. Clearly, that 's where she gets it from. She just doesn't eat it. Smart. Her stomach is pretty large though… not a bad ide-
"Another wanderer to lick my father's boots." Some snot nosed brat is mouthing off to her. Hmm. No option to mock him? Damn.
She spouts off some generic lines, and questions. Why are you acting like this, is everything okay, standard quest line stuff. And says it while staring off at the nice kitchen of Dragonsreach. Nice hanging ingredients, and fruits and vegetables stocked everywhere. Lots' of wood though, maybe she'll try burning it all down another time.
She forgot; did she already talk to Jarl Balgruff? Does it matter which Balgruff she talks to first? Is it Balgruff or is it Balgruff the Greater?
Surnames are weird, just have one name.
The boy starts actually being interesting. "I know that he still worships Talos." Well yeah, duh, tell her something actually secretive. Spurned on her by continued disinterest, the youngest Balgruff rushes to say more. "That he hates the Thalmor almost as much as the Stormcloaks do! That he worries about being chased from Whiterun!" The boy bites off what he's about to say, instead he mutters the words off to the side. "That he... that I'm... that I don't have the same mother as my brother and sister."
Gossip. Background on her buddy Balgruff? Nice. Pat pat. A reward for telling her something exciting. Useless, but exciting.
The boy looks at her with confusion, but seems to almost lean into the physical touch. "Why are you patting my head?" Confusion muddles his scripted angry troubled response.
"Don't worry about it."
…
Eventually, the boy spills his source, some random door in the basement of Dragonsreach.
Oh wow, that's one suspicious door. In all the doors she's seen in her travels, which basically are the three weeks since Helgen, this one is definitely the most suspicious. She crouches down and pats her hand on the red, icky smears on the door. Her hand comes off clean. Huh.
But the door takes that as an invitation and begins talking to her. Not the weirdest thing, doors in Skyrim have a habit of talking. There's even one down in Falkreath.
"At last, I've been waiting-" Its' a female voice, but ethereal, breathy, and more than a little husky. Woah. The voice sends shivers down her spine, that's new! She's never felt shivers before! Mostly back stabbings and snowfall. And freezing to death, the painful heat of dying to cold. But nothing similar to the way this voice snakes down her back, nibbling bites that tickle and. Shiver.
Like if she could find a voice hot, this voice is definitely smoking. Like a charred skeever. No wait, that came out wrong.
"Would you happen to own an amulet of Mara?" She blurts out. Blurts out? She blurts out?! She deviated from the script! Can she say more? "Because your voice is definitely restoring me."
…Maybe she has a script for a reason. But damn. This is progress! Unknown and exploration in one!
The door is silent. Judgmental silence.
She rubs her toe in the ground.
Finally, after an embarrassing amount of time, the door speaks. "Mara has no power over me. But I understand your infatuation with my voice, for I am-"
"-You do? Okay, we don't need an amulet of Mara." Be a little tough to get a door to Riften and hold the ceremony there anyway, tough, but not impossible. "We can just marry right here."
"Here. Marry." The voice sultries out, and she gets a little weak in the knees this time. Even while confused and shocked, the door has such a pretty voice! Rich and layered, it reminds her of a sweet roll. And by the nine, she absolutely would steal this sweet roll. Just like the other 99 she had to abandon the other day.
"Cease your delusions, mortal."
Stop? Stop this, why? This is new, exciting, and she's never felt more alive. And somehow she says that. "Never, the delusion of you is more real than anything else I know."
The door loses all composure, coughing and sputtering.
Oh no! Is the door okay, is the voice okay!? Before she can ask, the voice reappears.
"B-be that as it may…"
"You stuttered."
"You are mistaken."
"No, you stuttered, it was cute. Super cute." She wants to hear it again. And hear every single little variation, hitch and tone of that voice. Every single little noise, squeak, snort even.
This feels like madness, but in a good way. Like everything's put back into focus. The world has been a bleak, color-dying, numbing, deadening, reality. But she's now in the dream. The color stabs into her eyes, sounds- especially sounds- sharpen and heighten to an unbelievable degree, gaining quality and depth they've never had. Her entire body thunders, chills, burns.
"Dragonborn!" The voice-, you know what the voice needs a name. Love of her life? The sound she wants to hear at every dawn and dusk? Maybe something shorter. V? V is good.
"Thats' my name, don't wear it out... Is what I would say. But to you. I'd love to hear it more. No. Forever." Cheesy one liners and pick-up lines worse than any she's ever heard come from her own mouth. But she's completely confident and cool while she says them. The truth is easy to say, especially after acting out a script for weeks.
And it gets the voice to squeak. Adorably. If she wasn't in love, she is now. That's it, she's taking this door to Riften, damn the consequences. And marrying it on the spot.
But then V asks, a different brand of confusion this time, just as sonorous as beautiful, but differently flavored. "Your name is simply Dragonborn?"
"Or you. Girl over there, girl killing people. One time even, whelp." That was a strange day. But not as strange as this one. Her not having a name is normal, plenty of people go by their profession. And what's her profession but Dragonborn? Quest-completer sounds way less cool. Not good enough to charm, match, the wonderful V.
"... you must be claimed by Sheogorath. Madness has taken a hold of you. Sickness of the-"
"Heart. You've completely ruined me for any other." She keeps interrupting the lovely V. But she can't help it! She can break the script, do anything. The whole world is new and refreshing. And the only one she wants to share it with is the one who saved her.
"Then you will be the same as any other mortal who has been entrapped by me." Her romantic attacks have no effect? Thats' kind of hot, too. Embarrassed V, cool and charming V, seductive and dangerous V. She's met so many V's!
"Left to languish. Alone and abandoned."
"No. I won't let that happen." She can't.
"Oh little mortal, it will happen with or without your denial. I am Mephala, the lady of Whispers. My plane and yours are unable to intersect."
"..."
"Soon, our thread will. Snap. A parting glance of the whims of fate. " Gleeful, she says, gleefully. Deceit, and lies roll off the voice, and reverberate onto her head. Thud. Thud.
"Such a shame."
It's manipulation. Plain and simple. But why hide so, when you've already hooked her? Mephala doesn't see the need to… Hot. She should find more words to describe it.
"Unless…"
…
Farengar blinks up at her, his face still reeking of whatever alchemical concoction he is cooking up, and eyes glassy from the fumes. "Dragonborn. Wha-"
"Skip. Skip." Is this what it's like to talk? Incredible. Not as incredible as V or Mephala. But that's fine. If more things can match the splendor of the rarest jewel, then it wouldn't mean much. Would it?
"I beg your pardon?"
"Skip the nonsense, I need a key from you." The confusion that rolls off of his entire body, prompts her to elaborate. "The key to the red door."
Bemused, the wizard/mage/guy by the alchemy table, stares at her. "The key? Dragonborn, the door below… It guards a dark power-"
"Yeah, It's super hot. I gotcha, just give me the key. I'll take care of it." For the rest of her life. Buy a home in Riften- why Riften? She doesn't know, she just has a feeling V/Mephala would like that type of place. She's ambivalent, personally.
"I have a feeling that you are far too cavalier on the danger. But I suppose our great sav-"
Skip.
…
"My Champion returns. How admirable, how powerful of a child you are." Huh, the praise should send her blasting to the twin moons, but she's kind of- "Now enter."
Not to deny Mephala anything she wants, but she has a few questions first. "Just checking, but you aren't going to disappear after I open this door, are you? You know, because you are a door and all that." That happened on her 70th try on the door down on Falkreath, actually. Door never talked to her again. Kind of sad.
"...No. I am not a door." Ooh. Frustrated Mephala. Hear, it's' a little curt, a little short with her, and she's still massively okay with it.
So, gently, she opens the door. It's almost sensual, how she slides the key into the slot. Taking the greatest care not to scratch the softer metal on the indie, and listening closely for each individual tumbler and mechanism to slowly slide into position.
Then, with an air of finally, she pushes open the red-stained wood. Heavy and weighty, she can almost feel the weight of time pushing back against her. Is Time challenging her infatuation with Mephala? The door swings wide open, but she catches the handle before it slams into the wall.
Closed eyes, she's not ready to see Mephala! Because obviously, Mephala is behind the door, the great reward of this quest, right! Calm down, this is the person/voice she's ready to spend the rest of her life with. If she can't pass the first hurdle, how is she going to do it for years on years?
Blissfully?
One eye peeks open. First the sight of her own cheek, then the ground, and as she lifts her head up…
Nothing.
The disappointment crunches into her, more painful and crunching than a giant's club to her chest. But just like that giant's club, it destroys an integral part of her, and she collapses onto her hands and knees.
A low throaty chuckle reinvigorates her though. And she pops instantly back in search of that voice! "Miss me?"
"Yes. Every second."
"My previous champions have never been this strange. I wonder what makes you different?"
Love. Pure love. She knows in her mind. In her health, and stamina. In her entire body, she is completely obsessed with the voice.
"Take up my blade, champion. Feed it-". Her blade.
Wait. This feels familiar. Didn't she just do this with that, uhhh. Who was that statue/ball of light? Merida? The one with the boring voice, slightly annoying even? Oh!
"You're one those. Those." She picks up the blade anyway, and pokes it through the table it rested on. Helps her think, if she attacks something. "Aedra! That's it!"
"Daedra."
"That's what I said. Aedra."
"Daedra."
"I know, I just wanted to hear your voice again.' She grins, goofily at the door- wait, better. At the big black sword. This should be her con… "No. This can't be it?"
"Ah. You are truly deserving to be my champion. My sword, just as many, have withered in this despair. In their fear, they have removed it. Now, free, it longs for the sweet taste of betrayal, of the agony and heartbreak of lies."
She frowns, stares at the blade.
Black, curved. Really long, absurdly long. No wonder Whiterun fears it. If she hears another guard talk about curved swords, she might kill one. Poor Mephala, the jokes she must get from the other aedra.
So off it goes.
The ebony blade clatters on the ground, almost sadly. Like an abandoned puppy. Stare. Consider.
She kicks it away. "Not enough."
"...Champion, I understand your disappointment." Mephala doesn't sound so understanding, but maybe she's wrong? This is their first meeting; she should preserve the mystery of her future. Although, she has a gut instinct that the mystery will never end/ or get stale. An utterly besotted sigh escapes her. "But all you need to do is feed it with the blood of those closest to you. Those who trust you."
Sigh, cut short, she frowns. "Not enough at all."
Frustration and annoyance laces and twirls around the beautiful voice. "Dragonborn. I will not marry you. It would simply… be impossible and fantasy. While you may only be satisfied with my voice, soon even that will leave you. The planes of Oblivion, and its denizens cannot enter Nirn for long. Not since the Dragonfires were lit by the Avatar of Akatosh."
The denial of her, leaves her completely devastated. Numb and dead. But listening to that voice is unstoppable. And so she devotes all the focus she can pull away from her complete destruction. To listen until the end, even if her heart feels carved out and sacrificed; fresh blood dripping all over the floor. Then the second despair leaves her a shattered wreck. Completely and utterly cold. Just dumb senses for a blank mind. Even V's voice now-
Dragonfires. That's not a true rejection! It's not over till it's over!
"But you may use my blade, to spread chaos and subvert order and intim-"
"I'll do it. I'll destroy the Dragonfires."
Stunned silence, an incredulity present in the air. "You cannot be serious."
"Will you marry me, if I do so?" Hmm, just because she's off the script, doesn't mean she can't be heroic. "No. It doesn't matter either way. You don't want to be trapped in your plane thingy, right? I'll free you."
"You would destroy the foundation of Nirn, the boundary between your realm and all of Oblivion. Damning the world to Daedric influence, all our lies, madness, destruction, domination, light, stars, trickery, forbidden knowledge, hunt, curses, nightmares, decay, shadows, disease, debauchery, and conspiracy."
"All for me?"
She thinks about it. Think about everything that she's gone through, every sacrifice, every drop of sweat, blood, and various other decaying body fluids she had to wade through. Thinks about destiny, fate, and all those little things. About the Chosen hero. About the script, what it's screaming at her to do. Compares it to this crazy, one-time encounter with a daedric lady, who's setting off serious evil senses. Hot evil senses. No. Sexy hot evil.
"Yes."
…
In all honesty, being the literal savior of Tamriel, Skyrim, blah-blah, isn't all too exciting. There's kind of a script, a normal heroic set of words you can choose, and then there are some other choices that usually lead to the same result. Sure, saying them is more fun, sometimes she likes to just even choose them randomly, just to see what would happen, but still, it ends all the same. Get quest, kill bandits/Falmer/trolls/dragons/ etc., get reward. She's only been at this for a couple weeks, but it's safe to say, she's got the whole she-bang figured out. Not a lot of agency, surprising for being the chosen hero. But she guesses, it's in the name. Chosen.
So she usually stares off into some random direction when people talk to her/at her. Like she's doing right now. That's a nice mammoth tusk, wonder what Hulda-Hilda whoever is in front of her uses it for.
"-the Jarl's youngest son-" Blah, blah. Quest. Something she's figured out, is that you don't necessarily need to listen to everything the quest-givers talk about. Just the location will do. Then the smart part of her head- that may have listened or just put together the context clues- will figure the rest out, and she'll head over to the blinking direction of wherever. If it's far away, she's also got a handy-dandy little trick of a complete auto pilot. Teleportation, basically. Just with her mind though. Her body still has to make the journey, as she found out by way of being sore, exhausted, hungry, and sort of dying on her regular trip to pawn her junk off to Belethor.
Sometimes she'll end up in some random place she's only ever been in once, for no reason and just kill a bunch of things there. Why?
Uhhh. That's not important. What is important is the loot afterwards. Shinies and gold just call out to her. She'll blame it on the dragon part of her. They always seem to have the most loot shoved up their corpses. Clearly, that 's where she gets it from. She just doesn't eat it. Smart. Her stomach is pretty large though… not a bad ide-
"Another wanderer to lick my father's boots." Some snot nosed brat is mouthing off to her. Hmm. No option to mock him? Damn.
She spouts off some generic lines, and questions. Why are you acting like this, is everything okay, standard quest line stuff. And says it while staring off at the nice kitchen of Dragonsreach. Nice hanging ingredients, and fruits and vegetables stocked everywhere. Lots' of wood though, maybe she'll try burning it all down another time.
She forgot; did she already talk to Jarl Balgruff? Does it matter which Balgruff she talks to first? Is it Balgruff or is it Balgruff the Greater?
Surnames are weird, just have one name.
The boy starts actually being interesting. "I know that he still worships Talos." Well yeah, duh, tell her something actually secretive. Spurned on her by continued disinterest, the youngest Balgruff rushes to say more. "That he hates the Thalmor almost as much as the Stormcloaks do! That he worries about being chased from Whiterun!" The boy bites off what he's about to say, instead he mutters the words off to the side. "That he... that I'm... that I don't have the same mother as my brother and sister."
Gossip. Background on her buddy Balgruff? Nice. Pat pat. A reward for telling her something exciting. Useless, but exciting.
The boy looks at her with confusion, but seems to almost lean into the physical touch. "Why are you patting my head?" Confusion muddles his scripted angry troubled response.
"Don't worry about it."
…
Eventually, the boy spills his source, some random door in the basement of Dragonsreach.
Oh wow, that's one suspicious door. In all the doors she's seen in her travels, which basically are the three weeks since Helgen, this one is definitely the most suspicious. She crouches down and pats her hand on the red, icky smears on the door. Her hand comes off clean. Huh.
But the door takes that as an invitation and begins talking to her. Not the weirdest thing, doors in Skyrim have a habit of talking. There's even one down in Falkreath.
"At last, I've been waiting-" Its' a female voice, but ethereal, breathy, and more than a little husky. Woah. The voice sends shivers down her spine, that's new! She's never felt shivers before! Mostly back stabbings and snowfall. And freezing to death, the painful heat of dying to cold. But nothing similar to the way this voice snakes down her back, nibbling bites that tickle and. Shiver.
Like if she could find a voice hot, this voice is definitely smoking. Like a charred skeever. No wait, that came out wrong.
"Would you happen to own an amulet of Mara?" She blurts out. Blurts out? She blurts out?! She deviated from the script! Can she say more? "Because your voice is definitely restoring me."
…Maybe she has a script for a reason. But damn. This is progress! Unknown and exploration in one!
The door is silent. Judgmental silence.
She rubs her toe in the ground.
Finally, after an embarrassing amount of time, the door speaks. "Mara has no power over me. But I understand your infatuation with my voice, for I am-"
"-You do? Okay, we don't need an amulet of Mara." Be a little tough to get a door to Riften and hold the ceremony there anyway, tough, but not impossible. "We can just marry right here."
"Here. Marry." The voice sultries out, and she gets a little weak in the knees this time. Even while confused and shocked, the door has such a pretty voice! Rich and layered, it reminds her of a sweet roll. And by the nine, she absolutely would steal this sweet roll. Just like the other 99 she had to abandon the other day.
"Cease your delusions, mortal."
Stop? Stop this, why? This is new, exciting, and she's never felt more alive. And somehow she says that. "Never, the delusion of you is more real than anything else I know."
The door loses all composure, coughing and sputtering.
Oh no! Is the door okay, is the voice okay!? Before she can ask, the voice reappears.
"B-be that as it may…"
"You stuttered."
"You are mistaken."
"No, you stuttered, it was cute. Super cute." She wants to hear it again. And hear every single little variation, hitch and tone of that voice. Every single little noise, squeak, snort even.
This feels like madness, but in a good way. Like everything's put back into focus. The world has been a bleak, color-dying, numbing, deadening, reality. But she's now in the dream. The color stabs into her eyes, sounds- especially sounds- sharpen and heighten to an unbelievable degree, gaining quality and depth they've never had. Her entire body thunders, chills, burns.
"Dragonborn!" The voice-, you know what the voice needs a name. Love of her life? The sound she wants to hear at every dawn and dusk? Maybe something shorter. V? V is good.
"Thats' my name, don't wear it out... Is what I would say. But to you. I'd love to hear it more. No. Forever." Cheesy one liners and pick-up lines worse than any she's ever heard come from her own mouth. But she's completely confident and cool while she says them. The truth is easy to say, especially after acting out a script for weeks.
And it gets the voice to squeak. Adorably. If she wasn't in love, she is now. That's it, she's taking this door to Riften, damn the consequences. And marrying it on the spot.
But then V asks, a different brand of confusion this time, just as sonorous as beautiful, but differently flavored. "Your name is simply Dragonborn?"
"Or you. Girl over there, girl killing people. One time even, whelp." That was a strange day. But not as strange as this one. Her not having a name is normal, plenty of people go by their profession. And what's her profession but Dragonborn? Quest-completer sounds way less cool. Not good enough to charm, match, the wonderful V.
"... you must be claimed by Sheogorath. Madness has taken a hold of you. Sickness of the-"
"Heart. You've completely ruined me for any other." She keeps interrupting the lovely V. But she can't help it! She can break the script, do anything. The whole world is new and refreshing. And the only one she wants to share it with is the one who saved her.
"Then you will be the same as any other mortal who has been entrapped by me." Her romantic attacks have no effect? Thats' kind of hot, too. Embarrassed V, cool and charming V, seductive and dangerous V. She's met so many V's!
"Left to languish. Alone and abandoned."
"No. I won't let that happen." She can't.
"Oh little mortal, it will happen with or without your denial. I am Mephala, the lady of Whispers. My plane and yours are unable to intersect."
"..."
"Soon, our thread will. Snap. A parting glance of the whims of fate. " Gleeful, she says, gleefully. Deceit, and lies roll off the voice, and reverberate onto her head. Thud. Thud.
"Such a shame."
It's manipulation. Plain and simple. But why hide so, when you've already hooked her? Mephala doesn't see the need to… Hot. She should find more words to describe it.
"Unless…"
…
Farengar blinks up at her, his face still reeking of whatever alchemical concoction he is cooking up, and eyes glassy from the fumes. "Dragonborn. Wha-"
"Skip. Skip." Is this what it's like to talk? Incredible. Not as incredible as V or Mephala. But that's fine. If more things can match the splendor of the rarest jewel, then it wouldn't mean much. Would it?
"I beg your pardon?"
"Skip the nonsense, I need a key from you." The confusion that rolls off of his entire body, prompts her to elaborate. "The key to the red door."
Bemused, the wizard/mage/guy by the alchemy table, stares at her. "The key? Dragonborn, the door below… It guards a dark power-"
"Yeah, It's super hot. I gotcha, just give me the key. I'll take care of it." For the rest of her life. Buy a home in Riften- why Riften? She doesn't know, she just has a feeling V/Mephala would like that type of place. She's ambivalent, personally.
"I have a feeling that you are far too cavalier on the danger. But I suppose our great sav-"
Skip.
…
"My Champion returns. How admirable, how powerful of a child you are." Huh, the praise should send her blasting to the twin moons, but she's kind of- "Now enter."
Not to deny Mephala anything she wants, but she has a few questions first. "Just checking, but you aren't going to disappear after I open this door, are you? You know, because you are a door and all that." That happened on her 70th try on the door down on Falkreath, actually. Door never talked to her again. Kind of sad.
"...No. I am not a door." Ooh. Frustrated Mephala. Hear, it's' a little curt, a little short with her, and she's still massively okay with it.
So, gently, she opens the door. It's almost sensual, how she slides the key into the slot. Taking the greatest care not to scratch the softer metal on the indie, and listening closely for each individual tumbler and mechanism to slowly slide into position.
Then, with an air of finally, she pushes open the red-stained wood. Heavy and weighty, she can almost feel the weight of time pushing back against her. Is Time challenging her infatuation with Mephala? The door swings wide open, but she catches the handle before it slams into the wall.
Closed eyes, she's not ready to see Mephala! Because obviously, Mephala is behind the door, the great reward of this quest, right! Calm down, this is the person/voice she's ready to spend the rest of her life with. If she can't pass the first hurdle, how is she going to do it for years on years?
Blissfully?
One eye peeks open. First the sight of her own cheek, then the ground, and as she lifts her head up…
Nothing.
The disappointment crunches into her, more painful and crunching than a giant's club to her chest. But just like that giant's club, it destroys an integral part of her, and she collapses onto her hands and knees.
A low throaty chuckle reinvigorates her though. And she pops instantly back in search of that voice! "Miss me?"
"Yes. Every second."
"My previous champions have never been this strange. I wonder what makes you different?"
Love. Pure love. She knows in her mind. In her health, and stamina. In her entire body, she is completely obsessed with the voice.
"Take up my blade, champion. Feed it-". Her blade.
Wait. This feels familiar. Didn't she just do this with that, uhhh. Who was that statue/ball of light? Merida? The one with the boring voice, slightly annoying even? Oh!
"You're one those. Those." She picks up the blade anyway, and pokes it through the table it rested on. Helps her think, if she attacks something. "Aedra! That's it!"
"Daedra."
"That's what I said. Aedra."
"Daedra."
"I know, I just wanted to hear your voice again.' She grins, goofily at the door- wait, better. At the big black sword. This should be her con… "No. This can't be it?"
"Ah. You are truly deserving to be my champion. My sword, just as many, have withered in this despair. In their fear, they have removed it. Now, free, it longs for the sweet taste of betrayal, of the agony and heartbreak of lies."
She frowns, stares at the blade.
Black, curved. Really long, absurdly long. No wonder Whiterun fears it. If she hears another guard talk about curved swords, she might kill one. Poor Mephala, the jokes she must get from the other aedra.
So off it goes.
The ebony blade clatters on the ground, almost sadly. Like an abandoned puppy. Stare. Consider.
She kicks it away. "Not enough."
"...Champion, I understand your disappointment." Mephala doesn't sound so understanding, but maybe she's wrong? This is their first meeting; she should preserve the mystery of her future. Although, she has a gut instinct that the mystery will never end/ or get stale. An utterly besotted sigh escapes her. "But all you need to do is feed it with the blood of those closest to you. Those who trust you."
Sigh, cut short, she frowns. "Not enough at all."
Frustration and annoyance laces and twirls around the beautiful voice. "Dragonborn. I will not marry you. It would simply… be impossible and fantasy. While you may only be satisfied with my voice, soon even that will leave you. The planes of Oblivion, and its denizens cannot enter Nirn for long. Not since the Dragonfires were lit by the Avatar of Akatosh."
The denial of her, leaves her completely devastated. Numb and dead. But listening to that voice is unstoppable. And so she devotes all the focus she can pull away from her complete destruction. To listen until the end, even if her heart feels carved out and sacrificed; fresh blood dripping all over the floor. Then the second despair leaves her a shattered wreck. Completely and utterly cold. Just dumb senses for a blank mind. Even V's voice now-
Dragonfires. That's not a true rejection! It's not over till it's over!
"But you may use my blade, to spread chaos and subvert order and intim-"
"I'll do it. I'll destroy the Dragonfires."
Stunned silence, an incredulity present in the air. "You cannot be serious."
"Will you marry me, if I do so?" Hmm, just because she's off the script, doesn't mean she can't be heroic. "No. It doesn't matter either way. You don't want to be trapped in your plane thingy, right? I'll free you."
"You would destroy the foundation of Nirn, the boundary between your realm and all of Oblivion. Damning the world to Daedric influence, all our lies, madness, destruction, domination, light, stars, trickery, forbidden knowledge, hunt, curses, nightmares, decay, shadows, disease, debauchery, and conspiracy."
"All for me?"
She thinks about it. Think about everything that she's gone through, every sacrifice, every drop of sweat, blood, and various other decaying body fluids she had to wade through. Thinks about destiny, fate, and all those little things. About the Chosen hero. About the script, what it's screaming at her to do. Compares it to this crazy, one-time encounter with a daedric lady, who's setting off serious evil senses. Hot evil senses. No. Sexy hot evil.
"Yes."
…
Chapter 2: Don't look Akatosh!
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 2: Don't look Akatosh!
So apparently the Dragonfires, are a whole crazy spiritual, aedra/mortal covenant. Cool, cool. And this guy, Martin Septim sacrificed himself- though the Thalmor think differently, or they did before she killed them- to make the fires permanent. Which means the whole of Nirn is blocked from Daedric Influence. Mostly. Seems like some flit through the cracks.
Still not cool. Kind of puts a bummer on her whole wooing of Mephala.
Farengar finally stops his ramblings on the sheer disruptions this change caused in the field of magic, and especially Conjuration. "Why ask? I never took you much for a scholar."
"I'm trying to marry Mephala." She says. Calmly.
For a moment, he just looks at her. Looks at her utterly serious eyes, her complete lack of humour. The unvarnished honesty shining from her entire body. And bursts out laughing.
"Oh, whew. Dragonborn, you really know how to tell a good joke. You should join the Bar-"
Skip.
…
There's a big statue in the Imperial City, from this Martin guy's sacrifice. Apparently it replaced the Dragonfires or whatnot.
She's going to break it. No offense to this Martin Septim, sacrifice is cool and all that. But she needs Mephala like she needs air to breathe. She's got a deficiency and like any other skooma addict, she'll gut and deface public property and people to get it. Sure those other things that'll happen from her quest to marry the moon and stars of her life sound pretty bad, but so does Alduin. And he doesn't seem to be a big menace. All he's done is reintroduce dragons. Which if anything, are a boost to the economy. Not that she understands what an economy is, or how dragon parts affect it. But she does know that spending her gold is good.
Gold that is spent aplenty, the sweet jingle of septims dancing onto the carriage drivers hands.
She settles down in the back seat, pulling her head down to the quiet squeaks of the wheels, and the rocking motion. The clip clop of the horse hooves, the warm weather, and the pleasant smooth ride, lull her into the embrace of rest. Does she really need rest? She feels smart enough- Wait. If she sleeps, she'll get to Riverwood faster, and thus the Imperial City faster, and therefore will see Mephala faster.
Easy choice.
Hopefully she dreams of…
…
(Dream sequence. Skip)
…
She jolts awake. Leaping out of the moving carriage, into the pile of red, yellow, orange leaves with the grace of a sabercat. A sabercat drugged to its gills with sleeping tree sap.
"By the nine! Dragonborn, are you o-"
Drown, drown in the leaves. Dragonborn is not here right now, she's currently trying to sink back into unconsciousness.
That was Mephala! She can reset her internal sundial for how long she's been without the sweet voice! Sweet, but mostly seductive voice- her squeee of pure joy nothing compared to the rich melody that is her future wife/husband/daedric overlord.
After her big declaration, V/Mephala just up and left. And even took the big, black, curved sword with her… you don't think.. No. Maybe. She licks her lips in the leaves, uncaring of the scent of decay and insects that crawl over her face, and the almost damp feeling she feels on her tongue. Can't compare to her ardour. Or her armour.
This is confirmation! Confirmation that Mephala is interested! In what way? Who cares!
Any interest is good interest.
Whew.
That makes this much easier. Gotcha. Message received.
Right back into dreamland she goe-
The carriage driver pulls her out. His face, an abject painting of concern and slight panic, over the possibility of the one savior of Tamriel losing her mind, and jumping into piles of leaves.
"You scared the life out of me!"
She frowns. And debates whether or not to obliterate this man into smithereens for daring to interrupt her time with Mephala. Wasn't she just having an emotional breakdown over love? How can this man not tell?
"I know I said the Rift is beautiful year round, but that's no reason to go jumping into piles of-"
The Rift? Riften. The den of thieves, and greed. Rife with manipulations and lies.
And most importantly, not Riverwood!
Well.
There's only one thing to do now. She slaps her heavy hand onto the Carriage Driver's shoulder. The thin, pathetic, weak man shrivels into her hand. "D-Drago..?"
The script says to be rational, and calm. "Riften is not Riverwood." See? She can be calm. His head is still attached. And his shoulder isn't blood and gore under her grip. Perfectly calm. That haze of red is love. Pure love.
He blinks. A wrinkled, leathery, old face that reminds her of first smithing experience with Alvor. Her first experience with the tiny little quests that she is routinely given, more chores than anything else. She still has that hide helmet, and iron dagger. In fact, she's wearing the helmet right now, and the iron dagger is clutched in her other hand. The scabbard rests gently on his head. Pat. Pat. Badly-made iron thunks against the leather, the leather hits the hair, and the hair droops into the stupid wrinkly son of a-
"Take me to Riverwood. Then Helgen."
"I-I can't!" Spittle and blubber escape his mouth. And she takes it with unblinking calm. She's not dumb. Probably. At least, she's not dumb as a horker. Which his breath apparently smells of. She doesn't know, the last time she was close enough to smell the breath of one those massive, masses of flesh and fat, she skewered it clean through with a borrowed iron greatsword. But strangely, enough that descriptor fits his sad wet breaths and panicky little face. Still, she's not dumb, setbacks on the path to romance are normal. He is only an obstacle in her path, and obstacles can become weapons. Tools.
He explains himself, in stuttering, fear stricken, smelly terror. The horses require rest, and the journey between from the Rift, to the gentle plains of Whiterun requires a full restocking every trip. As much as he wants to, he can't oblige her very reasonable request.
This is what she gets for following the script, instead of actually talking. But those thoughts of Mephala may have utterly consumed her.
May have? What is she talking about? They devoured her, heart and mind.
…
She has a problem. Whenever she enters a town, she automatically completes every single quest she can get her hands on. An interaction between some blonde weirdo and another fellow on the journey for love. Except he's a loser, who clearly doesn't understand the majesty that is Mephala and how no one can compare to the lovely, light of her world. But sure, go for the blonde dummy. Less competition.
Though if he tried, she would crush his head. Respectively.
What was she talking about? Oh yes. Her quest addiction. She has to complete every insignificant small thing in-
Wait. Does she?
She stares at Shadr. Shadr stares back. "Ma'am? You said you'd helped with my debt, but you haven't moved for… well a long time."
The sniff she does, tells her all she needs to know. Manure, poop. Shit equals Stable boy, stable boy can help her get to Riverwood faster. Stable boy needs help. Sad, stupid help, but. "I'm thinking."
"Thinking? Something wrong? I know I said Sapphire runs with bad people, but you certainly look tough enough to handle anything she can throw at you." Stable boy, shush.
What was the phrase again? Some Khajit merchants say it, right? "You scratch your back, I scratch my back." Surprisingly progressive for merchants. Usually they try to low ball her every bit of junk she sells. But advice is free. Cool.
Coo- Mara's temple is in Riften. Maramal. Marriage. Advice.
She leaves.
"Ma'am? What do you mean by that? Ma'am? Where-"
…
The priest of Mara sagely lowers and raises his head. Is he asking for her to kill him? What's with the up and down motion? She asked him for advice, and he's asking for her to kill him? That doesn't make sense to her.
Mara was a god of suicide? Well, they do say Marriage is for life. Some losers must have realized how awesome Mephala is and tried to escape. Makes sense to her. Mara must have it tough. "I understand your plight, my child. The act of pursuing one's love can often be a path filled with thorns."
"There are thorns on the path to the Imperial City?" Are they poisonous? Ah, she'll just find out by eating them.
"Indeed there are many." Underneath that yellow hood, and orange robes, Maramal looks at her approvingly. "I see you are a woman of fine taste. Nobles and their ilk often are mocked in this harsh land, but their beauty and grace cannot be denied."
"Mephala does sound very hot." Sexy hot. Also evil, but you're not supposed to tell priests that. She thinks. Maybe. 50/50 odds. "Do you think saving her from a locked plane will help me win her" She tongues through the words, umm. Roses, stuff, um. Mephala pretty. V hot. "Favor. Win her favor?"
He puts his hand to his chin- ah she knows that one! That means he's about to exposition about her quest! "A maiden locked away in a far flung realm? With such a dark name? Yet, you do not allot that cloud your sight?" His hands come together. "Truly. Dragonborn, you are a woman of legend. But if she is not from our harsh, yet beautiful land, than I fear that will not be enough."
"How many quests do I need to do? Five? Twenty?" She can do 100, easy.
"Infinitely many, my child. In Skyrim, love is easily won, for life can be lost so easily. But in other lands, romance is a thing to be savored, treasured, and fought for. I fear, if your paramour already demands such a harrowing journey from you, you will be experiencing many similar journeys for her affection."
Infinite Quests?! Th- That's kind of hot.
His eyebrows waggle. They waggle. Like a hound's tail. Or a wolf's. She's killed a lot of wolves. Maybe Mephala would like wolf pelts? She has a bunch. Somewhere. Maybe with Lydia? Where is Lydia? Did she leave her in the bottom of a dungeon again?
"I see you understand my meaning. Dragonborn. I give you this lesson, from one man to the path of true love , to another!" He suddenly shouts, and she stands ramrod straight. Free advice, get- Wait. She's not a man. Also Maramal is on the path to true love? But he's a prie... Oh. Ohhhhh. "You must shower your fair maiden with gifts, gifts from the heart, but also for her heart! Know, understand, and grasp everything of your love! You must be adroit, stalwart, and unwavering in your pursuit!"
He's using a lot of big words, but she gets exactly what he's talking about! "Like knowing the weakness of Frost Trolls is fire!" They also taste like old leather boots! What does Mephala taste like?
"EXACTLY, Ahem. Every weakness, every speck of her past, and all her previous suitors, you must conquer! Love is battle! Love is wa-" Her true friend gets his face punched by a horrifically fast Dunmer woman.
She blinks. What?
The short, tiny dunmer woman smiles at her. "Our greatest apologies for Maramal's conduct. He is a true believer of Mara, but can be overzelou-"
Skip.
…
Maramal is right. Her true friend in this world of quest-givers and quest-completers has shown her to the light.
She can't just ride a carriage to win Mephala's favor!
She must journey on her own two feet. No! Not only that, but also while walking she must Also read everything she can on her beloved! As well as fighting two dragons at once! And present Mephala with their heavy bones and scales! People like those, right? They certainly buy them for much gold. Much gold, is the exact number.
Or, should she carve out their hearts? That sounds romantic to her.
This breaking the Dragonfires thing is too small, she needs to go bigger. Do bigger. It's a start, but wrecking a statue is easy stuff.
No auto-pilot traveling, no carriage rides. No sleep too.
A frostbite spider groans in the distance. Ignore. Sleep is for the people who don't get love!
It'd be cheating if she just escaped to dreamland instead of completing her quest to win Mephala's gorgeous heart!
Several spiders screech out in dying noises.
Huh. Awful lot of frostbite spiders around. Is there a cave nearby?
Better question: Does Mephala like spiders?
Their eggs taste weird, and their bodies don't taste much better either.
Let's see, according to this book she purchased from that crazy dunmer lady- who punches honest people? Crazy people that's who- Mephala is a Daedric Prince.
Prince of her heart. Swoon. Also the Prince of lies, seduction-hot, manipulation- V can manipulate her any day.
And…
…
So apparently the Dragonfires, are a whole crazy spiritual, aedra/mortal covenant. Cool, cool. And this guy, Martin Septim sacrificed himself- though the Thalmor think differently, or they did before she killed them- to make the fires permanent. Which means the whole of Nirn is blocked from Daedric Influence. Mostly. Seems like some flit through the cracks.
Still not cool. Kind of puts a bummer on her whole wooing of Mephala.
Farengar finally stops his ramblings on the sheer disruptions this change caused in the field of magic, and especially Conjuration. "Why ask? I never took you much for a scholar."
"I'm trying to marry Mephala." She says. Calmly.
For a moment, he just looks at her. Looks at her utterly serious eyes, her complete lack of humour. The unvarnished honesty shining from her entire body. And bursts out laughing.
"Oh, whew. Dragonborn, you really know how to tell a good joke. You should join the Bar-"
Skip.
…
There's a big statue in the Imperial City, from this Martin guy's sacrifice. Apparently it replaced the Dragonfires or whatnot.
She's going to break it. No offense to this Martin Septim, sacrifice is cool and all that. But she needs Mephala like she needs air to breathe. She's got a deficiency and like any other skooma addict, she'll gut and deface public property and people to get it. Sure those other things that'll happen from her quest to marry the moon and stars of her life sound pretty bad, but so does Alduin. And he doesn't seem to be a big menace. All he's done is reintroduce dragons. Which if anything, are a boost to the economy. Not that she understands what an economy is, or how dragon parts affect it. But she does know that spending her gold is good.
Gold that is spent aplenty, the sweet jingle of septims dancing onto the carriage drivers hands.
She settles down in the back seat, pulling her head down to the quiet squeaks of the wheels, and the rocking motion. The clip clop of the horse hooves, the warm weather, and the pleasant smooth ride, lull her into the embrace of rest. Does she really need rest? She feels smart enough- Wait. If she sleeps, she'll get to Riverwood faster, and thus the Imperial City faster, and therefore will see Mephala faster.
Easy choice.
Hopefully she dreams of…
…
(Dream sequence. Skip)
…
She jolts awake. Leaping out of the moving carriage, into the pile of red, yellow, orange leaves with the grace of a sabercat. A sabercat drugged to its gills with sleeping tree sap.
"By the nine! Dragonborn, are you o-"
Drown, drown in the leaves. Dragonborn is not here right now, she's currently trying to sink back into unconsciousness.
That was Mephala! She can reset her internal sundial for how long she's been without the sweet voice! Sweet, but mostly seductive voice- her squeee of pure joy nothing compared to the rich melody that is her future wife/husband/daedric overlord.
After her big declaration, V/Mephala just up and left. And even took the big, black, curved sword with her… you don't think.. No. Maybe. She licks her lips in the leaves, uncaring of the scent of decay and insects that crawl over her face, and the almost damp feeling she feels on her tongue. Can't compare to her ardour. Or her armour.
This is confirmation! Confirmation that Mephala is interested! In what way? Who cares!
Any interest is good interest.
Whew.
That makes this much easier. Gotcha. Message received.
Right back into dreamland she goe-
The carriage driver pulls her out. His face, an abject painting of concern and slight panic, over the possibility of the one savior of Tamriel losing her mind, and jumping into piles of leaves.
"You scared the life out of me!"
She frowns. And debates whether or not to obliterate this man into smithereens for daring to interrupt her time with Mephala. Wasn't she just having an emotional breakdown over love? How can this man not tell?
"I know I said the Rift is beautiful year round, but that's no reason to go jumping into piles of-"
The Rift? Riften. The den of thieves, and greed. Rife with manipulations and lies.
And most importantly, not Riverwood!
Well.
There's only one thing to do now. She slaps her heavy hand onto the Carriage Driver's shoulder. The thin, pathetic, weak man shrivels into her hand. "D-Drago..?"
The script says to be rational, and calm. "Riften is not Riverwood." See? She can be calm. His head is still attached. And his shoulder isn't blood and gore under her grip. Perfectly calm. That haze of red is love. Pure love.
He blinks. A wrinkled, leathery, old face that reminds her of first smithing experience with Alvor. Her first experience with the tiny little quests that she is routinely given, more chores than anything else. She still has that hide helmet, and iron dagger. In fact, she's wearing the helmet right now, and the iron dagger is clutched in her other hand. The scabbard rests gently on his head. Pat. Pat. Badly-made iron thunks against the leather, the leather hits the hair, and the hair droops into the stupid wrinkly son of a-
"Take me to Riverwood. Then Helgen."
"I-I can't!" Spittle and blubber escape his mouth. And she takes it with unblinking calm. She's not dumb. Probably. At least, she's not dumb as a horker. Which his breath apparently smells of. She doesn't know, the last time she was close enough to smell the breath of one those massive, masses of flesh and fat, she skewered it clean through with a borrowed iron greatsword. But strangely, enough that descriptor fits his sad wet breaths and panicky little face. Still, she's not dumb, setbacks on the path to romance are normal. He is only an obstacle in her path, and obstacles can become weapons. Tools.
He explains himself, in stuttering, fear stricken, smelly terror. The horses require rest, and the journey between from the Rift, to the gentle plains of Whiterun requires a full restocking every trip. As much as he wants to, he can't oblige her very reasonable request.
This is what she gets for following the script, instead of actually talking. But those thoughts of Mephala may have utterly consumed her.
May have? What is she talking about? They devoured her, heart and mind.
…
She has a problem. Whenever she enters a town, she automatically completes every single quest she can get her hands on. An interaction between some blonde weirdo and another fellow on the journey for love. Except he's a loser, who clearly doesn't understand the majesty that is Mephala and how no one can compare to the lovely, light of her world. But sure, go for the blonde dummy. Less competition.
Though if he tried, she would crush his head. Respectively.
What was she talking about? Oh yes. Her quest addiction. She has to complete every insignificant small thing in-
Wait. Does she?
She stares at Shadr. Shadr stares back. "Ma'am? You said you'd helped with my debt, but you haven't moved for… well a long time."
The sniff she does, tells her all she needs to know. Manure, poop. Shit equals Stable boy, stable boy can help her get to Riverwood faster. Stable boy needs help. Sad, stupid help, but. "I'm thinking."
"Thinking? Something wrong? I know I said Sapphire runs with bad people, but you certainly look tough enough to handle anything she can throw at you." Stable boy, shush.
What was the phrase again? Some Khajit merchants say it, right? "You scratch your back, I scratch my back." Surprisingly progressive for merchants. Usually they try to low ball her every bit of junk she sells. But advice is free. Cool.
Coo- Mara's temple is in Riften. Maramal. Marriage. Advice.
She leaves.
"Ma'am? What do you mean by that? Ma'am? Where-"
…
The priest of Mara sagely lowers and raises his head. Is he asking for her to kill him? What's with the up and down motion? She asked him for advice, and he's asking for her to kill him? That doesn't make sense to her.
Mara was a god of suicide? Well, they do say Marriage is for life. Some losers must have realized how awesome Mephala is and tried to escape. Makes sense to her. Mara must have it tough. "I understand your plight, my child. The act of pursuing one's love can often be a path filled with thorns."
"There are thorns on the path to the Imperial City?" Are they poisonous? Ah, she'll just find out by eating them.
"Indeed there are many." Underneath that yellow hood, and orange robes, Maramal looks at her approvingly. "I see you are a woman of fine taste. Nobles and their ilk often are mocked in this harsh land, but their beauty and grace cannot be denied."
"Mephala does sound very hot." Sexy hot. Also evil, but you're not supposed to tell priests that. She thinks. Maybe. 50/50 odds. "Do you think saving her from a locked plane will help me win her" She tongues through the words, umm. Roses, stuff, um. Mephala pretty. V hot. "Favor. Win her favor?"
He puts his hand to his chin- ah she knows that one! That means he's about to exposition about her quest! "A maiden locked away in a far flung realm? With such a dark name? Yet, you do not allot that cloud your sight?" His hands come together. "Truly. Dragonborn, you are a woman of legend. But if she is not from our harsh, yet beautiful land, than I fear that will not be enough."
"How many quests do I need to do? Five? Twenty?" She can do 100, easy.
"Infinitely many, my child. In Skyrim, love is easily won, for life can be lost so easily. But in other lands, romance is a thing to be savored, treasured, and fought for. I fear, if your paramour already demands such a harrowing journey from you, you will be experiencing many similar journeys for her affection."
Infinite Quests?! Th- That's kind of hot.
His eyebrows waggle. They waggle. Like a hound's tail. Or a wolf's. She's killed a lot of wolves. Maybe Mephala would like wolf pelts? She has a bunch. Somewhere. Maybe with Lydia? Where is Lydia? Did she leave her in the bottom of a dungeon again?
"I see you understand my meaning. Dragonborn. I give you this lesson, from one man to the path of true love , to another!" He suddenly shouts, and she stands ramrod straight. Free advice, get- Wait. She's not a man. Also Maramal is on the path to true love? But he's a prie... Oh. Ohhhhh. "You must shower your fair maiden with gifts, gifts from the heart, but also for her heart! Know, understand, and grasp everything of your love! You must be adroit, stalwart, and unwavering in your pursuit!"
He's using a lot of big words, but she gets exactly what he's talking about! "Like knowing the weakness of Frost Trolls is fire!" They also taste like old leather boots! What does Mephala taste like?
"EXACTLY, Ahem. Every weakness, every speck of her past, and all her previous suitors, you must conquer! Love is battle! Love is wa-" Her true friend gets his face punched by a horrifically fast Dunmer woman.
She blinks. What?
The short, tiny dunmer woman smiles at her. "Our greatest apologies for Maramal's conduct. He is a true believer of Mara, but can be overzelou-"
Skip.
…
Maramal is right. Her true friend in this world of quest-givers and quest-completers has shown her to the light.
She can't just ride a carriage to win Mephala's favor!
She must journey on her own two feet. No! Not only that, but also while walking she must Also read everything she can on her beloved! As well as fighting two dragons at once! And present Mephala with their heavy bones and scales! People like those, right? They certainly buy them for much gold. Much gold, is the exact number.
Or, should she carve out their hearts? That sounds romantic to her.
This breaking the Dragonfires thing is too small, she needs to go bigger. Do bigger. It's a start, but wrecking a statue is easy stuff.
No auto-pilot traveling, no carriage rides. No sleep too.
A frostbite spider groans in the distance. Ignore. Sleep is for the people who don't get love!
It'd be cheating if she just escaped to dreamland instead of completing her quest to win Mephala's gorgeous heart!
Several spiders screech out in dying noises.
Huh. Awful lot of frostbite spiders around. Is there a cave nearby?
Better question: Does Mephala like spiders?
Their eggs taste weird, and their bodies don't taste much better either.
Let's see, according to this book she purchased from that crazy dunmer lady- who punches honest people? Crazy people that's who- Mephala is a Daedric Prince.
Prince of her heart. Swoon. Also the Prince of lies, seduction-hot, manipulation- V can manipulate her any day.
And…
…
Last edited:
Chapter 3: Love Triangle
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 3: Love Triangle
…
"The passageway to Bruma is closed."
She looks at the imperial soldier. Looks at the rest of the Fort's soldiers. Thinks about what she has on hand. Then studies what she will have on hand. That's a nice imperial sword he has there, always a good solid choice. Great for short range stabbing and throwing at archers.
"No. It's not."
He coughs underneath his scarf. Hmph. Loser. This is Skyrim. Freeze to death and get out of her way. "Yes it is."
"No."
"You cannot deny facts!"
"I can." The only fact that matters is that she loves V. A fact is something that is true. The only thing that is true in this world to her, is Mephala- and her one true friend Maramal, definitely getting him to officiate the wedding, even if Daedric Princes and Aedra don't mix well.
The non-quest-giver, and non-quest-completer in front of her puts his hand onto his temples, rubbing underneath his leather helmet.
Hmmm. Not a merchant, not a snotty brat, what does she call these people again? Target dummies for perfecting her skills? Oh! She's got it! Deadweight. These guys only show up after she's done stuff, like clear out a fort, also they litter the roads and plains a lot. With those blue guys too. Umm. What are they called? Stonecloaks? Rebelnords? Generic bandits but with helmets on? Wait. What's the difference between a bandit and a deadweight?
"With the Civil War afoot, we simply can't allow passage to Cyrodil."
What's a Cyrodil? Doesn't sound important, also. She needs to get to the Empire, not this Cyrodil thingy. Empire to Imperial City, to that temple with the statue, and then wreck it like no one has wrecked before.
"Civil war? But Mephala and I don't have kids. Yet."
"...what?"
She explains, patiently. "Civil war. Civil dispute. Love is war. Mephala is my one true love, beyond any other, forever." Maramal mentioned that all relationships have troubles, and obviously marriage won't stop those. She needs to be her utmost prepared to weather the storms of life with her love.
But.
V will totally get the kids. If the Daedric Prince wants! If she doesn't. Then this single, ready-to-mingle, Dragonborn is so ready to become a housewife!
The soldier takes one glance over at this, snow covered, complete mess of a person before him: bruises under eyes -scratch that- extreme bruises under eyes, several frozen over bites from ice wraiths, one dragon head slung over her shoulder, and another dragging along her left boot- seemingly forgotten as to the other dragging rope on her other foot suggests, and enormous troll slashes on her armor and skin, that are just ignored. Even as they slowly ooze blood, which freezes into red ice.
"This… is above my paygrade."
"Correct, V is priceless."
…
The realms of Oblivion are vast and varied, still unknown nightmares and horrors left undiscovered by the maddened few that travel through these enchanting, unfamiliar, and unpredictable planes lie in wait. Not the Daedra, not even the great Princes of their ilk can truly say to have explored the whole of Oblivion. Perhaps that is due to the volatile and mercurial nature of the Princes, and their forgotten creations, left to fester in the void, spawning more indescribable trials and tribulations for the hapless traveler.
In one of the recorded and named planes, a spire- more akin to a massive winding down web, tying down the eight spokes of the realm. An enormous spiral of silk- intertwined with corpses locked in fear and pleasure alike, is the foundation for the Pillar Palace of one particular Daedric Prince.
Mephala prefers to simply call it. The throne.
The throne of knowledge, secrets. Everything that occurs in this plane, is known days, years, eons beforehand by it's prince. Unfortunately, Mephala's influence in Skyrim is more limited.
Even as the land shudders with conspiracies, and betrayal, the perfect ground for her worship to take root, she is limited. One, by those pesky Dragonfires, though no true Prince would be so easily obstructed by the weakened Aedra, the sacrificial conceptualism of Akatosh does tighten the borders between Nirn and Oblivion. Already a difficult journey, now is painfully difficult to traverse. Unless.
… Instruments of her power, such as the Ebony Blade are able to slip through the cracks. They barely register to Akatosh, likely equal in his eyes to the pathetic elemental atronachs, or lesser Daedra that conjurers summon.
But. There have been cases in the past, and present where Daedric Princes take on a more. Personal role.
Sanguine, for instance, is able to possess his followers of debauchery, if severely limiting his might in the process, and interact and beguile mortals. Nocturnal can carve out her bastion, with her Nightingales, that Twilight Sepulcher of hers, a liminal space between Oblivion and Nirn. More illusion than actual conceptualization, but still. A daring action.
The drawbacks to materializing on Nirn are many. No matter what method, much of their might, their influence, and their freedoms are limited. Any disruptions may also allow for that annoying dragon to exert his power against theirs.
But.
Truly, how can Mephala miss such a beautiful disaster in the making?
Especially after that Dragonborn became even more. Mad- is what she would say, but Sheogorath must be too busy laughing his head off to whisk her to the Shivering isles- So lovesick will have to do.
It's simple enough. To guide her foolish little worshipers into summoning the Ebony Blade. Even simpler to have them pressure a young woman into her avatar, and melt the dark liquid nightmares into the beauty. And if she gathers more of her own power by betraying her own worshippers? That's only but a tragic wonder in this game of exhilaration. Besides, their wish is granted. She's granted them all the power they could ever want. They can play their little manipulation and conspiracies in her realm. Forever and ever.
…
She's about one second away from jamming the Imperial Captain's gladius through his annoying throat, when she hears a lilting, sonorous voice interrupt the exhausted conversation.
"If I may interrupt?" A butterfly of fabric, shadows, and ebony skin flurry past her. The owner of the strange, multi-layered attire, sashay their way to the Imperial Captain. Who audibly gulps at the approach of the stranger. "Why not let this fine hero pass?"
"Ma'am…" Thin sharp nails hiss against his armor.
"Shhh. Those orders from the Elder Council, from those hilarious Thalmor? Discard them. The Dragonborn is guided by the divines. She alone can restore the Empire to it's former glory."
She what? Said Dragonborn, has no idea what this pretty, nice sounding- but not as nice as Mephala, obviously- woman is talking about. Is that her questline? That doesn't sound right. And she's only guided by one divinity. Demonity. Same thing.
But the lead soldier must, because he pales even further, and his beady little eyes flick over to her. "T-They'll kill me."
"Will they?... Or will she kill you?" Hear, the woman has got a totally different voice quality compared to Mephala. Less otherworldly and magnificent. 8/10 compared to the 100/10 that is V.
Also yes, immediate threats are always worse than future threats. That's just common sense. For example, the immediate threat to her: is the lack of Mephala. The future threat is the eradication of the regular world, and how is she going to woo her future prince/princess. She's researched this, apparently Princes don't have a set gender. Which makes sense. Naturally, the wonder that is V cannot be contained in a single pronoun. But she'll default to saying 'she', for the context of the voice's sound. If Mephala wants to appear feminine to her, then she'll accept that whole-heartedly. Whole- earfully. Hmm. That's not a test, is it? Either one is fine to her. Really!
She just… a mental fidget of her mental hands… wanted a deeper connection with her future happiness.
The soldier gathers his courage, or something. Oh yeah, these people are still here. Whoops. She doesn't know, whatever he does internally. Also twiddle mental fingers? Externally, he straightens up and stares straight ahead. "I… I never saw you."
The woman pouts. And pushes the soldier's face back to look at ink. "Do not forget my presence as well. I shall ferry our lovely heroine across the turbulent tides that are the-"
She wants to skip, but that voice is so similar- Wait. Is this considering cheating?! No! She's utterly faithful to Mephala! No two-bit random beauty is going to seduce her with that voice! Just try it, she'll grow even more devoted from the experience! Just like how she gets better at wearing armor from taking hits!
"-Empire's cruel reality. Fear not, she shall nourish this doomed sovereignty until it gleams as it did during in its greatest climax."
A fervor enters the man's eyes, and he salutes with enough force to shake off the snowfall on his helmet's plume. "Glory to the Empire!"
Brilliant white fangs glisten, sharply contrasting the night that is the mystery's face. "Glory indeed."
The only thing that deserves glory is the light of her life. Or the night to her day. The shadows that she rests in-
…
Huh. That's weird. Her mental map doesn't extend down to Cyrodil? Ah! It's a challenge! A challenge on her path to woo Mephala- Naturally she cannot be so easily guided to the treasure that is freeing the Moon and Stars from their cage. Shut up, Azura doesn't deserve the title, not when V's voice could send her soaring over Aetherius.
She steps right off the beaten path. Best to get started straight towards the Imperial City. Following roads only attracts strange encounters.
"Dragonborn! Dragonborn! Come here!" She turns and frowns. It's that woman again. The one with the fake-Mephala voice. Ruby red eyes flutter at her. "Surely you won't leave a hapless mai-"
That reminds her, V is waiting and must have a hundred of other fake-Dragonborns to try and save her! To seduce her even! She needs to hurry.
Her feet sprint forward but a harsh tug sends her face first into the snow. The sharp bite of the frost and the chilling burn send her right back up, whirling around to find the potential foe. Dragon? Giant? Frostbite Spiders?- they've been particularly mean to her on the journey to the border. But like. They're frostbite spiders. She's been trying to kill them with their own mandibles now. Ripping them apart at the mouth is fun, but what would be really cool is poisoning a frostbite spider with its own venom to death.
Speaking of venom, she's never seen so much directed at her. Glaring atop the seated throne of a dead dragon's skull. The mysterious stranger tries to murder her with just their eyes.
People can't do that right? Though… she can kill people with just her mouth… Maybe it's another lost power? Eye murder? Eye death? Ocular shouts?
"I see that you still retain your insolence." Once again, the voice is just an enchanting tune. The feminine wiles are strong with this one.
She tilts her head. "Still?"
The woman ignores her and simply crosses the flowy cloths that can be described as arms. "If I am to be your guide, then I expect a modicum of the same courtesy I have granted you. Follow my commands."
"..."
"Now. Shall we journey together, my most-"
The dragon skull is unceremoniously yanked towards her. And she strides off again. No need for another follower, Lydia, the pack mule will come soon enough. She's never needed a guide, and she doesn't need one now. However. That temptress of sound, has given her an idea!
Placing both of the dragon skulls on the ground, she ignores the heated, pointed, crimson blush that demands her to help the stranger up. Snow is slippery, and cold. Skulls are useless, right now. But dragon bones are tough. Tough enough to be sat on, and… ridden on.
And that's a nice downwards hill; challenges require inventive solutions. As the dragonborn this is only the most natural-
Paralysis takes her, a poisonous green bolt slapping against her back harmlessly and dissipating across her entire snowed-over form.
The snow reintroduces itself to her face. Ow.
Glossy dark ebony plates enter her field of vision. What follows is a sight she'll never forget. Wow. That's really… Something. Her head is angled up, by a strangely warm hand. Like it's been leeching the heat and concentrating it into this dark star of a maiden. Fiery eyes demand that she stare into them. No pupil, only a solid oval of the purest blood. Dark elf? Redguard?
That delectable voice, sweetly whispers. "Dragonborn. You will follow me. Cease your selective ignorance. By Mephala, the Webspinner, the queen of oblivion, and the Spider. Heed my words, for I am her conduit to you. She has sent me to guide you, and I cannot do so if you continue to try and escape my webs."
She… she's getting her own worshiper of Mephala! Her chances have just gone up- according to her flawless confirmations, there is a 100 percent chance that she will make V the happiest prince alive. A fellow believer, get!
Wait. Is she competition?
Competition will have to be eliminated.
"Oh for the love of Oblivion, I am not your competition, you foolish mortal."
"Hey. Only one person here gets to love oblivion. And that's me." Oh, the paralysis has worn off. Cool. So is the white beneath her, and the cool gaze that roll it's' red suns at her.
"Mephala, is not oblivion. You do understand that much at least?"
"I understand that V is my oblivion."
This frozen rain is nice. Nice and soft. She should bring some, all locked up in that lonely plane, soft and cold must be unknown.
"... I have made a momentous error."
So she is competition!
…
…
"The passageway to Bruma is closed."
She looks at the imperial soldier. Looks at the rest of the Fort's soldiers. Thinks about what she has on hand. Then studies what she will have on hand. That's a nice imperial sword he has there, always a good solid choice. Great for short range stabbing and throwing at archers.
"No. It's not."
He coughs underneath his scarf. Hmph. Loser. This is Skyrim. Freeze to death and get out of her way. "Yes it is."
"No."
"You cannot deny facts!"
"I can." The only fact that matters is that she loves V. A fact is something that is true. The only thing that is true in this world to her, is Mephala- and her one true friend Maramal, definitely getting him to officiate the wedding, even if Daedric Princes and Aedra don't mix well.
The non-quest-giver, and non-quest-completer in front of her puts his hand onto his temples, rubbing underneath his leather helmet.
Hmmm. Not a merchant, not a snotty brat, what does she call these people again? Target dummies for perfecting her skills? Oh! She's got it! Deadweight. These guys only show up after she's done stuff, like clear out a fort, also they litter the roads and plains a lot. With those blue guys too. Umm. What are they called? Stonecloaks? Rebelnords? Generic bandits but with helmets on? Wait. What's the difference between a bandit and a deadweight?
"With the Civil War afoot, we simply can't allow passage to Cyrodil."
What's a Cyrodil? Doesn't sound important, also. She needs to get to the Empire, not this Cyrodil thingy. Empire to Imperial City, to that temple with the statue, and then wreck it like no one has wrecked before.
"Civil war? But Mephala and I don't have kids. Yet."
"...what?"
She explains, patiently. "Civil war. Civil dispute. Love is war. Mephala is my one true love, beyond any other, forever." Maramal mentioned that all relationships have troubles, and obviously marriage won't stop those. She needs to be her utmost prepared to weather the storms of life with her love.
But.
V will totally get the kids. If the Daedric Prince wants! If she doesn't. Then this single, ready-to-mingle, Dragonborn is so ready to become a housewife!
The soldier takes one glance over at this, snow covered, complete mess of a person before him: bruises under eyes -scratch that- extreme bruises under eyes, several frozen over bites from ice wraiths, one dragon head slung over her shoulder, and another dragging along her left boot- seemingly forgotten as to the other dragging rope on her other foot suggests, and enormous troll slashes on her armor and skin, that are just ignored. Even as they slowly ooze blood, which freezes into red ice.
"This… is above my paygrade."
"Correct, V is priceless."
…
The realms of Oblivion are vast and varied, still unknown nightmares and horrors left undiscovered by the maddened few that travel through these enchanting, unfamiliar, and unpredictable planes lie in wait. Not the Daedra, not even the great Princes of their ilk can truly say to have explored the whole of Oblivion. Perhaps that is due to the volatile and mercurial nature of the Princes, and their forgotten creations, left to fester in the void, spawning more indescribable trials and tribulations for the hapless traveler.
In one of the recorded and named planes, a spire- more akin to a massive winding down web, tying down the eight spokes of the realm. An enormous spiral of silk- intertwined with corpses locked in fear and pleasure alike, is the foundation for the Pillar Palace of one particular Daedric Prince.
Mephala prefers to simply call it. The throne.
The throne of knowledge, secrets. Everything that occurs in this plane, is known days, years, eons beforehand by it's prince. Unfortunately, Mephala's influence in Skyrim is more limited.
Even as the land shudders with conspiracies, and betrayal, the perfect ground for her worship to take root, she is limited. One, by those pesky Dragonfires, though no true Prince would be so easily obstructed by the weakened Aedra, the sacrificial conceptualism of Akatosh does tighten the borders between Nirn and Oblivion. Already a difficult journey, now is painfully difficult to traverse. Unless.
… Instruments of her power, such as the Ebony Blade are able to slip through the cracks. They barely register to Akatosh, likely equal in his eyes to the pathetic elemental atronachs, or lesser Daedra that conjurers summon.
But. There have been cases in the past, and present where Daedric Princes take on a more. Personal role.
Sanguine, for instance, is able to possess his followers of debauchery, if severely limiting his might in the process, and interact and beguile mortals. Nocturnal can carve out her bastion, with her Nightingales, that Twilight Sepulcher of hers, a liminal space between Oblivion and Nirn. More illusion than actual conceptualization, but still. A daring action.
The drawbacks to materializing on Nirn are many. No matter what method, much of their might, their influence, and their freedoms are limited. Any disruptions may also allow for that annoying dragon to exert his power against theirs.
But.
Truly, how can Mephala miss such a beautiful disaster in the making?
Especially after that Dragonborn became even more. Mad- is what she would say, but Sheogorath must be too busy laughing his head off to whisk her to the Shivering isles- So lovesick will have to do.
It's simple enough. To guide her foolish little worshipers into summoning the Ebony Blade. Even simpler to have them pressure a young woman into her avatar, and melt the dark liquid nightmares into the beauty. And if she gathers more of her own power by betraying her own worshippers? That's only but a tragic wonder in this game of exhilaration. Besides, their wish is granted. She's granted them all the power they could ever want. They can play their little manipulation and conspiracies in her realm. Forever and ever.
…
She's about one second away from jamming the Imperial Captain's gladius through his annoying throat, when she hears a lilting, sonorous voice interrupt the exhausted conversation.
"If I may interrupt?" A butterfly of fabric, shadows, and ebony skin flurry past her. The owner of the strange, multi-layered attire, sashay their way to the Imperial Captain. Who audibly gulps at the approach of the stranger. "Why not let this fine hero pass?"
"Ma'am…" Thin sharp nails hiss against his armor.
"Shhh. Those orders from the Elder Council, from those hilarious Thalmor? Discard them. The Dragonborn is guided by the divines. She alone can restore the Empire to it's former glory."
She what? Said Dragonborn, has no idea what this pretty, nice sounding- but not as nice as Mephala, obviously- woman is talking about. Is that her questline? That doesn't sound right. And she's only guided by one divinity. Demonity. Same thing.
But the lead soldier must, because he pales even further, and his beady little eyes flick over to her. "T-They'll kill me."
"Will they?... Or will she kill you?" Hear, the woman has got a totally different voice quality compared to Mephala. Less otherworldly and magnificent. 8/10 compared to the 100/10 that is V.
Also yes, immediate threats are always worse than future threats. That's just common sense. For example, the immediate threat to her: is the lack of Mephala. The future threat is the eradication of the regular world, and how is she going to woo her future prince/princess. She's researched this, apparently Princes don't have a set gender. Which makes sense. Naturally, the wonder that is V cannot be contained in a single pronoun. But she'll default to saying 'she', for the context of the voice's sound. If Mephala wants to appear feminine to her, then she'll accept that whole-heartedly. Whole- earfully. Hmm. That's not a test, is it? Either one is fine to her. Really!
She just… a mental fidget of her mental hands… wanted a deeper connection with her future happiness.
The soldier gathers his courage, or something. Oh yeah, these people are still here. Whoops. She doesn't know, whatever he does internally. Also twiddle mental fingers? Externally, he straightens up and stares straight ahead. "I… I never saw you."
The woman pouts. And pushes the soldier's face back to look at ink. "Do not forget my presence as well. I shall ferry our lovely heroine across the turbulent tides that are the-"
She wants to skip, but that voice is so similar- Wait. Is this considering cheating?! No! She's utterly faithful to Mephala! No two-bit random beauty is going to seduce her with that voice! Just try it, she'll grow even more devoted from the experience! Just like how she gets better at wearing armor from taking hits!
"-Empire's cruel reality. Fear not, she shall nourish this doomed sovereignty until it gleams as it did during in its greatest climax."
A fervor enters the man's eyes, and he salutes with enough force to shake off the snowfall on his helmet's plume. "Glory to the Empire!"
Brilliant white fangs glisten, sharply contrasting the night that is the mystery's face. "Glory indeed."
The only thing that deserves glory is the light of her life. Or the night to her day. The shadows that she rests in-
…
Huh. That's weird. Her mental map doesn't extend down to Cyrodil? Ah! It's a challenge! A challenge on her path to woo Mephala- Naturally she cannot be so easily guided to the treasure that is freeing the Moon and Stars from their cage. Shut up, Azura doesn't deserve the title, not when V's voice could send her soaring over Aetherius.
She steps right off the beaten path. Best to get started straight towards the Imperial City. Following roads only attracts strange encounters.
"Dragonborn! Dragonborn! Come here!" She turns and frowns. It's that woman again. The one with the fake-Mephala voice. Ruby red eyes flutter at her. "Surely you won't leave a hapless mai-"
That reminds her, V is waiting and must have a hundred of other fake-Dragonborns to try and save her! To seduce her even! She needs to hurry.
Her feet sprint forward but a harsh tug sends her face first into the snow. The sharp bite of the frost and the chilling burn send her right back up, whirling around to find the potential foe. Dragon? Giant? Frostbite Spiders?- they've been particularly mean to her on the journey to the border. But like. They're frostbite spiders. She's been trying to kill them with their own mandibles now. Ripping them apart at the mouth is fun, but what would be really cool is poisoning a frostbite spider with its own venom to death.
Speaking of venom, she's never seen so much directed at her. Glaring atop the seated throne of a dead dragon's skull. The mysterious stranger tries to murder her with just their eyes.
People can't do that right? Though… she can kill people with just her mouth… Maybe it's another lost power? Eye murder? Eye death? Ocular shouts?
"I see that you still retain your insolence." Once again, the voice is just an enchanting tune. The feminine wiles are strong with this one.
She tilts her head. "Still?"
The woman ignores her and simply crosses the flowy cloths that can be described as arms. "If I am to be your guide, then I expect a modicum of the same courtesy I have granted you. Follow my commands."
"..."
"Now. Shall we journey together, my most-"
The dragon skull is unceremoniously yanked towards her. And she strides off again. No need for another follower, Lydia, the pack mule will come soon enough. She's never needed a guide, and she doesn't need one now. However. That temptress of sound, has given her an idea!
Placing both of the dragon skulls on the ground, she ignores the heated, pointed, crimson blush that demands her to help the stranger up. Snow is slippery, and cold. Skulls are useless, right now. But dragon bones are tough. Tough enough to be sat on, and… ridden on.
And that's a nice downwards hill; challenges require inventive solutions. As the dragonborn this is only the most natural-
Paralysis takes her, a poisonous green bolt slapping against her back harmlessly and dissipating across her entire snowed-over form.
The snow reintroduces itself to her face. Ow.
Glossy dark ebony plates enter her field of vision. What follows is a sight she'll never forget. Wow. That's really… Something. Her head is angled up, by a strangely warm hand. Like it's been leeching the heat and concentrating it into this dark star of a maiden. Fiery eyes demand that she stare into them. No pupil, only a solid oval of the purest blood. Dark elf? Redguard?
That delectable voice, sweetly whispers. "Dragonborn. You will follow me. Cease your selective ignorance. By Mephala, the Webspinner, the queen of oblivion, and the Spider. Heed my words, for I am her conduit to you. She has sent me to guide you, and I cannot do so if you continue to try and escape my webs."
She… she's getting her own worshiper of Mephala! Her chances have just gone up- according to her flawless confirmations, there is a 100 percent chance that she will make V the happiest prince alive. A fellow believer, get!
Wait. Is she competition?
Competition will have to be eliminated.
"Oh for the love of Oblivion, I am not your competition, you foolish mortal."
"Hey. Only one person here gets to love oblivion. And that's me." Oh, the paralysis has worn off. Cool. So is the white beneath her, and the cool gaze that roll it's' red suns at her.
"Mephala, is not oblivion. You do understand that much at least?"
"I understand that V is my oblivion."
This frozen rain is nice. Nice and soft. She should bring some, all locked up in that lonely plane, soft and cold must be unknown.
"... I have made a momentous error."
So she is competition!
…
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Chapter 4: Dragon Dovah Dov
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 4: Dragon Dovah Dov
…
Achoo!
Cute. How can anyone have such a cute snee- Ah.
She blinks, stares at her traveling companion- not an actual companion, but someone who's just sort of orbiting in the same ring around the world that is Mephala. Orbit- she tongues the word in her mouth. Yes. She orbits the dark star that is V.
Mysterious Stranger shoots her a pointed look. Or just a look. Hard to tell. Could be anything. Either way, not important.
"Why are you still staring at me?"
She blinks. Her? Who? She's not staring at the woman, she's trying to stare through her to see Mephala. See the beauty in everyone right? Naturally, that means that a bit of V is in everyone. Beauty equals V/Melphala. Simple. Logical.
This one just has it concentrated in the voice. And maybe other places, who knows. Mephala is her own standard of beauty.
"Oh~" Yes, Like that. Excellent job, fellow worshiper. Soon you can reach the hierarchy of Mephala's fanclub. It starts with the Dragonborn, and then everyone else below who can stay jealous of her. "Are you perhaps… Admiring my bountiful form?"
"Bountiful? Your throat is kind of slim. Cute, biteable. But not really ummm. Harvesty?" Also it appears weak. But that seems rude. Always best to compliment your followers. Keep those true, but rude thoughts in. It makes them complain less when you make them carry a truly back-breaking amount of Dwemer junk. Hmm. Doesn't look very strong. But, counterpoint. Stranger is wearing nothing but sheer fabrics. Means less weight on them, therefore more weight to be placed on them.
"Truly your mind is as incomprehensible as Akatosh's Dragonbreaks." The sar-sarcasm? Sardonicism? Something is in the voice. "Vivec would find a true friend in you."
"Thank you." People compliment her all the time. But it's nice to hear in a false-V voice. She should give the Daedric worshiper a gift. Hmm. What to give… She's not really a gift giver. A quest-completion giver is more accurate.
Stare. Stare.
Red eyes widen in surprise, and a peculiar glow shines in them. Kind of orangey red? Yellowy even? The particular glow that she's seen reflected in the firelight in the center of the Bannered Mare. Along with the grating tones of Mikael singing Ragnar the Red for the fiftieth time. Huh. She's kind of feeling that disgusting scrape against her skin right now. Except more painful. Very hot. Oh wow. That's hot. Now, that's hot-
Mysterious Stranger tackles her. Tumble, rumble, bumble. Suddenly, she's between a soft wonder and a fluffy place. And the scent of ashen Deathbells, and sweet Nightshade envelop her. It's a nice scent, she wants to nuzzle against it and lick, lick.
"Dragon!"
Nod. Up and down, show neck. Means yes. Still weird to show affirmation with the best place for a decapitation, but according to the bandits in Helgen, it is a sign of acceptance. Which actually makes a lot of sense, as they accepted her blade through their necks. Or their blades. And one bow. She nods again. "I am a dragon."
"No, there is a dragon!" Why is her fellow Mephala priestess trying to drown her in snow? She thought they established that there is and only will be, one true priestess of V. The competition ploy! What a diabolical maneuver. Admirable, there are no boundaries in this war they call love. No moral quandary too low to sink to. But she is going to have to beat the stuffing out of this woman. Competition is competition. Plus, punching the complete tar out of someone has been proven multiple times over, to change people's minds. And sometimes he even gets shiny looties, from it! The woman smothering her with snow, might one day become a supporter of her relationship with Mephala.
What were they talking about? Nods- dragons- Mephala is love- Dragons.
Shake. "Impossible, I don't need loot."
She tears her eyes away from the angry clear scarlet, to stare into the sky. A big flying lizard soars into view. Nope. See? The walking/talking/shouting/ loot bag is leaving. Clearly, her communication skills have developed to the point where she no longer even needs to speak to things anymore.
Mr- Hmm. Green colored, weak- Mr. Blood Dragon must have heard her, and decided very nicely that her regular murder and consumption of his tasty soul should be delayed.
She communicates all this through a rapid whirl of head motions to the ebony person still laying ontop of her.
"So… Sheogorath has finally ended his laughing fit and taken your soul. Unfortunate."
Excuse her! The only person who takes souls here is her. It's right in the Dragonborn handbook: consumes souls, marries Mephala, gifts endless amounts of bones and scales to the Daedric Prince, and breaks statues. Pretty sure there's a prophecy about that. That's how you know it's-
Her eyes widen, and she shoves the woman off of her. Mr. Blood Dragon, no!
Razor sharp talons embed in her stomach. The enormous claws rip apart her flimsy hide armor and the slightly less flimsy flesh underneath. Trapping her on its hooked bones.
Torrents of air rush past her ears, as both dragons ascend in a break-neck pace into the clear blue sky.
Ah. This could be bad. She forgot to steal the weapons from the fort. Rookie Dragonborn mistake.
"Dovahkiin! Un Grah Fent Kos Legendary!" Mr. Blood Dragon screams into her face. Serpentine skooma-addled eyes alight with joy and battle-lust. Jagged, barbed teeth yellow, and incredibly foul breath hit her, even through the air currents whipping about them.
She responds simply. "Fus." The concentrated Force throws her off the claw, but flicking an arm out, she grabs onto a scale. Ignoring the tearing sound as lots of red stuff flows out from her stomach.
Quick lesson, red stuff coming out of her is bad.
The tear continues in her arm, as muscles strain against her full weight suddenly held on a single limb, that split of muscles are forced even further, as she swings up and grabs ahold of a spine on the back of Mr. Blood Dragon.
"Grahmindol!" Trickery.
Hand by hand, she crawls up the dragon. Even as he full on spins in air. She hooks her legs and arms around the spiky spine of the dragon. The air scrapes against her throat, but the feeling of glass shards in her throat, counterbalance the feeling of her insides becoming outsides. And the burning numbness of her hands as she starts pulling off scales.
Blood dragons, she named them that, because they are particularly easy to bleed. Scales still young, and easy to rip from skin.
Crimson squirts in her face, so she jams the scale back in as a makeshift dagger.
"Hi Los Nid Dovah!" Agony is in every syllable of Mr. Blood Dragon. Loser. She is a real dragon. How many souls have you consumed, huh?
Grappling onto his flailing head, she takes in the view. For a moment, An endless blue, and ethereal clouds, marred only by the blood trailing past both of them, like fallen comets they are. Head dumb, not enough air.
The small ringed walls and buildings in the distance, there.
She does her spin on the whipping about long neck. And faces directly the dragon's left eye. The long slash of a pupil dilates, and she can see the quick reflexive eyelid coming to shield it. "Fus."
The fleshy, vulnerable, orb explodes.
Showering her with burning blood, but her own eyes are already pre-closed. You know, she should make sure- Spinning to the other side, wheeee, upside down Imperial City and sky… Wait. Is that her red or the dragon's red that's falling up? Ah, she made a joke. That quick pause ends with her pulling herself to the other side, and the torn scale jamming into the other wide-open-in-terror eye.
Descent! Mayday, mayday! They're coming down, and Mr. Blood Dragon's not running the show anymore!
Already burning scales and flesh flake off the mossy green to swirl into her. Healing her injuries and restoring her own torn and ruined flesh.
It's a very nice feeling. Euphoric, as someone who's wordier would describe it. Also, an excellent way to ensure she survives against literal demi-gods. Reading. She knows her stuff now. Dragons come from Daddy Akatosh. Dragons then go into her stomach.
But the momentum and speed of the dying dragon is rapidly angling downwards, a little off from her intended destination.
Can? Can she?
She tries. Twist scale-dagger. Okay. That's right, and that's left, so this must be downward. The immense wings of the dragon, jerk and twitch awfully, scales screeching against each other. Upwards it is. Now, how does she decelerate? Is there a rein she can pull?
Oh yeah!
"Fus."
Ow, ow, ow… That just sent her rocketing backwards. Should have done it the other direction-
…
"It is one thing to know of Akatosh's champions, their durability, their persistence. But to see it in action." Lips are licked, a small pink tongue slowly tastes the bloody red. "I believe that you deserve a reward."
She clambers out of the gaping ditch that the crashed bones and weight of loot created. Kicks off the head, frowns at the missing skulls on her leg ropes, and shoulder- she'll have to start over collecting dragon heads for Mephala. Shouldn't be too hard.
It's so convenient that dragons lose all their flesh, and scales. Yes, a few scales remain after the whole soul- thingy, but these fell off on the descent. The prick of annoyance that someone else may get her rightful loot is summarily ignored to rifle through the dust and snow kicked up. Ah, there it is. Halfway melted/digested gold. Some may call this junk, but she calls it treasure.
"Come here my Dragon-"
"No need. We're equal now." Tossing the gold at and other miscellaneous junk she finds in the dissipating body of the dragon at her companion. She says without pause. "Let's go, Mysterious Stranger. We should clear out a cave, or dungeon." Dragonborn needs a new weapon! Dragonborn would also like to stop in a town and shop.
The junk is dropped into the snow, where the gold hisses and bubbles on the clean canvas. "What? No. Stop. Recite your previous words."
No. She's too busy cleaning herself off with the snow. This is peak stealth. After her 75th wolf attack, those smelly wet dog people told her she should really just clean herself off. Something about smelling like a roasted bloody steak? Toasted scarlet wine?
"Is that your appellation of myself? Mysterious Stranger? Certainly apt, but would not a beautiful seductress, mistress of all, or even a gorgeous queen, be more suited? Have your words failed you, my Dragonborn?" Their voice is nice, but the words are nonsense.
She cocks her head, at the woman. The possessive doesn't bother her, she's everybody's dragonborn, but those titles… "You." She thumbs off the blood off her lip, what's the term for it? Ah. "Narcissist." Those titles only deserve to be laid at the feet of Mephala/V!
Said narcissist makes a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat. It's a pretty noise, but actual-Mephala's would be cuter.
Still. "But I like that." Narcissists are cute. All things that are like her future happiness are cute.
Stare directly, nod seriously. Lick blood off thumb.
Tasty… is it weird to want to taste V's blood? No, that makes perfect sense. Every single bit of the Aetherius/Oblivion to her Tamriel is perfect, and wonderful. Naturally it follows that they must be the most delectable, delicious snack.
Though… this could be the dragon part of her talking. She always gets the most unnatural instincts after absorbing a dragon's soul: Perching ominously on carved walls of words- she usually balances on top of signposts, kidnapping dumb city girls- Ysolda is still mad at her for that last one, eating large domesticated animals- the plains of Whiterun have never run emptier, basically… lots of fun stuff.
"Tasty? Me?" Rich, twinkling, stars fall out of the Mysterious Stranger's mouth. Laughter. "Oh my, what a strange beast you are."
She helpfully corrects her. "Dragon."
"Vala."
"Bless you." That sneeze must sound weird, because of the excellent vocal range this woman has. Mephala probably sneezes adorable poems. But, she wouldn't mind just a normal cute sneeze. Or any range in between. Or anything.
"And you are a walking headache." Red eyes jiggle up and down. No wait, that might be her head still spinning. She lost a lot of red. And her green is all the way down. Her blue is also draining. Hmm. That… In her professional Dragonborn experience. Is bad. How bad? Just bad. "My name. You may simply refer to me as Vala."
"Oh, you're like a little copy of Mephala -ala- Vala." Commitment right there. Maybe she should call herself Mephala's Dragonborn? Too long.
Facial muscles pull oddly, and the most forced smile she's ever seen, cracks open Vala. Tensed jawline, tendons pulled taut, lips paling- naturally blood red lips?- and the sound of grinding teeth. "Yes. A facsimile. Ha. Ha."
"You can call me V's future wife, or VFW for short! Or MFW. Luckiest woman alive." Hmm. Or dead.
"No."
…
They're about halfway down the mountains between, Skyrim and Cyrodil. The Jerall Mountains? Who's Jerall?
Close enough to the snowy town of Bruma. That the round cylinders and rectangles that define the city walls, are in plain sight. Plain sight beyond trees, snowfall, and terrain. Also, a lot of red from her head. Must have whacked against something on the way down.
Vala ignores her clever acronyms. And instead decides to slowly scrape, scrape her gaze around the surroundings.
Absent-mindedly, which sounds still oh so very lovely, from that false-V, the woman in black husks. "Tell me something. Dragonborn." The strange curl of the tongue and lips on the name, bothers her. In an itchy feeling up her neck. "You've forsaken Skyrim, forsaken destiny and fate, gods and deities alike, for merely a voice you only encountered twice."
She frowns. What is Vala trying to say? Is this a quest? Exposition for a quest? What's happening? Why is she being questioned? She's never questioned.
"I must know. Why?" The ebony maiden stops and faces her directly. So that lovely melody is directly transmitted to her ears. "If you are so deprived of sensuous tones, then many in the frigid land can requit your desires. Even one such as I… can satisfy your baser needs."
She blinks. "That's a dumb question."
"..."
Her eyes squint. "Are you trying to get rid of the competition? It's not going to work. My love is dragon-solid. Legendary dragon solid."
"Dragonborn, dragonborn. I do not doubt your… lust. But. You must see my view?" Stop. Stop licking your lips and smiling. And fluttering those cute spider-like eyes.
"You don't understand."
"I do not. That is precisely why I am inquiring. If you are not committed. Liable to be swayed by any luscious voice. Then." Magicka swirls around the woman. Bloody cloaks biting, and gnawing the air, melting the endless white. "Shall I be your reward instead?"
To be honest. She's very much lost on what the hell/lack of Mephala this woman is talking about. "No, thank you. People aren't rewards."
The magicka dies, and a fluff of snow lands onto the woman's ebony locks. Perfectly framing the shocked, cutely dumb look.
Hmm. How to explain. "You are… technically correct that I only have met Mephala twice. But, I don't even need more than once." She takes a step forward, and starts brushing the snow off Vala. "See, or hear… I had no choice but to fall in love with a Daedra I only met once. The you that you see now, are with now, is only possible because Mephala freed me. I am alive because of V, and V made me alive. So love is just a consequence of that."
A white dusting decorates strangely crimson cheeks, and while she gently smooths the burning skin- that feels like it leeches from her thumb- she states in no uncertain terms. "Just as I was freed, so I must free her."
"No matter how many I must slaughter, how many legends I will slay, legacies I will devour." A strange madness blazes to life. "Mephala will be happy."
…
…
Achoo!
Cute. How can anyone have such a cute snee- Ah.
She blinks, stares at her traveling companion- not an actual companion, but someone who's just sort of orbiting in the same ring around the world that is Mephala. Orbit- she tongues the word in her mouth. Yes. She orbits the dark star that is V.
Mysterious Stranger shoots her a pointed look. Or just a look. Hard to tell. Could be anything. Either way, not important.
"Why are you still staring at me?"
She blinks. Her? Who? She's not staring at the woman, she's trying to stare through her to see Mephala. See the beauty in everyone right? Naturally, that means that a bit of V is in everyone. Beauty equals V/Melphala. Simple. Logical.
This one just has it concentrated in the voice. And maybe other places, who knows. Mephala is her own standard of beauty.
"Oh~" Yes, Like that. Excellent job, fellow worshiper. Soon you can reach the hierarchy of Mephala's fanclub. It starts with the Dragonborn, and then everyone else below who can stay jealous of her. "Are you perhaps… Admiring my bountiful form?"
"Bountiful? Your throat is kind of slim. Cute, biteable. But not really ummm. Harvesty?" Also it appears weak. But that seems rude. Always best to compliment your followers. Keep those true, but rude thoughts in. It makes them complain less when you make them carry a truly back-breaking amount of Dwemer junk. Hmm. Doesn't look very strong. But, counterpoint. Stranger is wearing nothing but sheer fabrics. Means less weight on them, therefore more weight to be placed on them.
"Truly your mind is as incomprehensible as Akatosh's Dragonbreaks." The sar-sarcasm? Sardonicism? Something is in the voice. "Vivec would find a true friend in you."
"Thank you." People compliment her all the time. But it's nice to hear in a false-V voice. She should give the Daedric worshiper a gift. Hmm. What to give… She's not really a gift giver. A quest-completion giver is more accurate.
Stare. Stare.
Red eyes widen in surprise, and a peculiar glow shines in them. Kind of orangey red? Yellowy even? The particular glow that she's seen reflected in the firelight in the center of the Bannered Mare. Along with the grating tones of Mikael singing Ragnar the Red for the fiftieth time. Huh. She's kind of feeling that disgusting scrape against her skin right now. Except more painful. Very hot. Oh wow. That's hot. Now, that's hot-
Mysterious Stranger tackles her. Tumble, rumble, bumble. Suddenly, she's between a soft wonder and a fluffy place. And the scent of ashen Deathbells, and sweet Nightshade envelop her. It's a nice scent, she wants to nuzzle against it and lick, lick.
"Dragon!"
Nod. Up and down, show neck. Means yes. Still weird to show affirmation with the best place for a decapitation, but according to the bandits in Helgen, it is a sign of acceptance. Which actually makes a lot of sense, as they accepted her blade through their necks. Or their blades. And one bow. She nods again. "I am a dragon."
"No, there is a dragon!" Why is her fellow Mephala priestess trying to drown her in snow? She thought they established that there is and only will be, one true priestess of V. The competition ploy! What a diabolical maneuver. Admirable, there are no boundaries in this war they call love. No moral quandary too low to sink to. But she is going to have to beat the stuffing out of this woman. Competition is competition. Plus, punching the complete tar out of someone has been proven multiple times over, to change people's minds. And sometimes he even gets shiny looties, from it! The woman smothering her with snow, might one day become a supporter of her relationship with Mephala.
What were they talking about? Nods- dragons- Mephala is love- Dragons.
Shake. "Impossible, I don't need loot."
She tears her eyes away from the angry clear scarlet, to stare into the sky. A big flying lizard soars into view. Nope. See? The walking/talking/shouting/ loot bag is leaving. Clearly, her communication skills have developed to the point where she no longer even needs to speak to things anymore.
Mr- Hmm. Green colored, weak- Mr. Blood Dragon must have heard her, and decided very nicely that her regular murder and consumption of his tasty soul should be delayed.
She communicates all this through a rapid whirl of head motions to the ebony person still laying ontop of her.
"So… Sheogorath has finally ended his laughing fit and taken your soul. Unfortunate."
Excuse her! The only person who takes souls here is her. It's right in the Dragonborn handbook: consumes souls, marries Mephala, gifts endless amounts of bones and scales to the Daedric Prince, and breaks statues. Pretty sure there's a prophecy about that. That's how you know it's-
Her eyes widen, and she shoves the woman off of her. Mr. Blood Dragon, no!
Razor sharp talons embed in her stomach. The enormous claws rip apart her flimsy hide armor and the slightly less flimsy flesh underneath. Trapping her on its hooked bones.
Torrents of air rush past her ears, as both dragons ascend in a break-neck pace into the clear blue sky.
Ah. This could be bad. She forgot to steal the weapons from the fort. Rookie Dragonborn mistake.
"Dovahkiin! Un Grah Fent Kos Legendary!" Mr. Blood Dragon screams into her face. Serpentine skooma-addled eyes alight with joy and battle-lust. Jagged, barbed teeth yellow, and incredibly foul breath hit her, even through the air currents whipping about them.
She responds simply. "Fus." The concentrated Force throws her off the claw, but flicking an arm out, she grabs onto a scale. Ignoring the tearing sound as lots of red stuff flows out from her stomach.
Quick lesson, red stuff coming out of her is bad.
The tear continues in her arm, as muscles strain against her full weight suddenly held on a single limb, that split of muscles are forced even further, as she swings up and grabs ahold of a spine on the back of Mr. Blood Dragon.
"Grahmindol!" Trickery.
Hand by hand, she crawls up the dragon. Even as he full on spins in air. She hooks her legs and arms around the spiky spine of the dragon. The air scrapes against her throat, but the feeling of glass shards in her throat, counterbalance the feeling of her insides becoming outsides. And the burning numbness of her hands as she starts pulling off scales.
Blood dragons, she named them that, because they are particularly easy to bleed. Scales still young, and easy to rip from skin.
Crimson squirts in her face, so she jams the scale back in as a makeshift dagger.
"Hi Los Nid Dovah!" Agony is in every syllable of Mr. Blood Dragon. Loser. She is a real dragon. How many souls have you consumed, huh?
Grappling onto his flailing head, she takes in the view. For a moment, An endless blue, and ethereal clouds, marred only by the blood trailing past both of them, like fallen comets they are. Head dumb, not enough air.
The small ringed walls and buildings in the distance, there.
She does her spin on the whipping about long neck. And faces directly the dragon's left eye. The long slash of a pupil dilates, and she can see the quick reflexive eyelid coming to shield it. "Fus."
The fleshy, vulnerable, orb explodes.
Showering her with burning blood, but her own eyes are already pre-closed. You know, she should make sure- Spinning to the other side, wheeee, upside down Imperial City and sky… Wait. Is that her red or the dragon's red that's falling up? Ah, she made a joke. That quick pause ends with her pulling herself to the other side, and the torn scale jamming into the other wide-open-in-terror eye.
Descent! Mayday, mayday! They're coming down, and Mr. Blood Dragon's not running the show anymore!
Already burning scales and flesh flake off the mossy green to swirl into her. Healing her injuries and restoring her own torn and ruined flesh.
It's a very nice feeling. Euphoric, as someone who's wordier would describe it. Also, an excellent way to ensure she survives against literal demi-gods. Reading. She knows her stuff now. Dragons come from Daddy Akatosh. Dragons then go into her stomach.
But the momentum and speed of the dying dragon is rapidly angling downwards, a little off from her intended destination.
Can? Can she?
She tries. Twist scale-dagger. Okay. That's right, and that's left, so this must be downward. The immense wings of the dragon, jerk and twitch awfully, scales screeching against each other. Upwards it is. Now, how does she decelerate? Is there a rein she can pull?
Oh yeah!
"Fus."
Ow, ow, ow… That just sent her rocketing backwards. Should have done it the other direction-
…
"It is one thing to know of Akatosh's champions, their durability, their persistence. But to see it in action." Lips are licked, a small pink tongue slowly tastes the bloody red. "I believe that you deserve a reward."
She clambers out of the gaping ditch that the crashed bones and weight of loot created. Kicks off the head, frowns at the missing skulls on her leg ropes, and shoulder- she'll have to start over collecting dragon heads for Mephala. Shouldn't be too hard.
It's so convenient that dragons lose all their flesh, and scales. Yes, a few scales remain after the whole soul- thingy, but these fell off on the descent. The prick of annoyance that someone else may get her rightful loot is summarily ignored to rifle through the dust and snow kicked up. Ah, there it is. Halfway melted/digested gold. Some may call this junk, but she calls it treasure.
"Come here my Dragon-"
"No need. We're equal now." Tossing the gold at and other miscellaneous junk she finds in the dissipating body of the dragon at her companion. She says without pause. "Let's go, Mysterious Stranger. We should clear out a cave, or dungeon." Dragonborn needs a new weapon! Dragonborn would also like to stop in a town and shop.
The junk is dropped into the snow, where the gold hisses and bubbles on the clean canvas. "What? No. Stop. Recite your previous words."
No. She's too busy cleaning herself off with the snow. This is peak stealth. After her 75th wolf attack, those smelly wet dog people told her she should really just clean herself off. Something about smelling like a roasted bloody steak? Toasted scarlet wine?
"Is that your appellation of myself? Mysterious Stranger? Certainly apt, but would not a beautiful seductress, mistress of all, or even a gorgeous queen, be more suited? Have your words failed you, my Dragonborn?" Their voice is nice, but the words are nonsense.
She cocks her head, at the woman. The possessive doesn't bother her, she's everybody's dragonborn, but those titles… "You." She thumbs off the blood off her lip, what's the term for it? Ah. "Narcissist." Those titles only deserve to be laid at the feet of Mephala/V!
Said narcissist makes a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat. It's a pretty noise, but actual-Mephala's would be cuter.
Still. "But I like that." Narcissists are cute. All things that are like her future happiness are cute.
Stare directly, nod seriously. Lick blood off thumb.
Tasty… is it weird to want to taste V's blood? No, that makes perfect sense. Every single bit of the Aetherius/Oblivion to her Tamriel is perfect, and wonderful. Naturally it follows that they must be the most delectable, delicious snack.
Though… this could be the dragon part of her talking. She always gets the most unnatural instincts after absorbing a dragon's soul: Perching ominously on carved walls of words- she usually balances on top of signposts, kidnapping dumb city girls- Ysolda is still mad at her for that last one, eating large domesticated animals- the plains of Whiterun have never run emptier, basically… lots of fun stuff.
"Tasty? Me?" Rich, twinkling, stars fall out of the Mysterious Stranger's mouth. Laughter. "Oh my, what a strange beast you are."
She helpfully corrects her. "Dragon."
"Vala."
"Bless you." That sneeze must sound weird, because of the excellent vocal range this woman has. Mephala probably sneezes adorable poems. But, she wouldn't mind just a normal cute sneeze. Or any range in between. Or anything.
"And you are a walking headache." Red eyes jiggle up and down. No wait, that might be her head still spinning. She lost a lot of red. And her green is all the way down. Her blue is also draining. Hmm. That… In her professional Dragonborn experience. Is bad. How bad? Just bad. "My name. You may simply refer to me as Vala."
"Oh, you're like a little copy of Mephala -ala- Vala." Commitment right there. Maybe she should call herself Mephala's Dragonborn? Too long.
Facial muscles pull oddly, and the most forced smile she's ever seen, cracks open Vala. Tensed jawline, tendons pulled taut, lips paling- naturally blood red lips?- and the sound of grinding teeth. "Yes. A facsimile. Ha. Ha."
"You can call me V's future wife, or VFW for short! Or MFW. Luckiest woman alive." Hmm. Or dead.
"No."
…
They're about halfway down the mountains between, Skyrim and Cyrodil. The Jerall Mountains? Who's Jerall?
Close enough to the snowy town of Bruma. That the round cylinders and rectangles that define the city walls, are in plain sight. Plain sight beyond trees, snowfall, and terrain. Also, a lot of red from her head. Must have whacked against something on the way down.
Vala ignores her clever acronyms. And instead decides to slowly scrape, scrape her gaze around the surroundings.
Absent-mindedly, which sounds still oh so very lovely, from that false-V, the woman in black husks. "Tell me something. Dragonborn." The strange curl of the tongue and lips on the name, bothers her. In an itchy feeling up her neck. "You've forsaken Skyrim, forsaken destiny and fate, gods and deities alike, for merely a voice you only encountered twice."
She frowns. What is Vala trying to say? Is this a quest? Exposition for a quest? What's happening? Why is she being questioned? She's never questioned.
"I must know. Why?" The ebony maiden stops and faces her directly. So that lovely melody is directly transmitted to her ears. "If you are so deprived of sensuous tones, then many in the frigid land can requit your desires. Even one such as I… can satisfy your baser needs."
She blinks. "That's a dumb question."
"..."
Her eyes squint. "Are you trying to get rid of the competition? It's not going to work. My love is dragon-solid. Legendary dragon solid."
"Dragonborn, dragonborn. I do not doubt your… lust. But. You must see my view?" Stop. Stop licking your lips and smiling. And fluttering those cute spider-like eyes.
"You don't understand."
"I do not. That is precisely why I am inquiring. If you are not committed. Liable to be swayed by any luscious voice. Then." Magicka swirls around the woman. Bloody cloaks biting, and gnawing the air, melting the endless white. "Shall I be your reward instead?"
To be honest. She's very much lost on what the hell/lack of Mephala this woman is talking about. "No, thank you. People aren't rewards."
The magicka dies, and a fluff of snow lands onto the woman's ebony locks. Perfectly framing the shocked, cutely dumb look.
Hmm. How to explain. "You are… technically correct that I only have met Mephala twice. But, I don't even need more than once." She takes a step forward, and starts brushing the snow off Vala. "See, or hear… I had no choice but to fall in love with a Daedra I only met once. The you that you see now, are with now, is only possible because Mephala freed me. I am alive because of V, and V made me alive. So love is just a consequence of that."
A white dusting decorates strangely crimson cheeks, and while she gently smooths the burning skin- that feels like it leeches from her thumb- she states in no uncertain terms. "Just as I was freed, so I must free her."
"No matter how many I must slaughter, how many legends I will slay, legacies I will devour." A strange madness blazes to life. "Mephala will be happy."
…
Chapter 5: Kisses, assassins, and totally inappropriate amount of face holding
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 5: Kisses, assassins, and totally inappropriate amount of face holding
…
"Sithis sends his regards!" Says a random passerby on the street. She ducks another assassin's blade, strange. These guys only show up when she's in the middle of nowhere. And its' for sure one those guys, he's pulling on a hood and mask-
"The Morag Tong will never die!" Another assassin fires an arrow at the black and red one. She blinks.
"Void take you-" Another?
In their short entry into Bruma, it's been hired killer after killer. Frankly, she's never been more popular. And she's the Dragonborn. Staring at the ridiculous amount of black and red, vs chitin, Vala hums. A cheery funeral march tune. "It appears… Sithis has made his move." But the music stops, replaced by a lighthearted and airy breath.
"I don't remember offending a Sithis." She rubs her chin. Shadows and blades leap off rooftops, countered by wild magic, and viscous fumes of poison and blood fill the air.
"Some powers just prefer the status quo and will do anything. Anything~ to maintain their fragile lies." The townspeople of Bruma also stare slack jawed, too stunned by the sudden emergence of a truly impressive number of the near-forgotten guilds of death.
Vala steps forward, crushing an ebony spike into the throat of a dying assassin. "I imagine. That we'll face similar foes, in escalating fashion as we near the excess of the Empire."
"Cool." New weapon, get! She picks up the long dagger. And more loot-
Sharp, sweet, soft.
Liquid trickles in her mouth, and she swallows it. Chasing that soft, and pleasant warmth, along with the bite of that liquid.
"Eager. Eager." It's a cool chastising. More of a tease, and as her vision fades, and her limbs weaken, she catches the green tint on fangs peeking out of a slightly smiling mouth. Gently setting twin Massers. Crimson ovals mocking, laughing, just out of reach. The word, Smug, comes to mind. Smug? Smugbug? Smugspider?
"Do dream of me, Dragonborn."
Me…phala?
…
Hmm. This is weird. Definitely weird. She stares at the awfully colorful realm, she finds herself in. Colorful by the way of the lava and blood soaking her feet. And the strange arcs and sharp- not spiky- towers encircling her. Her eyes roam about the area, until they land on…
Halfway in the middle of chowing down on some sweetrolls, the androgynous figure in the center of this. Arena? gapes at her. Coughs, and sputters. "Fuck… You're definitely not supposed to be here!"
She checks her internal clock, according to her. Yes. She can be here. She's not trespassing or anything.
"Don't give me that lost, dumbass look! Fuck, just leave, and let me give a properly grand introduction-"
"Boring. Skip." She pokes the ground with her foot. Squishy. Squishy, squishy-
"Stop that!"
"Skip."
"You can't skip me! I'm the bloody, grand-Daedra-fucker of all Oblivion! Boethi-"
"Skip."
Oh, wait. This is one of those annoying Daedric Princes- no relation to the supremacy that is Mephala- that you can't fast-forward through. Like that weirdo tentacle guy, or that talking orb of light, or that other talking orb of light. Lots of talking orbs of light around. Might be a systematic issue in Skyrim.
Steeping off the coiled grey serpents, and sheathing the stupid looking- half serrated, half smooth-edged sword into a serpent's waiting mouth, the self-proclaimed 'Boethi-' jabs hands at her. "Let's get one thing straight, missy. You do not skip me."
Hmm. This tickles something in her head, but that could be the fact she's standing in a shallow pool of blood and lava. She feels like this person is supposed to be important. Not important in general, but important personally to her. Which isn't a lot of stuff, so if she's going by order of elimination. This isn't Mephala, and not Mephala's family, not Mephala's pets, not the servants, not the cultists, not the... Wait!
She narrows her eyes. "I remember now. You're my ultimate competition!"
Slap away accusing hands and clap those cheeks. "Boethia, of the dumb name!"
Squishy face stares at her, then at her hands. "Wha-"
"Shut up!" Surprisingly, the Daedric Prince does just that. "As your rival for Mephala's heart…"
She glares. "I have to fuck you."
"..." Slitted eyes of strange green, set into dusky pale skin, blink.
Nod. You can't kill Daedric Princes. Which normally wouldn't stop her. But while she can't accept other competition, this is competition that has allegedly already won Mephala's favor in the past. Therefore, there is a possibility that killing this prince, will make V sad. Unacceptable. But so is competition.
The simple solution to this conundrum.
Establish dominance. Seduce both. And utterly consume Boethiah. It all makes sense. Perfect sense. No broken hearts, and she wins.
"Sheo? SHEO!? Is this your fucking Wabbajack again?" Target begins screaming left and right but stays in her hands.
Hmm. The face-squishing didn't stop the talking. Ah! She knows how to shut up this prince. She steps forward, knocks away the steady leg of the prince, and doubles up on that. By catching the burning nape of the androgynous individual and crushing their lips together.
"MmmPPHhH?!" She snaps at the shrinking tongue, bites it and lets the hot blood fill their mouths. Licks the sharp, slaughterfish-like teeth of Boethiah, digs in between every triangular divot, thrusts against every last dollop of saliva and burning blood, and thoroughly dominates the completely confused prince/princess.
Don't stop the attack! Her hand lifts up a leg, and slams Boethiah down onto the lava. Pure snowy hair splays out like writhing tendrils, snakes… and that pristine white stains with red, and chars with lava, as she continues kissing, and pinning the Prince of Treason.
Time to slay the king. Heroes kill monsters. Men kill heroes. And Monsters kill men.
She swallows and devours each and every gasp and annoyed grunt, moans and frustrated noises, and she deflects and counters every weak attempt for freedom.
A hand claws at her back, ignore.
To the Daedra's credit, they do attempt to reverse the situation, by maneuvering their tongue in distracting patterns, and trying to suck onto hers. But please. This is the Dragonborn. If there's one thing, she utterly confident in, it's in her ability to use her mou-
A powerful kick sends her sliding back. Thick splashes and hisses of steaming life slows her skidding movement.
She thumbs away the broken strand of pink saliva. Hmm. Tastes like an assassin. Blood and war.
Incredulous, Boethiah stares at her. Shock and disbelief relax the fierce expression, before they lick their lips, and grins ferally. "Two Princes at once? Are you an avatar of Dibella?"
"One prince. You're only collateral." Her shoulders roll. Danger blinking, enemy indicated, prepare to calm(seduce).
"You'll find." The stone serpents slither and hiss back to encircle Boethiah. "That I am far more than collateral."
Feels like she failed a persuasion there. Or succeeded?
"Send Mephala my love." Wild laughter. The harsh, dual toned, throaty yet musical, joy echoes around the suddenly alight arena. "Nevermind, I'll tell her myself!"
The serpents coil, stone cracking and bleeding, then lunge forward. The blood tide follows them, and she's swept away in a flood. Free and violent elation pursue her down, down, up? Was that a cheese roll in the rush?
…
She's always woken up quickly. All at once like a cat. Her eyes languidly snap open and dilate. Her blue and green are fully drained- but regenerating. Red is topped off and Vala is sitting on top of her. Satisfied purring. And sleepy twitches. Cute. Strange that those flutters of fabric also twitch and shiver.
Hands of the nights are cupping her face, and red eyes are closed. Not… not the weirdest way to wake up. Crevasse and valleys mar ebony silk, so she kindly smoothes them out. She shifts her head left and right, a dimly lit tavern room, and the soft light crawls under the door, joined by murmurs of merriment and drunken play. Are those candles? She thought those only existed in dungeons.
Or as she calls them, loot zones.
Oh! Her love skill went up! The mental constellation winks at her. And she winks right back. Practice makes perfect.
Time to practice her sneak, how to get this woman off-
"Where did you end up, my little child of Akatosh?" Sharp nails tickle her temples. A vein throbs underneath the warning.
She purses her lips, remembers the wild taste of iron and ash, and like any true Dragonborn, decides to leave the conversation. "Kissing Boethiah." Huh. Her mouth moved with her permission. No, not like she's back on the script, but some deeper unknown consciousness receding in her, made the executive decision… That's new.
"I must have misheard you, My Dragonborn." Oh! The voice is a little hoarse, more breathy and the slight purrs and scratches of the vocal cord are a wonder to her ears. "Surely, you deceive me, ply your poor humour? The tightening of surprisingly strong legs on her stomach, make it kind of difficult to breathe. Wow, it's kind of warm in here. Her stomach's thrumming and her skin's abuzz with feverish heat.
"I never lie, and I don't know what humor is." Vala really is hot. Actually hot. Those aren't flame spells charging in long hands, right?
"... So you are confessing your sins." What sins? What even are sins? Does the Daedric worshiper mean crimes? Kind of pointing fingers in a glass ceiling, there. Hey. She's in love, not stupid. Mephala is hot sexy evil. Evil. Which may actually make her more sexy… Did the sexy come first? Or the evil?
"Sorry, mommy… I've been a bad girl?" Cheese. Cheese fills her mind. Cheese stabbed by narwhales riding an orc barking as a chicken.
Somehow, that appeases Vala, but also sets a switch off. What? What switch? Why was she thinking about cheese-
Wicked red light. Terrifying grin. Cute fangs. Why are those shadowy sashes floating? "I believe. That punishment is quite in order then."
"Ummm."
"Ohe yes. You will certainly be moaning my-"
Vala is interrupted by a loud boom. Both pair of eyes flick to the noise. The door cracks into splinters, and a lone man bursts in. His foot crunches the rest of the thick pine wood under steel.
Sheer determination and duty. "Stop right there, Criminal Scum!"
Frustration. Pure frustration emanates from Vala.
As for her? She's still confused. She doesn't remember committing any crimes. Like stealing, killing, stealing, or… killing?
The guard shouts. "Nobody breaks the law on my watch! You're all coming with me, and any stolen goods will be confiscated!"
Kay.
…
…
"Sithis sends his regards!" Says a random passerby on the street. She ducks another assassin's blade, strange. These guys only show up when she's in the middle of nowhere. And its' for sure one those guys, he's pulling on a hood and mask-
"The Morag Tong will never die!" Another assassin fires an arrow at the black and red one. She blinks.
"Void take you-" Another?
In their short entry into Bruma, it's been hired killer after killer. Frankly, she's never been more popular. And she's the Dragonborn. Staring at the ridiculous amount of black and red, vs chitin, Vala hums. A cheery funeral march tune. "It appears… Sithis has made his move." But the music stops, replaced by a lighthearted and airy breath.
"I don't remember offending a Sithis." She rubs her chin. Shadows and blades leap off rooftops, countered by wild magic, and viscous fumes of poison and blood fill the air.
"Some powers just prefer the status quo and will do anything. Anything~ to maintain their fragile lies." The townspeople of Bruma also stare slack jawed, too stunned by the sudden emergence of a truly impressive number of the near-forgotten guilds of death.
Vala steps forward, crushing an ebony spike into the throat of a dying assassin. "I imagine. That we'll face similar foes, in escalating fashion as we near the excess of the Empire."
"Cool." New weapon, get! She picks up the long dagger. And more loot-
Sharp, sweet, soft.
Liquid trickles in her mouth, and she swallows it. Chasing that soft, and pleasant warmth, along with the bite of that liquid.
"Eager. Eager." It's a cool chastising. More of a tease, and as her vision fades, and her limbs weaken, she catches the green tint on fangs peeking out of a slightly smiling mouth. Gently setting twin Massers. Crimson ovals mocking, laughing, just out of reach. The word, Smug, comes to mind. Smug? Smugbug? Smugspider?
"Do dream of me, Dragonborn."
Me…phala?
…
Hmm. This is weird. Definitely weird. She stares at the awfully colorful realm, she finds herself in. Colorful by the way of the lava and blood soaking her feet. And the strange arcs and sharp- not spiky- towers encircling her. Her eyes roam about the area, until they land on…
Halfway in the middle of chowing down on some sweetrolls, the androgynous figure in the center of this. Arena? gapes at her. Coughs, and sputters. "Fuck… You're definitely not supposed to be here!"
She checks her internal clock, according to her. Yes. She can be here. She's not trespassing or anything.
"Don't give me that lost, dumbass look! Fuck, just leave, and let me give a properly grand introduction-"
"Boring. Skip." She pokes the ground with her foot. Squishy. Squishy, squishy-
"Stop that!"
"Skip."
"You can't skip me! I'm the bloody, grand-Daedra-fucker of all Oblivion! Boethi-"
"Skip."
Oh, wait. This is one of those annoying Daedric Princes- no relation to the supremacy that is Mephala- that you can't fast-forward through. Like that weirdo tentacle guy, or that talking orb of light, or that other talking orb of light. Lots of talking orbs of light around. Might be a systematic issue in Skyrim.
Steeping off the coiled grey serpents, and sheathing the stupid looking- half serrated, half smooth-edged sword into a serpent's waiting mouth, the self-proclaimed 'Boethi-' jabs hands at her. "Let's get one thing straight, missy. You do not skip me."
Hmm. This tickles something in her head, but that could be the fact she's standing in a shallow pool of blood and lava. She feels like this person is supposed to be important. Not important in general, but important personally to her. Which isn't a lot of stuff, so if she's going by order of elimination. This isn't Mephala, and not Mephala's family, not Mephala's pets, not the servants, not the cultists, not the... Wait!
She narrows her eyes. "I remember now. You're my ultimate competition!"
Slap away accusing hands and clap those cheeks. "Boethia, of the dumb name!"
Squishy face stares at her, then at her hands. "Wha-"
"Shut up!" Surprisingly, the Daedric Prince does just that. "As your rival for Mephala's heart…"
She glares. "I have to fuck you."
"..." Slitted eyes of strange green, set into dusky pale skin, blink.
Nod. You can't kill Daedric Princes. Which normally wouldn't stop her. But while she can't accept other competition, this is competition that has allegedly already won Mephala's favor in the past. Therefore, there is a possibility that killing this prince, will make V sad. Unacceptable. But so is competition.
The simple solution to this conundrum.
Establish dominance. Seduce both. And utterly consume Boethiah. It all makes sense. Perfect sense. No broken hearts, and she wins.
"Sheo? SHEO!? Is this your fucking Wabbajack again?" Target begins screaming left and right but stays in her hands.
Hmm. The face-squishing didn't stop the talking. Ah! She knows how to shut up this prince. She steps forward, knocks away the steady leg of the prince, and doubles up on that. By catching the burning nape of the androgynous individual and crushing their lips together.
"MmmPPHhH?!" She snaps at the shrinking tongue, bites it and lets the hot blood fill their mouths. Licks the sharp, slaughterfish-like teeth of Boethiah, digs in between every triangular divot, thrusts against every last dollop of saliva and burning blood, and thoroughly dominates the completely confused prince/princess.
Don't stop the attack! Her hand lifts up a leg, and slams Boethiah down onto the lava. Pure snowy hair splays out like writhing tendrils, snakes… and that pristine white stains with red, and chars with lava, as she continues kissing, and pinning the Prince of Treason.
Time to slay the king. Heroes kill monsters. Men kill heroes. And Monsters kill men.
She swallows and devours each and every gasp and annoyed grunt, moans and frustrated noises, and she deflects and counters every weak attempt for freedom.
A hand claws at her back, ignore.
To the Daedra's credit, they do attempt to reverse the situation, by maneuvering their tongue in distracting patterns, and trying to suck onto hers. But please. This is the Dragonborn. If there's one thing, she utterly confident in, it's in her ability to use her mou-
A powerful kick sends her sliding back. Thick splashes and hisses of steaming life slows her skidding movement.
She thumbs away the broken strand of pink saliva. Hmm. Tastes like an assassin. Blood and war.
Incredulous, Boethiah stares at her. Shock and disbelief relax the fierce expression, before they lick their lips, and grins ferally. "Two Princes at once? Are you an avatar of Dibella?"
"One prince. You're only collateral." Her shoulders roll. Danger blinking, enemy indicated, prepare to calm(seduce).
"You'll find." The stone serpents slither and hiss back to encircle Boethiah. "That I am far more than collateral."
Feels like she failed a persuasion there. Or succeeded?
"Send Mephala my love." Wild laughter. The harsh, dual toned, throaty yet musical, joy echoes around the suddenly alight arena. "Nevermind, I'll tell her myself!"
The serpents coil, stone cracking and bleeding, then lunge forward. The blood tide follows them, and she's swept away in a flood. Free and violent elation pursue her down, down, up? Was that a cheese roll in the rush?
…
She's always woken up quickly. All at once like a cat. Her eyes languidly snap open and dilate. Her blue and green are fully drained- but regenerating. Red is topped off and Vala is sitting on top of her. Satisfied purring. And sleepy twitches. Cute. Strange that those flutters of fabric also twitch and shiver.
Hands of the nights are cupping her face, and red eyes are closed. Not… not the weirdest way to wake up. Crevasse and valleys mar ebony silk, so she kindly smoothes them out. She shifts her head left and right, a dimly lit tavern room, and the soft light crawls under the door, joined by murmurs of merriment and drunken play. Are those candles? She thought those only existed in dungeons.
Or as she calls them, loot zones.
Oh! Her love skill went up! The mental constellation winks at her. And she winks right back. Practice makes perfect.
Time to practice her sneak, how to get this woman off-
"Where did you end up, my little child of Akatosh?" Sharp nails tickle her temples. A vein throbs underneath the warning.
She purses her lips, remembers the wild taste of iron and ash, and like any true Dragonborn, decides to leave the conversation. "Kissing Boethiah." Huh. Her mouth moved with her permission. No, not like she's back on the script, but some deeper unknown consciousness receding in her, made the executive decision… That's new.
"I must have misheard you, My Dragonborn." Oh! The voice is a little hoarse, more breathy and the slight purrs and scratches of the vocal cord are a wonder to her ears. "Surely, you deceive me, ply your poor humour? The tightening of surprisingly strong legs on her stomach, make it kind of difficult to breathe. Wow, it's kind of warm in here. Her stomach's thrumming and her skin's abuzz with feverish heat.
"I never lie, and I don't know what humor is." Vala really is hot. Actually hot. Those aren't flame spells charging in long hands, right?
"... So you are confessing your sins." What sins? What even are sins? Does the Daedric worshiper mean crimes? Kind of pointing fingers in a glass ceiling, there. Hey. She's in love, not stupid. Mephala is hot sexy evil. Evil. Which may actually make her more sexy… Did the sexy come first? Or the evil?
"Sorry, mommy… I've been a bad girl?" Cheese. Cheese fills her mind. Cheese stabbed by narwhales riding an orc barking as a chicken.
Somehow, that appeases Vala, but also sets a switch off. What? What switch? Why was she thinking about cheese-
Wicked red light. Terrifying grin. Cute fangs. Why are those shadowy sashes floating? "I believe. That punishment is quite in order then."
"Ummm."
"Ohe yes. You will certainly be moaning my-"
Vala is interrupted by a loud boom. Both pair of eyes flick to the noise. The door cracks into splinters, and a lone man bursts in. His foot crunches the rest of the thick pine wood under steel.
Sheer determination and duty. "Stop right there, Criminal Scum!"
Frustration. Pure frustration emanates from Vala.
As for her? She's still confused. She doesn't remember committing any crimes. Like stealing, killing, stealing, or… killing?
The guard shouts. "Nobody breaks the law on my watch! You're all coming with me, and any stolen goods will be confiscated!"
Kay.
…
Chapter 6: The precipice of Madness!
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 6: The precipice of Madness!
…
She blows out air from her mouth again. "Bweeeeeh." By her count, that's the hundredth time she's done that, and yet this jail time still isn't over? The bed's been laid in and everything. What's a Dragonborn got to do, in order to fast-forward through this boring stuff?
The prison's not too different from any other fort's prison. Maybe with less bandits, and less loot overall, but not everything can be perfect. But ignoring that, the rocks are the same, the shit smells the same, and the furs on hay look just as moldy. And they're faintly damp.
Even the gray/slightly bluish tinge to everything, and the strange frozen in space- and-time dust particles hanging in the air, appear the same.
The yellow gourd speckled with red reverse-burns into the center of her personal space. White blues combining back to form a hooded male. Tall and… yellow. She sniffs.
Stench of arrogance, noxious from access half the province? The tang of tightly wound magicka? The near-empty feeling of the illusionary elf? Ridiculously angled and triangle-y face?
Altmer…
Anyone else feeling stabby?
"Dragonborn. You have strayed from the will of Aetherius. Your intended desire shall fail. The forces you meddle in are beyond you. Beyond mortal ken." Nerien. The name slams into her mind. Nerien. His name is Nerien.
It's in the waves of blue pouring from his body, the illusion's decay. Like it's chanting to her from a word wall, the word carves into her. She's suddenly got a headache. Bad translation, nasty stuff. As if someone pasted all those embalming fluids from Nordic tombs onto the word walls. The name is sticky and staticky, ill-formed and wrong. Time is wobbly, whammy and wobbly.
She doesn't respond, staring blankly at the man. Illusions can't listen, duh. They don't have ears. Or they do. But not real ears. And they're pointy to boot. Plus, Altmers never listen, not until she makes them.
It's probably because they're so tall, a facet of having their own head so far shoved up their asses that it actually forces them to grow taller to try and fit the enormous ego they try and fail to use.
All this talk of high elves and their superiority complex is kind of making her angry.
Nerien notices this, his expressionless face clearly set into a smirk! "The truth is painful. But your destiny lies elsewhere, champion of man. Serve Auri-El, prevent the WorldEater, and return to the Snow Tower."
Ugh. Big words, and fancy talk. He's not Mephala, this doesn't interest her. Become a quest-giver, or a merchant, something relevant already. It's a good thing that Mephala and her have forever, because with the rate she's going to get to the Imperial city, she'll have precisely missed an entire week with V!
Unacceptable, remove her obstacles right now, she's sprinting the rest of the way. No. She's going to force a dragon to take her there, under threat of depriving the demi-god of Mephala's words for eons to come.
"Are you so set on doom?"
"Set on dooming myself to the life where I'll never be worthy of Mephala's wife?" She mocks a chin rub. "Yes."
"This is no bard's fallacy…" He sighs, and the huff of air fails to move the trapped dots in air. "There is no possibility of such a life for you.The Aedra and the Daedra are incompatible. You will sooner be at each other's throats-"
"I'll certainly be on Mephala's." Closest place to that siren song? Sign her up. She can contract vampirism, right now. Hit her with that drain spell, Mama needs some fangs. Hey. Vala and her will match. That's kind of cool.
Head in his hand. "I detest the reality we live in. Our world's on the brink of collapse, and yet our grand savior has decided to abandon it all for an ancient evil." Mutters Nerien. His face pinches into more frustration. Careful there, any more pinching and his face might actually close off his airflow. "This should have been Quaranir's task. Not mine."
World seems pretty good from where she's at. Sounds like he's overreacting. It's just a dragon infestation. And Hey. Narrow eyes. That's her future' ancient evil to him. Only She gets to call V evil.
"Overreacting?! I am overreacting?!" Yeah, that's what she just thought. "Do you not understand the fragility of our current existence? Only one Tower remains! Only one pillar tethering our home from falling into the jaws of your little love problem! And it's at threat by our prophesized destroyer, and his only counter is sitting here in a Reman jail!"
She tilts her head. Tower? Pillar? Jaws… love problem, trace that back. At threat by some destroyer… This sounds sorta important. Like exposition. Or.
Or a quest? Future quest?
Nerien glares down at her, his hooked beaky nose, and hood following. "Stop this madness. Foolishness can only be ignored for so long. The Aedra are even now devising their manipulations. And the Daedra are not far behind. You have set into motion, a chain of apocalyptic tyranny and confusion."
So. What's she getting from this, is…
Is. Uhhh. Ummm. Errrr. Stuff is happening, and she caused it.
Cool. Cool.
But what does have to do with Mephala? Ah! Everything has to do with Mephala, all things lead back into Mephala. Obviously. Not even a real question.
Oh, he's still talking.
"-The Psijic Order will be watching. Return to your set-" Blah. Blah.
Skip.
…
How is she going to escape here.
Considering this, she paces around her cell, now fully returned to its damp torch-lit mustiness. Blue and grey only to be found in the bread that serves as her meal.
Her lockpick broke, and then it's smaller bits broke, and then finally her makeshift shiv broke.
In hindsight, she should have just held a guard hostage with her lockpick.
Wonder how Vala is doing?
…
The workings of those holier-than-thou Aedra are subtle, but painfully routine after so long.. Mehpala imagines this to be that hypocritical Stendarr's doing. The decay and rot of his Justice is all too apparent here. Or in all likelihood, this is that malformed Dragon of broken mind and time trying to rein in his newest avatar.
Strange.
The Dragonborn is far from a traditional mortal in the process of mantling. Her actions and personality don't reflect that draconic tyrannical layabout at all. Or did the ascension of Martin Septim knock some sense into Akatosh? No… Alduin is still around after all. He still seeks the destruction of Nirn and the return of his actual power. One half of his cracked psyche does, in some measure. The Chief Divine. Mephala smirks. It is no wonder that the weakest Daedric Prince, Peryite reflects a dragon.
The Daedric Prince lets herself out of the cell, leaving a desiccated guard rotting in her place.
But then again, on consideration of the Dragonborn's oddity, neither was the Champion of Cyrodil better. Any mortal who could become the Mad God, should- could never be so mundane.
A chittering, crawling swarm of arachnids follow in her wake. Small absences left for her feet to softly touch. Cleaned of the dirt and grime, the prison descends into terror. All along the walls, on the ceiling, on every single surface, thousands-millions of legs move in unison.
Usually, she would not be so overt. But in her frustration, this felt apropos to unleash upon the mortal realm. The few deaths and broken minds that result are child's play, to a Daedric prince. And her wrath is tame in comparison to what any other would have done…
Actually, a vicious impulse seizes her. Rough, and unformed, the idea sits in her head, a little canary singing softly. Waiting to hear its song and play the string of those fragile ties that mortals have.
Mephala breathes in, feels the swirl of malevolence, resentment and all those little fears and desires that so entice her followers, and rule her being. Feel her power swell and rise.
And decides quite, rightly. That lies and betrayal in Bruma deserve the light.
It starts simply, a whisper in the Countess's ear. That badgering fool, again and again of those collections of his. Why does he not have time for me, if he makes time for those Akaviri Relics?
Then a random passerby to the captain of the Imperial guard. "Varik said that?! Hah! I always knew he was too straightlaced. Bastard was holding out on us- Bring the goods to the catacombs."
In the destroyed, ruined sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood, a spider weaves a web. Mephala always found the unique, half arcane, half-Kynareth's creations of Solstheim to be particularly fascinating, but in truth she found most arachnids so. The crystal beasts of Atmora, the large leaping terrors of Valenwood, and their enormous web weaving cousins, webs so thick and great that they tie together the great oaks, entire cities of Bosmeri consumed and devoured by the great beasts. Lost in the endless mazes and labyrinths of the land taken by forests.
But it is those alien creatures of Solstheim that are summoned through the strange scrolls of weaved silk. Taking control of a deceased half burned, half rotted corpse of the last Speaker of the Bruma Sanctuary.
One of the Countess's handmaidens, her waiting servants gossips with one of the cooks. "No. The Count- At the twilight of dusk and dawn? …The Catacombs?"
Even now, the city of Bruma sits in terror, of fear from the revelation that the near-forgotten cults of death, and religious sacrifice still remain. Pieces move into place. The Captain of the guard, protector of the Count, worries and ponders over the rumors in the streets. He fears a resurgence of the Dark Brotherhood. Of the inclusion of the Morag Tong. Lost and isolated from the danger, Countess Bruma frets and frets over her husband's obsession. Believing it to be more than a simple collection… an illicit affair in the making. A shambling corpse makes its way to the Catacombs, painfully arranging a ritual to Sithis. And waits.
Three pieces will soon come together, and misinformation and half-formed beliefs arise. Twin accusations of conspiracy, of attempted assasination. Of secreted meetings, and of resentments long withheld.
Mephala smiles, and returns her attention to her blade, her focusing instrument to act in the world. Many of her fellow Princes are so blunt and wild with their power. But sometimes, even with her limited and diminished presence, she can twist and tie the string of fate to her dark design. If she was so inclined, it would not be so difficult to instigate a complete overturning of the world order.
Unlike Dagon and his invasion of Nirn. Which hilariously is a failure they still laugh off.
The Oblivion Crisis.
What a lark. Her favorite is the understanding that there is still a community of Argonians marauding around in Dagon's realm, combatting and distracting him. Even in the place of power, they still manage to survive and thrive in that hell. Truly, the only Prince to have his invasion fail so badly, that the defenders became the invaders. While she steps through the swarming prison, she softly chuckles at that. It's still humorous despite the dual centuries that have passed.
Finding the Dragonborn is easy enough, the webs and thread that cling onto her little devotee guide her easily enough. The delay this sojourn has caused them, forces the umbral facsimiles that surround her to writhe in annoyance. Impatience. Mephala the Spider, the Webspinner, the Plot Weaver is actually feeling impatient.
Fascinating what mortal bodies cause.
Dancing upon the stone lattice work, she saunters into view. Cleverly obscuring her masses, the keys jingle in hand. The spiders melt away, formations of magicka, and Daedric corruption returning to their creator.
Hypnotic, she draws the eye to her skilled appendages, fingers playing with the keys, the cool metal balanced and unbalanced.
There she is, all alone and in distress. Mephala licks her lips.
"Miss me?"
…
…
She blows out air from her mouth again. "Bweeeeeh." By her count, that's the hundredth time she's done that, and yet this jail time still isn't over? The bed's been laid in and everything. What's a Dragonborn got to do, in order to fast-forward through this boring stuff?
The prison's not too different from any other fort's prison. Maybe with less bandits, and less loot overall, but not everything can be perfect. But ignoring that, the rocks are the same, the shit smells the same, and the furs on hay look just as moldy. And they're faintly damp.
Even the gray/slightly bluish tinge to everything, and the strange frozen in space- and-time dust particles hanging in the air, appear the same.
The yellow gourd speckled with red reverse-burns into the center of her personal space. White blues combining back to form a hooded male. Tall and… yellow. She sniffs.
Stench of arrogance, noxious from access half the province? The tang of tightly wound magicka? The near-empty feeling of the illusionary elf? Ridiculously angled and triangle-y face?
Altmer…
Anyone else feeling stabby?
"Dragonborn. You have strayed from the will of Aetherius. Your intended desire shall fail. The forces you meddle in are beyond you. Beyond mortal ken." Nerien. The name slams into her mind. Nerien. His name is Nerien.
It's in the waves of blue pouring from his body, the illusion's decay. Like it's chanting to her from a word wall, the word carves into her. She's suddenly got a headache. Bad translation, nasty stuff. As if someone pasted all those embalming fluids from Nordic tombs onto the word walls. The name is sticky and staticky, ill-formed and wrong. Time is wobbly, whammy and wobbly.
She doesn't respond, staring blankly at the man. Illusions can't listen, duh. They don't have ears. Or they do. But not real ears. And they're pointy to boot. Plus, Altmers never listen, not until she makes them.
It's probably because they're so tall, a facet of having their own head so far shoved up their asses that it actually forces them to grow taller to try and fit the enormous ego they try and fail to use.
All this talk of high elves and their superiority complex is kind of making her angry.
Nerien notices this, his expressionless face clearly set into a smirk! "The truth is painful. But your destiny lies elsewhere, champion of man. Serve Auri-El, prevent the WorldEater, and return to the Snow Tower."
Ugh. Big words, and fancy talk. He's not Mephala, this doesn't interest her. Become a quest-giver, or a merchant, something relevant already. It's a good thing that Mephala and her have forever, because with the rate she's going to get to the Imperial city, she'll have precisely missed an entire week with V!
Unacceptable, remove her obstacles right now, she's sprinting the rest of the way. No. She's going to force a dragon to take her there, under threat of depriving the demi-god of Mephala's words for eons to come.
"Are you so set on doom?"
"Set on dooming myself to the life where I'll never be worthy of Mephala's wife?" She mocks a chin rub. "Yes."
"This is no bard's fallacy…" He sighs, and the huff of air fails to move the trapped dots in air. "There is no possibility of such a life for you.The Aedra and the Daedra are incompatible. You will sooner be at each other's throats-"
"I'll certainly be on Mephala's." Closest place to that siren song? Sign her up. She can contract vampirism, right now. Hit her with that drain spell, Mama needs some fangs. Hey. Vala and her will match. That's kind of cool.
Head in his hand. "I detest the reality we live in. Our world's on the brink of collapse, and yet our grand savior has decided to abandon it all for an ancient evil." Mutters Nerien. His face pinches into more frustration. Careful there, any more pinching and his face might actually close off his airflow. "This should have been Quaranir's task. Not mine."
World seems pretty good from where she's at. Sounds like he's overreacting. It's just a dragon infestation. And Hey. Narrow eyes. That's her future' ancient evil to him. Only She gets to call V evil.
"Overreacting?! I am overreacting?!" Yeah, that's what she just thought. "Do you not understand the fragility of our current existence? Only one Tower remains! Only one pillar tethering our home from falling into the jaws of your little love problem! And it's at threat by our prophesized destroyer, and his only counter is sitting here in a Reman jail!"
She tilts her head. Tower? Pillar? Jaws… love problem, trace that back. At threat by some destroyer… This sounds sorta important. Like exposition. Or.
Or a quest? Future quest?
Nerien glares down at her, his hooked beaky nose, and hood following. "Stop this madness. Foolishness can only be ignored for so long. The Aedra are even now devising their manipulations. And the Daedra are not far behind. You have set into motion, a chain of apocalyptic tyranny and confusion."
So. What's she getting from this, is…
Is. Uhhh. Ummm. Errrr. Stuff is happening, and she caused it.
Cool. Cool.
But what does have to do with Mephala? Ah! Everything has to do with Mephala, all things lead back into Mephala. Obviously. Not even a real question.
Oh, he's still talking.
"-The Psijic Order will be watching. Return to your set-" Blah. Blah.
Skip.
…
How is she going to escape here.
Considering this, she paces around her cell, now fully returned to its damp torch-lit mustiness. Blue and grey only to be found in the bread that serves as her meal.
Her lockpick broke, and then it's smaller bits broke, and then finally her makeshift shiv broke.
In hindsight, she should have just held a guard hostage with her lockpick.
Wonder how Vala is doing?
…
The workings of those holier-than-thou Aedra are subtle, but painfully routine after so long.. Mehpala imagines this to be that hypocritical Stendarr's doing. The decay and rot of his Justice is all too apparent here. Or in all likelihood, this is that malformed Dragon of broken mind and time trying to rein in his newest avatar.
Strange.
The Dragonborn is far from a traditional mortal in the process of mantling. Her actions and personality don't reflect that draconic tyrannical layabout at all. Or did the ascension of Martin Septim knock some sense into Akatosh? No… Alduin is still around after all. He still seeks the destruction of Nirn and the return of his actual power. One half of his cracked psyche does, in some measure. The Chief Divine. Mephala smirks. It is no wonder that the weakest Daedric Prince, Peryite reflects a dragon.
The Daedric Prince lets herself out of the cell, leaving a desiccated guard rotting in her place.
But then again, on consideration of the Dragonborn's oddity, neither was the Champion of Cyrodil better. Any mortal who could become the Mad God, should- could never be so mundane.
A chittering, crawling swarm of arachnids follow in her wake. Small absences left for her feet to softly touch. Cleaned of the dirt and grime, the prison descends into terror. All along the walls, on the ceiling, on every single surface, thousands-millions of legs move in unison.
Usually, she would not be so overt. But in her frustration, this felt apropos to unleash upon the mortal realm. The few deaths and broken minds that result are child's play, to a Daedric prince. And her wrath is tame in comparison to what any other would have done…
Actually, a vicious impulse seizes her. Rough, and unformed, the idea sits in her head, a little canary singing softly. Waiting to hear its song and play the string of those fragile ties that mortals have.
Mephala breathes in, feels the swirl of malevolence, resentment and all those little fears and desires that so entice her followers, and rule her being. Feel her power swell and rise.
And decides quite, rightly. That lies and betrayal in Bruma deserve the light.
It starts simply, a whisper in the Countess's ear. That badgering fool, again and again of those collections of his. Why does he not have time for me, if he makes time for those Akaviri Relics?
Then a random passerby to the captain of the Imperial guard. "Varik said that?! Hah! I always knew he was too straightlaced. Bastard was holding out on us- Bring the goods to the catacombs."
In the destroyed, ruined sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood, a spider weaves a web. Mephala always found the unique, half arcane, half-Kynareth's creations of Solstheim to be particularly fascinating, but in truth she found most arachnids so. The crystal beasts of Atmora, the large leaping terrors of Valenwood, and their enormous web weaving cousins, webs so thick and great that they tie together the great oaks, entire cities of Bosmeri consumed and devoured by the great beasts. Lost in the endless mazes and labyrinths of the land taken by forests.
But it is those alien creatures of Solstheim that are summoned through the strange scrolls of weaved silk. Taking control of a deceased half burned, half rotted corpse of the last Speaker of the Bruma Sanctuary.
One of the Countess's handmaidens, her waiting servants gossips with one of the cooks. "No. The Count- At the twilight of dusk and dawn? …The Catacombs?"
Even now, the city of Bruma sits in terror, of fear from the revelation that the near-forgotten cults of death, and religious sacrifice still remain. Pieces move into place. The Captain of the guard, protector of the Count, worries and ponders over the rumors in the streets. He fears a resurgence of the Dark Brotherhood. Of the inclusion of the Morag Tong. Lost and isolated from the danger, Countess Bruma frets and frets over her husband's obsession. Believing it to be more than a simple collection… an illicit affair in the making. A shambling corpse makes its way to the Catacombs, painfully arranging a ritual to Sithis. And waits.
Three pieces will soon come together, and misinformation and half-formed beliefs arise. Twin accusations of conspiracy, of attempted assasination. Of secreted meetings, and of resentments long withheld.
Mephala smiles, and returns her attention to her blade, her focusing instrument to act in the world. Many of her fellow Princes are so blunt and wild with their power. But sometimes, even with her limited and diminished presence, she can twist and tie the string of fate to her dark design. If she was so inclined, it would not be so difficult to instigate a complete overturning of the world order.
Unlike Dagon and his invasion of Nirn. Which hilariously is a failure they still laugh off.
The Oblivion Crisis.
What a lark. Her favorite is the understanding that there is still a community of Argonians marauding around in Dagon's realm, combatting and distracting him. Even in the place of power, they still manage to survive and thrive in that hell. Truly, the only Prince to have his invasion fail so badly, that the defenders became the invaders. While she steps through the swarming prison, she softly chuckles at that. It's still humorous despite the dual centuries that have passed.
Finding the Dragonborn is easy enough, the webs and thread that cling onto her little devotee guide her easily enough. The delay this sojourn has caused them, forces the umbral facsimiles that surround her to writhe in annoyance. Impatience. Mephala the Spider, the Webspinner, the Plot Weaver is actually feeling impatient.
Fascinating what mortal bodies cause.
Dancing upon the stone lattice work, she saunters into view. Cleverly obscuring her masses, the keys jingle in hand. The spiders melt away, formations of magicka, and Daedric corruption returning to their creator.
Hypnotic, she draws the eye to her skilled appendages, fingers playing with the keys, the cool metal balanced and unbalanced.
There she is, all alone and in distress. Mephala licks her lips.
"Miss me?"
…
Chapter 7: Quest for Satisfaction
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 7: Quest for Satisfaction
…
Miss her? It's been barely a few hours. In comparison she hasn't seen Lydia for a few weeks, and not a smidgen of concern goes out to her loyal housecarl. Rest in peace, first follower, please keep all that junk safe. And in the best comparison, she hasn't seen/felt/heard Mephala for about three days. And her entire being is agony at that thought, she's missing quality time with the Daedric Prince. Missing on freeing, listening, hearing, seeing, and wooing the night of her days.
Naturally, as Vala is not the Moon and stars, she just blinks in response. Wait. Her eyes do a once over on the woman, and her senses screech to a halt on the flicker of red on long, spidery hands. Only a splash of blood on shadows, but it sticks in her head. Like an ice spike through her skull, cold and numb. Or an arrow pin-cushioning her skin, broken off and barbed.
So when the Daedric worshiper uses the key, Vala is unprepared to handle the strange calm and focus that pushes the red-wide-eyes onto the nearest wall and drags up the stained hand, for a dead-serious examination.
Before a sultry or seductive line interrupts, she tracks the blood. In her frenzied state, the first method to determine the lack of injury presents itself, and she doesn't hesitate.
"What in Obli-li…" Whatever is said, is cut off by an delightful shriek, as a cold wet pink hunts away red.
She pulls back, tasting the iron, and swipes her thumb over slick skin. No wound… Something in her relaxes, unfurls itself. The taste of Deathbells sits in her tongue though, and she wonders if this counts as poisoning herself? If she samples more, can she determine more effects of the macabre rich purple?
For her alchemy skill then-
Slender dark ribbons grip her throat. Hauled up to an impassive face, so smooth that it shows the lack of emotion, or anything in that blank void. Vala only just loosens the leash around her neck. "Explain yourself."
What's there to explain? She's just being a good follower-leader. Ensuring the safety of her followers is a key trait of any good Dragonborn. Or just a dragon. Which is why Alduin sucks. Weirdo is reviving his legion, one at a time, and then leaving them to wreak havoc/be loot-bags while he hides from her. She's no General Tullius, but that sounds like a spectacularly poor strategy. Really, it's just making her stronger. At this point, she's sure she can kill a dragon in her sleep. No wonder that spiky overcompensation is running from her mighty dragonborn ways.
The tightening of those strangely animated ebony flutters force her to concentrate on the now, and say something. So she does. "There was blood, I cleaned it off."
Quest completed, what's her reward? Can it be air, please?
Air is a good reward, she likes air. She also likes not being tied up by her followers, usually, but this feels kind of…. Okay not terrible, might even go so far to call it mildly pleasant, so she won't Unrelenting Force Vala into the wall.
Vala ignores her pleading eyes, a devilish smirk crawls up. "Shall I take your behavior as an invitation? Implicit consent?"
Her enemy meter flickers in confusion, but she correspondingly ignores that. It's been malfunctioning all the time now. Her instincts haywire and lost when in proximity of the cultist of Mephala. She's already checked, double checked, and even completed the fabled-triple check of the woman for any desire or claim on Mephala. From her impeccable judgment, she can safely say Vala is not attracted to Mephala/V.
Terrible taste, really, but she guesses that having very similar voices would put some people off. Dumb people off.
A smooth chuckle. "Are you lost for words, my Dragonborn? I know of a solution for the quiet ones… All scream in the end."
Um, wha-
She's sharply yanked to the ground, just so catching herself in her hands. Ow -not really- but it's' the principle of the matter. This feels like it goes against the follower code. Aren't you supposed to only get in her way, help her kill stuff, and carry her burdens?
"One way…" A cold spike rests on her back, tracing painful and sharp circles. "Or another."
The heel finds her lower vertebrae, and digs into it, forcing her forward. An instinctual, movement to relieve the pressure. That's her body's instincts, but in her mind, the instincts and half-formed, malformed, and rapidly decaying into drooling messy thoughts; shout something else entirely. Something anathema to her existence, to her reality as a Dragonborn…. Quests?
That terrible, wonderful voice sings. "Since you enjoy licking so much-"
Quests. If she gives in here, she'll be failing a quest. And she's never ever failed a quest in her short existence, and she's not about to start now! She's not exactly sure what Vala is trying to do here, or why she's so happy to go along with it, but quests over followers!
She surges up instead, heedless of the raking stiletto on her back- flexible. And reverses the situation, flexing her throat against choking black. And she stares Vala down in equal standing.
Think of Vala like Mephala, both are capable and masterful seductresses, well attuned to the desires and shameful wants of mortals, puppeteers of secrets, always in control.
Surprise, rationality, logic, and selflessness. Genuine.
Right now, surprise is far from Vala's crimson orbs, only sadism and frustration. Shown through the tightened corners of her eyes, and the mien of: a child denied their favorite sweet.
First. Compliment. "This is very hot, and I'm incredibly attracted to you, right now."
Satisfaction rolls of the figure in ebony.
Second. Follow up with denial. "But that is just because of your great resemblance to the love of my life, Mephala. And unfortunately, she's the only one for me. It would be doing both you and me a disservice if I did anything to suggest otherwise."
Vala opens her mouth, shifts her jaw, but no words come out.
Third, cup and sooth tense and tight hands. At the same time loosening the bonds on her neck. "I see you as a treasured companion, and am very happy you are okay."
Fourth, smoothly disengage, and leave-
"Kissing." Vala doesn't give up, and snakes lithe arms around her. "You kissed Boethiah, does that not fall under a lack of commitment to Mephala?" Her denial and explanation, that no, it is in fact the opposite, begins to rush out- "You don't have to say anything, my Dragonborn, I understand perfectly well."
Vala does? It's pretty complicated, and involves some chicanery to wrap your head around, but it all checks out, so she is ready to explain and defend the point at any time. Even if it's while Vala hangs off her back, and is really really close to her.
"You see Boethiah as a necessary part in your flirtation." Or Val can do it for her. Oh, not done yet, gotcha, she can wait. "Then. Why not see me as likewise?"
That voice in her ear, its' melting her head! She can't think straight, or think of anything besides the heat surrounding her and the dragonfire starting to travel throughout her own body.
"Practice makes perfect… Is that not what you say?" Vala nips at her ear, and her eyes go dizzy.
"If I am so similar; Practice with me. Practice until… You become the perfect, greatest, most unforgettable lover for Mephala."
There were reasons she was resisting, but at the moment. At the moment, they 're being drowned out by the sweet-wicked whispers by her head, the soft warmth weighing on her, and. And.
She swallows heavily, and tries for that very last bit of resistance she can put up. "O-Only kissing."
Vala smiles against her cheek. "You can try."
Quest failed successfully.
…
A.N.
... I feel like I have to say, this is also on Questionable Questing. And that's all I'll say.
…
Miss her? It's been barely a few hours. In comparison she hasn't seen Lydia for a few weeks, and not a smidgen of concern goes out to her loyal housecarl. Rest in peace, first follower, please keep all that junk safe. And in the best comparison, she hasn't seen/felt/heard Mephala for about three days. And her entire being is agony at that thought, she's missing quality time with the Daedric Prince. Missing on freeing, listening, hearing, seeing, and wooing the night of her days.
Naturally, as Vala is not the Moon and stars, she just blinks in response. Wait. Her eyes do a once over on the woman, and her senses screech to a halt on the flicker of red on long, spidery hands. Only a splash of blood on shadows, but it sticks in her head. Like an ice spike through her skull, cold and numb. Or an arrow pin-cushioning her skin, broken off and barbed.
So when the Daedric worshiper uses the key, Vala is unprepared to handle the strange calm and focus that pushes the red-wide-eyes onto the nearest wall and drags up the stained hand, for a dead-serious examination.
Before a sultry or seductive line interrupts, she tracks the blood. In her frenzied state, the first method to determine the lack of injury presents itself, and she doesn't hesitate.
"What in Obli-li…" Whatever is said, is cut off by an delightful shriek, as a cold wet pink hunts away red.
She pulls back, tasting the iron, and swipes her thumb over slick skin. No wound… Something in her relaxes, unfurls itself. The taste of Deathbells sits in her tongue though, and she wonders if this counts as poisoning herself? If she samples more, can she determine more effects of the macabre rich purple?
For her alchemy skill then-
Slender dark ribbons grip her throat. Hauled up to an impassive face, so smooth that it shows the lack of emotion, or anything in that blank void. Vala only just loosens the leash around her neck. "Explain yourself."
What's there to explain? She's just being a good follower-leader. Ensuring the safety of her followers is a key trait of any good Dragonborn. Or just a dragon. Which is why Alduin sucks. Weirdo is reviving his legion, one at a time, and then leaving them to wreak havoc/be loot-bags while he hides from her. She's no General Tullius, but that sounds like a spectacularly poor strategy. Really, it's just making her stronger. At this point, she's sure she can kill a dragon in her sleep. No wonder that spiky overcompensation is running from her mighty dragonborn ways.
The tightening of those strangely animated ebony flutters force her to concentrate on the now, and say something. So she does. "There was blood, I cleaned it off."
Quest completed, what's her reward? Can it be air, please?
Air is a good reward, she likes air. She also likes not being tied up by her followers, usually, but this feels kind of…. Okay not terrible, might even go so far to call it mildly pleasant, so she won't Unrelenting Force Vala into the wall.
Vala ignores her pleading eyes, a devilish smirk crawls up. "Shall I take your behavior as an invitation? Implicit consent?"
Her enemy meter flickers in confusion, but she correspondingly ignores that. It's been malfunctioning all the time now. Her instincts haywire and lost when in proximity of the cultist of Mephala. She's already checked, double checked, and even completed the fabled-triple check of the woman for any desire or claim on Mephala. From her impeccable judgment, she can safely say Vala is not attracted to Mephala/V.
Terrible taste, really, but she guesses that having very similar voices would put some people off. Dumb people off.
A smooth chuckle. "Are you lost for words, my Dragonborn? I know of a solution for the quiet ones… All scream in the end."
Um, wha-
She's sharply yanked to the ground, just so catching herself in her hands. Ow -not really- but it's' the principle of the matter. This feels like it goes against the follower code. Aren't you supposed to only get in her way, help her kill stuff, and carry her burdens?
"One way…" A cold spike rests on her back, tracing painful and sharp circles. "Or another."
The heel finds her lower vertebrae, and digs into it, forcing her forward. An instinctual, movement to relieve the pressure. That's her body's instincts, but in her mind, the instincts and half-formed, malformed, and rapidly decaying into drooling messy thoughts; shout something else entirely. Something anathema to her existence, to her reality as a Dragonborn…. Quests?
That terrible, wonderful voice sings. "Since you enjoy licking so much-"
Quests. If she gives in here, she'll be failing a quest. And she's never ever failed a quest in her short existence, and she's not about to start now! She's not exactly sure what Vala is trying to do here, or why she's so happy to go along with it, but quests over followers!
She surges up instead, heedless of the raking stiletto on her back- flexible. And reverses the situation, flexing her throat against choking black. And she stares Vala down in equal standing.
Think of Vala like Mephala, both are capable and masterful seductresses, well attuned to the desires and shameful wants of mortals, puppeteers of secrets, always in control.
Surprise, rationality, logic, and selflessness. Genuine.
Right now, surprise is far from Vala's crimson orbs, only sadism and frustration. Shown through the tightened corners of her eyes, and the mien of: a child denied their favorite sweet.
First. Compliment. "This is very hot, and I'm incredibly attracted to you, right now."
Satisfaction rolls of the figure in ebony.
Second. Follow up with denial. "But that is just because of your great resemblance to the love of my life, Mephala. And unfortunately, she's the only one for me. It would be doing both you and me a disservice if I did anything to suggest otherwise."
Vala opens her mouth, shifts her jaw, but no words come out.
Third, cup and sooth tense and tight hands. At the same time loosening the bonds on her neck. "I see you as a treasured companion, and am very happy you are okay."
Fourth, smoothly disengage, and leave-
"Kissing." Vala doesn't give up, and snakes lithe arms around her. "You kissed Boethiah, does that not fall under a lack of commitment to Mephala?" Her denial and explanation, that no, it is in fact the opposite, begins to rush out- "You don't have to say anything, my Dragonborn, I understand perfectly well."
Vala does? It's pretty complicated, and involves some chicanery to wrap your head around, but it all checks out, so she is ready to explain and defend the point at any time. Even if it's while Vala hangs off her back, and is really really close to her.
"You see Boethiah as a necessary part in your flirtation." Or Val can do it for her. Oh, not done yet, gotcha, she can wait. "Then. Why not see me as likewise?"
That voice in her ear, its' melting her head! She can't think straight, or think of anything besides the heat surrounding her and the dragonfire starting to travel throughout her own body.
"Practice makes perfect… Is that not what you say?" Vala nips at her ear, and her eyes go dizzy.
"If I am so similar; Practice with me. Practice until… You become the perfect, greatest, most unforgettable lover for Mephala."
There were reasons she was resisting, but at the moment. At the moment, they 're being drowned out by the sweet-wicked whispers by her head, the soft warmth weighing on her, and. And.
She swallows heavily, and tries for that very last bit of resistance she can put up. "O-Only kissing."
Vala smiles against her cheek. "You can try."
Quest failed successfully.
…
A.N.
... I feel like I have to say, this is also on Questionable Questing. And that's all I'll say.
Chapter 8: Who's the biggest, baddest, badass?
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 8: Who's the biggest, baddest, badass?
…
What she's learned, Vala really enjoys slow kissing. Long, gentle, kisses that seem to never end. Soft kisses, loving licks, endless explorations of mouths and sensations, Vala is incredibly weak to. Good, from it seems, that is her specialty.
What Vala learned, the Dragonborn has no regard for either exhaustion or moderation. The journey is constantly peppered in with stolen moments, and the insatiable appetite of one Missing-in-Action Savior of Tamriel.
Dragons, as it turns out, are terrible at self-control.
No matter the situation or the palace, she finds no fatigue or boredom in delving into Vala's voice. Or at least where it originates from, partially. Fighting off a pair of Frost Troll, so old and strong that they must have been cast out from the eras before her, spit out from the ripping spikes and the whirling blades of time, unravaged and unmarked by the passing of Empires.
But the way Vala's face curves in sadistic delight as the cultist sets the beasts against each other, now that's hot. And that delight is swallowed whole by the Dragonborn.
The fight, completely forgotten until the surviving frost troll tears her from Vala. Rude and mean.
Hey! She was just about to try holding the jaw and controlling the pace! But also letting Vala reach/beg for more- do you understand the sheer disappointment you have causes her?
That's it. This frost troll is about to experience the Dragonborn special.
Gratuitously, improbably, powerful smackdowns and killing blows. First, she'll cut the tendons of the snowback, kick out his weakened leg before it can heal, and then Fire Breath it too for good measure, and as the pathetic waste that dared to interrupt her kissing time tries to stand, she'll saw its' head off with her stolen dagger.
Sure, blood and troll fat will get everywhere- and nothing stinks like the filthy monsters- except Chaurus/Falmer. Although surprisingly, dragons smell pretty nice, something that somehow… smells like time. Yes, just time. Very timey. Time is a scent, you can trust her on that. On the Mephala scale, that would be a 7/10. Vala's a 9/10.
Trolls, however, are negative 100 for daring to have the indignity of existing in this world with her. Call her the Dragonborn, quest-completer, and. Part-time troll exterminator.
Her dagger flashes out to cut the tendons, her easy avoidance of the clumsy, but flesh-rending blows of the enormous troll giving her access to the lower half…
Clang.
She hit something. And not bone. What? Don't tell her this bastard's got armor beneath his skin! That's. Uh. Kind of a cool idea, like Dragonscales but on the inside. Now that she's thinking about it, she should try and do something similar. Mephala knows, she collects enough of the free, but heavy, loot. Yeah, she's using Mephala as an exclamation, so what? Do people not use their object of worship as an exclamation? Nothing weird about it.
She ignores the warrior coming behind the troll, running up the back and leaping high in the air to deliver an incredible blow with a golden Akaviri blade shining in the pale sunlight, a perfectly circular arc of the blade- flames roaring out and painting the world in autumn for a moment- then a flip in the air to land heroically in front of her. The Frost Troll's head sliding off its smoothly cut neck, the gargantuan biped stumbles back a few steps, and falls with a mighty thump in the snow. A flurry of flung dazzling white dusts the warrior.
All of which is ignored, and utterly dismissed.
She wants kisses.
"Feast your eyes upon the greatest warrior in all the realms! The Downfall of Tyrants! The End of nations. Devourer of Trinimac! Queen of Destruction. God of the Chimer, and the King of the… King of the…" The androgynous warrior trails off. Slitted eyes disbelieving of the Dragonborn taking advantage of a gentlemanly gesture to help Vala up, into a passionate embrace.
"Hey." She wonders if they're snowberries around?
"Hey, c'mon, I'm right here." Mmmhm. Tasty, why is Vala's mouth so tasty? If bad breath is so bad, then the cure is obviously right here. And these fangs- "I'm Boethiah, literal Daedric prince? Your 'Ultimate Competition?'"- These fangs are so cute, but so sharp. She loves them. They're incredible, amazing, 10/10 out of incisors. Whatever incisors are.
"Mephala? Is that you? By the blood of my non-existent ancestors, you stole my idea? Fucking dammit. " The sound of an angry stab, and another, a few more. And one final one- Nope there goes another shlick sound. "Always stealing my ideas, my titles, and even my rightful champions."
She blinks, and reluctantly pulls away from Vala. What? Did someone say Mephala?
Oh, when did Boethiah get here?
"Now you notice me? Bout time." That dual-toned voice- huh- sounds kind of off. Weird. Wonder why that is. Maybe some sort of issue of being in Nirn? Weird.
Better get back to making that false-Mephala voice gasp, and lose its composure.
But first, a question. "How are you here, anyway? I thought you guys got stuck because of that Martin Septim guy?"
Boethiah does a fancy spinny thing with their sword and sheathes it on their belt. Clearly satisfied with themself, they look towards the twin reactions of nonchalance and indifference to the motion. "Tch. Yeah, don't even get me started on that shitwad. I'm barely at a fraction of myself. Feel like I'm stuffed in a bottle of the kwama pile you'd call mead."
Hmm. Daedric Princes can come to Nirn, even at a reduced version? Huh. "Does… that mean Mephala can do that too?"
"..."
"..."
Boethiah stares at her. She stares right back. That thin slash of a pupil surrounded by writhing vipers moves to Vala. And then back. To the V cultist, to her.
Finally, they break the cycle by taking out a dagger on their belt- she notices an impressive amount of weapons on their person, smart, but that means less room for loot- and stabs it straight through their palm.
Not even a cry or scream at the wound, and everyone just watches: she does nothing because it's obvious that Boethiah is simply testing out their armor capabilities on their open skin. How's the red-loss reduction on that? And Vala because the ebony woman is too busy with not being thoroughly kissed senseless for the first time in three days.
The stark brackish blood floods out of the stab and burns through the snow. "Huh. No, I guess Vaermina wouldn't be giving me such a nice dream."
The dark elf grins, crookedly. "Fuck it, I'm in. Let's see how this crisis implodes on itself."
Well yeah, they're in. She's going to fuck/make love to them/utterly charm and captivate the warrior. Just normal Dragonborn things to do.
You know, this is a good thing! She can practice her new skills from her diligent, focused, practice onto the Daedric lover of Mephala! This is amazing- she's got a new benchmark to see how far she's improving.
A pinch on her arm, causes her to face the pincher. Vala. Crimson voids trap her, pursed lips. Ah, she gets it, back to the fun-
"You have no words to say to me? No questions to be questioned?"
She thinks about it, really thinks about it, looks at Boethiah. Who waves cheekily and somehow, that skewed grin grows even wider. Then looks back onto Vala, the cultist of Mephala/V.
"Just one."
A complicated expression, that she can make no heads nor tails of, flickers onto Vala.
Someone sucks in a bated breath.
"Can you kiss two people at once?"
…
Ow. Rub snow onto sore cheeks, pout a little. Why did Vala viciously attack her cheeks? She took serious red damage! Which is bad, if her red runs out, then she'll be weak and tired like how she feels when she runs out of green and blue, respectively. Red loss is also a good indicator of pain, the more empty she gets, the more painful and agonized she feels. Pretty cool instinct system, right?
Right.
Boethiah throws an arm around her. Corded and heavy from constant combat, the scars and roughness of the skin prove it to her.
"See the bright side of this. She may be truly furious… however in your distress and deficiency, it's an excellent staging ground for your rebellion." And she throws the arm right off, frowning at the two-faced Prince. She kind of hates that grandiose, announcing tone. Kind of? No, she really hates it.
"Talk normally."
"I am, this is my true vocal pattern. What you heard and witnessed before is merely delusions. Born from the machinations of the Mad God." The sharp-angled eyes, and the classic dark elf sneer, both plaster themselves on that face. Impassively. Annoyingly.
Hmm. She's never had a lying follower before. Or a dishonest one. This is new.
And… Interesting.
But also, that arrogance is reminding her of the Thalmor. Thalmor that she exclusively slaughters to the last, and then ends. Decisively. So when her hand draws back, it comes forward as a fist crashing into Boethiah's nose.
"Ah. Sorry, my hand slipped." True. An honest mistake, anyone can make. Really it's their fault for sounding so snobby.
"You piece of skeever shit- Molag's tits, that actually hurt!" Clutching their bleeding nose, Boethiah straightens up, and does an impressive death glare at her.
The second worst one she ever received. The top one is still that time a cabbage farmer tried to vengeance her. Just like before, she does her very best. "Sowwy."
"..."
"I'm willy sowwy."
"The fuck is wrong with you." It's not even anger, it's just pure confusion. "S'wit," tacks on Boethiah, more conversationally than anything. Like they need to add an insult. That's... kind of cutely dumb.
Cross arms, do her best Vala smirk. "Feels wrong, doesn't it?"
The golden katana comes out with another flourish, and the tip stabs the air in front of her eyes. Serpentine eyes paralyze her in place, something in her frozen by primal instinct. "You know… I just remembered. I haven't gutted you on my blade yet, for daring to reach into My Arena and try and dominate me."
Boethiah's body erupts into black vapors. Ink swallows the Daedra whole, only viridian left in from the formless mass.
"And that. Just feels wrong."
…
…
What she's learned, Vala really enjoys slow kissing. Long, gentle, kisses that seem to never end. Soft kisses, loving licks, endless explorations of mouths and sensations, Vala is incredibly weak to. Good, from it seems, that is her specialty.
What Vala learned, the Dragonborn has no regard for either exhaustion or moderation. The journey is constantly peppered in with stolen moments, and the insatiable appetite of one Missing-in-Action Savior of Tamriel.
Dragons, as it turns out, are terrible at self-control.
No matter the situation or the palace, she finds no fatigue or boredom in delving into Vala's voice. Or at least where it originates from, partially. Fighting off a pair of Frost Troll, so old and strong that they must have been cast out from the eras before her, spit out from the ripping spikes and the whirling blades of time, unravaged and unmarked by the passing of Empires.
But the way Vala's face curves in sadistic delight as the cultist sets the beasts against each other, now that's hot. And that delight is swallowed whole by the Dragonborn.
The fight, completely forgotten until the surviving frost troll tears her from Vala. Rude and mean.
Hey! She was just about to try holding the jaw and controlling the pace! But also letting Vala reach/beg for more- do you understand the sheer disappointment you have causes her?
That's it. This frost troll is about to experience the Dragonborn special.
Gratuitously, improbably, powerful smackdowns and killing blows. First, she'll cut the tendons of the snowback, kick out his weakened leg before it can heal, and then Fire Breath it too for good measure, and as the pathetic waste that dared to interrupt her kissing time tries to stand, she'll saw its' head off with her stolen dagger.
Sure, blood and troll fat will get everywhere- and nothing stinks like the filthy monsters- except Chaurus/Falmer. Although surprisingly, dragons smell pretty nice, something that somehow… smells like time. Yes, just time. Very timey. Time is a scent, you can trust her on that. On the Mephala scale, that would be a 7/10. Vala's a 9/10.
Trolls, however, are negative 100 for daring to have the indignity of existing in this world with her. Call her the Dragonborn, quest-completer, and. Part-time troll exterminator.
Her dagger flashes out to cut the tendons, her easy avoidance of the clumsy, but flesh-rending blows of the enormous troll giving her access to the lower half…
Clang.
She hit something. And not bone. What? Don't tell her this bastard's got armor beneath his skin! That's. Uh. Kind of a cool idea, like Dragonscales but on the inside. Now that she's thinking about it, she should try and do something similar. Mephala knows, she collects enough of the free, but heavy, loot. Yeah, she's using Mephala as an exclamation, so what? Do people not use their object of worship as an exclamation? Nothing weird about it.
She ignores the warrior coming behind the troll, running up the back and leaping high in the air to deliver an incredible blow with a golden Akaviri blade shining in the pale sunlight, a perfectly circular arc of the blade- flames roaring out and painting the world in autumn for a moment- then a flip in the air to land heroically in front of her. The Frost Troll's head sliding off its smoothly cut neck, the gargantuan biped stumbles back a few steps, and falls with a mighty thump in the snow. A flurry of flung dazzling white dusts the warrior.
All of which is ignored, and utterly dismissed.
She wants kisses.
"Feast your eyes upon the greatest warrior in all the realms! The Downfall of Tyrants! The End of nations. Devourer of Trinimac! Queen of Destruction. God of the Chimer, and the King of the… King of the…" The androgynous warrior trails off. Slitted eyes disbelieving of the Dragonborn taking advantage of a gentlemanly gesture to help Vala up, into a passionate embrace.
"Hey." She wonders if they're snowberries around?
"Hey, c'mon, I'm right here." Mmmhm. Tasty, why is Vala's mouth so tasty? If bad breath is so bad, then the cure is obviously right here. And these fangs- "I'm Boethiah, literal Daedric prince? Your 'Ultimate Competition?'"- These fangs are so cute, but so sharp. She loves them. They're incredible, amazing, 10/10 out of incisors. Whatever incisors are.
"Mephala? Is that you? By the blood of my non-existent ancestors, you stole my idea? Fucking dammit. " The sound of an angry stab, and another, a few more. And one final one- Nope there goes another shlick sound. "Always stealing my ideas, my titles, and even my rightful champions."
She blinks, and reluctantly pulls away from Vala. What? Did someone say Mephala?
Oh, when did Boethiah get here?
"Now you notice me? Bout time." That dual-toned voice- huh- sounds kind of off. Weird. Wonder why that is. Maybe some sort of issue of being in Nirn? Weird.
Better get back to making that false-Mephala voice gasp, and lose its composure.
But first, a question. "How are you here, anyway? I thought you guys got stuck because of that Martin Septim guy?"
Boethiah does a fancy spinny thing with their sword and sheathes it on their belt. Clearly satisfied with themself, they look towards the twin reactions of nonchalance and indifference to the motion. "Tch. Yeah, don't even get me started on that shitwad. I'm barely at a fraction of myself. Feel like I'm stuffed in a bottle of the kwama pile you'd call mead."
Hmm. Daedric Princes can come to Nirn, even at a reduced version? Huh. "Does… that mean Mephala can do that too?"
"..."
"..."
Boethiah stares at her. She stares right back. That thin slash of a pupil surrounded by writhing vipers moves to Vala. And then back. To the V cultist, to her.
Finally, they break the cycle by taking out a dagger on their belt- she notices an impressive amount of weapons on their person, smart, but that means less room for loot- and stabs it straight through their palm.
Not even a cry or scream at the wound, and everyone just watches: she does nothing because it's obvious that Boethiah is simply testing out their armor capabilities on their open skin. How's the red-loss reduction on that? And Vala because the ebony woman is too busy with not being thoroughly kissed senseless for the first time in three days.
The stark brackish blood floods out of the stab and burns through the snow. "Huh. No, I guess Vaermina wouldn't be giving me such a nice dream."
The dark elf grins, crookedly. "Fuck it, I'm in. Let's see how this crisis implodes on itself."
Well yeah, they're in. She's going to fuck/make love to them/utterly charm and captivate the warrior. Just normal Dragonborn things to do.
You know, this is a good thing! She can practice her new skills from her diligent, focused, practice onto the Daedric lover of Mephala! This is amazing- she's got a new benchmark to see how far she's improving.
A pinch on her arm, causes her to face the pincher. Vala. Crimson voids trap her, pursed lips. Ah, she gets it, back to the fun-
"You have no words to say to me? No questions to be questioned?"
She thinks about it, really thinks about it, looks at Boethiah. Who waves cheekily and somehow, that skewed grin grows even wider. Then looks back onto Vala, the cultist of Mephala/V.
"Just one."
A complicated expression, that she can make no heads nor tails of, flickers onto Vala.
Someone sucks in a bated breath.
"Can you kiss two people at once?"
…
Ow. Rub snow onto sore cheeks, pout a little. Why did Vala viciously attack her cheeks? She took serious red damage! Which is bad, if her red runs out, then she'll be weak and tired like how she feels when she runs out of green and blue, respectively. Red loss is also a good indicator of pain, the more empty she gets, the more painful and agonized she feels. Pretty cool instinct system, right?
Right.
Boethiah throws an arm around her. Corded and heavy from constant combat, the scars and roughness of the skin prove it to her.
"See the bright side of this. She may be truly furious… however in your distress and deficiency, it's an excellent staging ground for your rebellion." And she throws the arm right off, frowning at the two-faced Prince. She kind of hates that grandiose, announcing tone. Kind of? No, she really hates it.
"Talk normally."
"I am, this is my true vocal pattern. What you heard and witnessed before is merely delusions. Born from the machinations of the Mad God." The sharp-angled eyes, and the classic dark elf sneer, both plaster themselves on that face. Impassively. Annoyingly.
Hmm. She's never had a lying follower before. Or a dishonest one. This is new.
And… Interesting.
But also, that arrogance is reminding her of the Thalmor. Thalmor that she exclusively slaughters to the last, and then ends. Decisively. So when her hand draws back, it comes forward as a fist crashing into Boethiah's nose.
"Ah. Sorry, my hand slipped." True. An honest mistake, anyone can make. Really it's their fault for sounding so snobby.
"You piece of skeever shit- Molag's tits, that actually hurt!" Clutching their bleeding nose, Boethiah straightens up, and does an impressive death glare at her.
The second worst one she ever received. The top one is still that time a cabbage farmer tried to vengeance her. Just like before, she does her very best. "Sowwy."
"..."
"I'm willy sowwy."
"The fuck is wrong with you." It's not even anger, it's just pure confusion. "S'wit," tacks on Boethiah, more conversationally than anything. Like they need to add an insult. That's... kind of cutely dumb.
Cross arms, do her best Vala smirk. "Feels wrong, doesn't it?"
The golden katana comes out with another flourish, and the tip stabs the air in front of her eyes. Serpentine eyes paralyze her in place, something in her frozen by primal instinct. "You know… I just remembered. I haven't gutted you on my blade yet, for daring to reach into My Arena and try and dominate me."
Boethiah's body erupts into black vapors. Ink swallows the Daedra whole, only viridian left in from the formless mass.
"And that. Just feels wrong."
…
Chapter 9: Mephala has a type
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 9: Mephala has a type
…
Y'know, she's never really thought about it before, but Boethiah is kind of strong.
The kind of strong, where they don't give a damn about any sort of rules, don't care about honor and are perfectly okay with using dirty tricks. Strong like, they kick her hard enough to splinter a tree, and then cut that tree in half.
By the way, that's not just strong like, they are that strong. And she's rolling away from the falling tree.
"Fus!" The pulse of Force, visible as a rippling wave, throws flung daggers off course.
She's learned that they're all individually poisoned; from the itchy drainy feeling, one is definitely Chaurus venom, and the other- from the feeling of confusion and sudden sweating, is maybe a weakness to fire poison.
How she feels about poison? Poison sucks, it's mean and it's unfair. And it's unfair how excited Boethiah looks about beating her into the ground. And it's even more unfair that Vala is just watching with a similarly excited glint of fangs. Unfair, because both of those are unreasonably distracting, which doesn't help her haphazard slide through the melted slush. Sadists, they call people like that sadists, right? Is she a sadist? Is there some kind of check she can do for sadism?
"Running? Good, this will last longer!" Oh, prime example of sadism. Boethiah dashes towards her, and attempts to cut her from neck to neck.
Ugh, her dagger barely meets the blade, but she ignites into flame- stupid enchantments! Is this over preparedness? She hates it, just steal weapons and live off the scraps of dead bandits like any normal person! Also, enchantments are also just like poison! Unfair when she's not the one using them!
Also, when could people kick? Or throw daggers? Lost in her musings, she doesn't fail to fling dirty snow into Boethiah's face, and her pilfered dagger for good measure as well. Might as well go with the flow.
They cough and swipe the snow from their face. "Agh- Who throws snow in someone's face! You fucking fetcher!" And the golden blade forces her back with another swing and its quick return. Two attacks in an almost instantaneous movement. Or at least it looked instantaneous, that weird inky goop on Boethiah makes everything harder to see, and the slow drain of her red doesn't help either.
Hmm… Call it instantaneous, sounds better that way, makes her look cooler than being completely outclassed by Boethiah in combat. Usually, it's the other way around. And she is not enjoying the change of ways. Feels icky, poisony and enchantmeny. Though, it is different and new.
She goes to punch but is utterly styled on, forced to do a complete flip which sends her face skidding into the snow. Cold. Wet. And dirt. Just dirt.
Definitely different and new.
Weapon, she needs a weapon if that's going to change back to her way around- well. There's one, right in front of her.
Um, she had a healing potion, right? Let's see, move it here, wink at Vala, and wait for Boethiah to stop laughing. Ooh, she has another knife! Someone kindly threw it into her shoulder.
Inhuman eyes finally blink away, the self brought tears of joy, and narrow onto the blase form of the Dragonborn, her form completely open. "Awww, are you giving up? I thought you had more bite than bark."
A grin comes, but it's a little weaker than before. "But I guess dragons were always just talk!"
She spread her arms wide. Do like bandits do- that's the trick. And does the universal come at her gesture.
Boethiah's grin gains some more life, hey. They also have fangs, longer thinner ones than Vala's… Strange. Does she also have fangs? Are fangs just a normal-
Ah, back to fighting, okay. Fangs later.
Duck, weave, skip back, and jab at golden slashes. Her attacks on the weapon don't activate the enchantment, but otherwise, Boethiah is barely deterred by her strength. "That's more like it!" A slash, and an unnatural twist of their spine, spins the blade down and around again… flexible. Really flexible. As she learns when trying a similar move and feeling her own spine crack loudly and her red dip slightly.
Some more blatantly inhuman attacks, and she's being pushed to the last cliff of the Jerall mountains.
A casual flick of the Akaviri blade shatters the borrowed dagger, which sucks, but -hey- no fire this tim- the return attack!
The almost blocked strike carves into her stomach.
And… she's coughing into the ground. Vision swimming, her appetite full, for once in her life. All those apples, and potatoes didn't do it, but a burning blade in her midsection did.
"And that's." Boethiah glows in satisfaction. Slitted pupils extremely dilated, and with the smug attitude of the snake that swallowed the cat that got the cream, they chuckle. "Why I'm the fucking best. Shame about the whole seduction shit, but. If you can't keep with only this much, then-"
Skip.
Leaping up, the musical clinks of broken glass falling from her even more ruined armor, and she tears the golden blade out of her stomach.
Unsheathe the blade in one smooth motion, return the favor to Boethiah, and ram gold through the shadow's torso.
And say, calmly. "Fuck you." To the surprised, and disbelieving Daedra.
She twists the golden sword, until its edge faces out, then yanks it free. Flames burst the poison cloud, and the surprised expression of the Daedric Prince is fully revealed, along with pale tresses of hair free from their high updo.
Hmm. Sunken to a knee, they still look ready to fight, and… ready to curse more. She should and can fix that. Her boot strikes out to the dusky throat and gently slams it down. That's right, she's unlocked kicking as a skill now. Now, who feels it's unfair and mean, huh?!
Green eyes fixate on their own weapon between them. Then on the boot stomping on their throat. "Well. Shit."
Oh they can still talk? According to her instincts, this shouldn't hurt too much. She lifts her boot, and reintroduces it to its resting place, better to twist and make sure the boot is comfortable.
It doesn't seem to affect Boethiah much, except by the loud gulp they do. And the lack of air causes a pretty purple blush on the dark elf's cheeks.
She leans in, annoyed by the way her own shadow disturbs her view. Aww, she wants to see…
Wait. How does one negotiate a surrender? A cessation of hostilities in one's favor? A situation where people are still alive. This has never been a problem before!
…Might as well go with the classic.
Said with all the authority and guard-ness she can conjure up, she barks in Boethiah's face- Don't they have hands, should she ask them to put them up? "You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people, what say you in your defense?"
The bounty is only 40 septims, though.
"Dumbass, we're not even in Skyrim!"
"Hey." Look what you made her do, she's frowning now. "That's not what you're supposed to say... I was going to let you off too."
It's only a small bounty, not worth her time.
"What kind of justice system are those scum-Nords running?" Says the literal avatar against governments, notable for using unlawful means.
She shrugs.
Not her problem, and it seems to work out just fine for the Nords. Not like there's an intense civil war and other provinces trying to interfere with the system. So, yeah. Fine. Totally fine.
Boethiah disagrees. "Sithis spit, no wonder Mephala allows you. A perfect little dumbass for Mephie to play with, and destroy Nirn."
Play with? Her face takes on a heavy blush, and she slaps her hands to her face. How amazing! Incredible! At your service, her queen/king/prince/Daedric Overlord!
Completely forgetting about choking Boethiah- which to be fair, didn't really work anyway- she loses herself in fantasy. Mephala ordering her around to collect dragon souls. Wreaking havoc among other Daedric princes, stealing all the cool loot, making her-
"Get off me, you fucking deviant Dragon!" Their hands- so they were still here- grabs her boot, and throws her up and off.
Oomphing into the cliff's stiff rocks. Ow.
This isn't the biggest cliff, be more careful! What if she Unrelenting Force-ed Boethiah off? Huh? What then! You know, how annoying it is to climb with broken legs?! She was being considerate, and this is who she's treated? Hmph!
Half dangling, fully annoyed, and half focused on trying new kissy strategies on anyone and anything she can, her arms wiggle off a powdering of snow into the long long drop beneath them. The golden katana, she borrowed, precarious and lazy in her grip.
Boethiah tries to snatch their weapon back, but whoop, it went up, then down. Now it's over here. Ah, it's behind her. Whatcha going to do, loser?
Apparently, be angry and disheveled. "Don't make me stab you with more daggers! Medammit, just hand over Goldbrand already!"
Who's Goldbrand? "I have no idea what or who you're talking about."
In the struggle for the only sword, Boethiah is crushing her under ebony mail. But no weird inky gloop over them now.
"Stop being so frustrating, shitty s'wit- you filthy N'wah!"
"I'm not frustrating." Pride fills her as she remembers the gasping, breathy tone Vala used. "In fact, I've been described as satisfying." Very satisfyin-
"Ha! Not mind-blowing? Just satisfying?" More laughter mocks. "Damn, that's just sad."
Smug superiority grins above her. While a dusky strong hand claws in the game of keep-away.
Oh yeah? She'll show them then!
"I'm going to kiss you, now." Warning given. And…Time to overthrow. "Meanie who's getting kissed says 'what'."
"Wha-" Good enough for her.
It's a wholly different kind of kiss, that's the first thing she notices about Boethiah. Now with much more experience and skill level than before, she immediately discovers the difference between Vala and the Daedric Prince. Hot, edging on painfully hot. Less soft, but as if to compensate, she can find more purchase, for the rough bruising kiss. More firmness to push against and bite, nip and attack on.
Blown wide, and shocked, Boethiah's eyes stare into her own. Pretty green and distracting black, surrounded by clean snowy lashes.
That annoys her - so do the words just satisfying rolling around her head. Both gather steam, and snowball instincts to fight and kiss into a single desire.
Right. Right! She wanted to use Frost Breath, and fortunately, she has the perfect vict-person to use it on.
Muffled in, the fire that is Boethiah, she shouts. "Fo!"
Everything freezes, and sensitivity explodes with the contained Frost. Eyes squeeze to a close. Finally.
Something drops out of her hand. Convenient. Convenient, to now grip the neck and try to lick away all that melt. Try, and succeed.
Cool water to refresh her, and a cutie to kiss senseless?
Call her evil, mad, selfish for trying to destroy Nirn, but if it feels this good… Well.
How much can you blame her?
…
Very much as it turns out, both Boethiah and her kneeling before an irate Vala.
"-To lose Goldbrand, because you far too much resemble an unlearned lesson in the lack of self-control? I cannot even with you." Cold anger is much worse than hot anger. Yes, it's still hot hot, but it also makes her feel like she's failed a quest, and she can't meet Vala's freezing red.
The cultist's attention turns to Boethiah. "And you… at least, from the Dragonborn, I expected as much." Should she feel happy that Vala knows her so well? Or offended because Vala knows her so well?
"But you-" Vala stops, sighs, and mutters. "Actually. Nevermind."
Not a smidgen of the… shame? Shame that she feels, is apparently felt by Boethiah. Who lounges their hands behind their head and says. "Meh. You lose some, you win some."
"Some is not a powerful Daedric Artifact." Acerbic, really acidic is the only way she can define Vala right now. Also scary.
Scary hot.
…She kind of wants to kiss Vala right now. Hmm, but her lips are sore, and so is her tongue.
"Psh, powerful? It's a cool-ass sword, nothing to it. I use it to trim my eyelashes, for crying out loud." They are very pretty eyelashes. White tresses and pure strands curling above unique eyes. Sharp, very nice. She should try kissing eyes- or is that too weird?
"Of course you do, of course."
She tries to fix the melancholy?- Maybe more exasperation?- in Vala's lovely voice. "Hey, we're almost at the big rings of the Empire thingy." So don't be mad anymore, please? Or at least only be a little less mad so she can stand and get back to doing the fun stuff.
But in all seriousness, that statue is so dead. You can kill statues, right? They have a red meter, right?
"The walls of the Imperial city… Yes, we are nearing our journey's end." A strange note enters the pretty voice.
"Yes, I suppose we are."
…
…
Y'know, she's never really thought about it before, but Boethiah is kind of strong.
The kind of strong, where they don't give a damn about any sort of rules, don't care about honor and are perfectly okay with using dirty tricks. Strong like, they kick her hard enough to splinter a tree, and then cut that tree in half.
By the way, that's not just strong like, they are that strong. And she's rolling away from the falling tree.
"Fus!" The pulse of Force, visible as a rippling wave, throws flung daggers off course.
She's learned that they're all individually poisoned; from the itchy drainy feeling, one is definitely Chaurus venom, and the other- from the feeling of confusion and sudden sweating, is maybe a weakness to fire poison.
How she feels about poison? Poison sucks, it's mean and it's unfair. And it's unfair how excited Boethiah looks about beating her into the ground. And it's even more unfair that Vala is just watching with a similarly excited glint of fangs. Unfair, because both of those are unreasonably distracting, which doesn't help her haphazard slide through the melted slush. Sadists, they call people like that sadists, right? Is she a sadist? Is there some kind of check she can do for sadism?
"Running? Good, this will last longer!" Oh, prime example of sadism. Boethiah dashes towards her, and attempts to cut her from neck to neck.
Ugh, her dagger barely meets the blade, but she ignites into flame- stupid enchantments! Is this over preparedness? She hates it, just steal weapons and live off the scraps of dead bandits like any normal person! Also, enchantments are also just like poison! Unfair when she's not the one using them!
Also, when could people kick? Or throw daggers? Lost in her musings, she doesn't fail to fling dirty snow into Boethiah's face, and her pilfered dagger for good measure as well. Might as well go with the flow.
They cough and swipe the snow from their face. "Agh- Who throws snow in someone's face! You fucking fetcher!" And the golden blade forces her back with another swing and its quick return. Two attacks in an almost instantaneous movement. Or at least it looked instantaneous, that weird inky goop on Boethiah makes everything harder to see, and the slow drain of her red doesn't help either.
Hmm… Call it instantaneous, sounds better that way, makes her look cooler than being completely outclassed by Boethiah in combat. Usually, it's the other way around. And she is not enjoying the change of ways. Feels icky, poisony and enchantmeny. Though, it is different and new.
She goes to punch but is utterly styled on, forced to do a complete flip which sends her face skidding into the snow. Cold. Wet. And dirt. Just dirt.
Definitely different and new.
Weapon, she needs a weapon if that's going to change back to her way around- well. There's one, right in front of her.
Um, she had a healing potion, right? Let's see, move it here, wink at Vala, and wait for Boethiah to stop laughing. Ooh, she has another knife! Someone kindly threw it into her shoulder.
Inhuman eyes finally blink away, the self brought tears of joy, and narrow onto the blase form of the Dragonborn, her form completely open. "Awww, are you giving up? I thought you had more bite than bark."
A grin comes, but it's a little weaker than before. "But I guess dragons were always just talk!"
She spread her arms wide. Do like bandits do- that's the trick. And does the universal come at her gesture.
Boethiah's grin gains some more life, hey. They also have fangs, longer thinner ones than Vala's… Strange. Does she also have fangs? Are fangs just a normal-
Ah, back to fighting, okay. Fangs later.
Duck, weave, skip back, and jab at golden slashes. Her attacks on the weapon don't activate the enchantment, but otherwise, Boethiah is barely deterred by her strength. "That's more like it!" A slash, and an unnatural twist of their spine, spins the blade down and around again… flexible. Really flexible. As she learns when trying a similar move and feeling her own spine crack loudly and her red dip slightly.
Some more blatantly inhuman attacks, and she's being pushed to the last cliff of the Jerall mountains.
A casual flick of the Akaviri blade shatters the borrowed dagger, which sucks, but -hey- no fire this tim- the return attack!
The almost blocked strike carves into her stomach.
And… she's coughing into the ground. Vision swimming, her appetite full, for once in her life. All those apples, and potatoes didn't do it, but a burning blade in her midsection did.
"And that's." Boethiah glows in satisfaction. Slitted pupils extremely dilated, and with the smug attitude of the snake that swallowed the cat that got the cream, they chuckle. "Why I'm the fucking best. Shame about the whole seduction shit, but. If you can't keep with only this much, then-"
Skip.
Leaping up, the musical clinks of broken glass falling from her even more ruined armor, and she tears the golden blade out of her stomach.
Unsheathe the blade in one smooth motion, return the favor to Boethiah, and ram gold through the shadow's torso.
And say, calmly. "Fuck you." To the surprised, and disbelieving Daedra.
She twists the golden sword, until its edge faces out, then yanks it free. Flames burst the poison cloud, and the surprised expression of the Daedric Prince is fully revealed, along with pale tresses of hair free from their high updo.
Hmm. Sunken to a knee, they still look ready to fight, and… ready to curse more. She should and can fix that. Her boot strikes out to the dusky throat and gently slams it down. That's right, she's unlocked kicking as a skill now. Now, who feels it's unfair and mean, huh?!
Green eyes fixate on their own weapon between them. Then on the boot stomping on their throat. "Well. Shit."
Oh they can still talk? According to her instincts, this shouldn't hurt too much. She lifts her boot, and reintroduces it to its resting place, better to twist and make sure the boot is comfortable.
It doesn't seem to affect Boethiah much, except by the loud gulp they do. And the lack of air causes a pretty purple blush on the dark elf's cheeks.
She leans in, annoyed by the way her own shadow disturbs her view. Aww, she wants to see…
Wait. How does one negotiate a surrender? A cessation of hostilities in one's favor? A situation where people are still alive. This has never been a problem before!
…Might as well go with the classic.
Said with all the authority and guard-ness she can conjure up, she barks in Boethiah's face- Don't they have hands, should she ask them to put them up? "You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people, what say you in your defense?"
The bounty is only 40 septims, though.
"Dumbass, we're not even in Skyrim!"
"Hey." Look what you made her do, she's frowning now. "That's not what you're supposed to say... I was going to let you off too."
It's only a small bounty, not worth her time.
"What kind of justice system are those scum-Nords running?" Says the literal avatar against governments, notable for using unlawful means.
She shrugs.
Not her problem, and it seems to work out just fine for the Nords. Not like there's an intense civil war and other provinces trying to interfere with the system. So, yeah. Fine. Totally fine.
Boethiah disagrees. "Sithis spit, no wonder Mephala allows you. A perfect little dumbass for Mephie to play with, and destroy Nirn."
Play with? Her face takes on a heavy blush, and she slaps her hands to her face. How amazing! Incredible! At your service, her queen/king/prince/Daedric Overlord!
Completely forgetting about choking Boethiah- which to be fair, didn't really work anyway- she loses herself in fantasy. Mephala ordering her around to collect dragon souls. Wreaking havoc among other Daedric princes, stealing all the cool loot, making her-
"Get off me, you fucking deviant Dragon!" Their hands- so they were still here- grabs her boot, and throws her up and off.
Oomphing into the cliff's stiff rocks. Ow.
This isn't the biggest cliff, be more careful! What if she Unrelenting Force-ed Boethiah off? Huh? What then! You know, how annoying it is to climb with broken legs?! She was being considerate, and this is who she's treated? Hmph!
Half dangling, fully annoyed, and half focused on trying new kissy strategies on anyone and anything she can, her arms wiggle off a powdering of snow into the long long drop beneath them. The golden katana, she borrowed, precarious and lazy in her grip.
Boethiah tries to snatch their weapon back, but whoop, it went up, then down. Now it's over here. Ah, it's behind her. Whatcha going to do, loser?
Apparently, be angry and disheveled. "Don't make me stab you with more daggers! Medammit, just hand over Goldbrand already!"
Who's Goldbrand? "I have no idea what or who you're talking about."
In the struggle for the only sword, Boethiah is crushing her under ebony mail. But no weird inky gloop over them now.
"Stop being so frustrating, shitty s'wit- you filthy N'wah!"
"I'm not frustrating." Pride fills her as she remembers the gasping, breathy tone Vala used. "In fact, I've been described as satisfying." Very satisfyin-
"Ha! Not mind-blowing? Just satisfying?" More laughter mocks. "Damn, that's just sad."
Smug superiority grins above her. While a dusky strong hand claws in the game of keep-away.
Oh yeah? She'll show them then!
"I'm going to kiss you, now." Warning given. And…Time to overthrow. "Meanie who's getting kissed says 'what'."
"Wha-" Good enough for her.
It's a wholly different kind of kiss, that's the first thing she notices about Boethiah. Now with much more experience and skill level than before, she immediately discovers the difference between Vala and the Daedric Prince. Hot, edging on painfully hot. Less soft, but as if to compensate, she can find more purchase, for the rough bruising kiss. More firmness to push against and bite, nip and attack on.
Blown wide, and shocked, Boethiah's eyes stare into her own. Pretty green and distracting black, surrounded by clean snowy lashes.
That annoys her - so do the words just satisfying rolling around her head. Both gather steam, and snowball instincts to fight and kiss into a single desire.
Right. Right! She wanted to use Frost Breath, and fortunately, she has the perfect vict-person to use it on.
Muffled in, the fire that is Boethiah, she shouts. "Fo!"
Everything freezes, and sensitivity explodes with the contained Frost. Eyes squeeze to a close. Finally.
Something drops out of her hand. Convenient. Convenient, to now grip the neck and try to lick away all that melt. Try, and succeed.
Cool water to refresh her, and a cutie to kiss senseless?
Call her evil, mad, selfish for trying to destroy Nirn, but if it feels this good… Well.
How much can you blame her?
…
Very much as it turns out, both Boethiah and her kneeling before an irate Vala.
"-To lose Goldbrand, because you far too much resemble an unlearned lesson in the lack of self-control? I cannot even with you." Cold anger is much worse than hot anger. Yes, it's still hot hot, but it also makes her feel like she's failed a quest, and she can't meet Vala's freezing red.
The cultist's attention turns to Boethiah. "And you… at least, from the Dragonborn, I expected as much." Should she feel happy that Vala knows her so well? Or offended because Vala knows her so well?
"But you-" Vala stops, sighs, and mutters. "Actually. Nevermind."
Not a smidgen of the… shame? Shame that she feels, is apparently felt by Boethiah. Who lounges their hands behind their head and says. "Meh. You lose some, you win some."
"Some is not a powerful Daedric Artifact." Acerbic, really acidic is the only way she can define Vala right now. Also scary.
Scary hot.
…She kind of wants to kiss Vala right now. Hmm, but her lips are sore, and so is her tongue.
"Psh, powerful? It's a cool-ass sword, nothing to it. I use it to trim my eyelashes, for crying out loud." They are very pretty eyelashes. White tresses and pure strands curling above unique eyes. Sharp, very nice. She should try kissing eyes- or is that too weird?
"Of course you do, of course."
She tries to fix the melancholy?- Maybe more exasperation?- in Vala's lovely voice. "Hey, we're almost at the big rings of the Empire thingy." So don't be mad anymore, please? Or at least only be a little less mad so she can stand and get back to doing the fun stuff.
But in all seriousness, that statue is so dead. You can kill statues, right? They have a red meter, right?
"The walls of the Imperial city… Yes, we are nearing our journey's end." A strange note enters the pretty voice.
"Yes, I suppose we are."
…
Chapter 10: Die Statue!
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 10: Die Statue!
…
"The Imperial City, a testament to the greatness that once was the Cyrodilic Empire."
Really big walls, big towers, lots of buildings, stuff everywhere. This is at least 10 times the size of Windhelm! And Solitude!
She knows she's being all wide-eyed, but this is so new and interesting compared to Skyrim! Maybe, not outside of the city can be comparable to the northern province, but this here? Nothing like it, anywhere else. Anywhere else she's seen.
Vala watches her near-skipping and bright-eyed excitement. Watches with customary calm and with that slight something of dark amusement at someone's suffering.
Hot. So is the voice. "But the rot and decay just outside break the beautiful lie."
Huh? "What rot and decay?" She remembers it being perfectly normal… and boring. Bland- burned farmsteads, empty-shattered villages, dumb-sad quests, you know the normal stuff.
Red eyes roll. "If you were not being so distracted with your infernal desire of pleasing everyone and everything around you, then you may have taken notice of the scrutiny we were under." Spidery hands tug on unseen strings, before ultimately flicking them away with disinterest. "It appears that Titus Mede the Second is playing a dangerous game."
Vala smiles. Slowly and awfully. Awfully hot.
Boethiah snorts. "Gotta love this place, nothing breeds conspiracy and king slaying like the heart of an empire on it's last legs." And takes in a long breath. "Y'know, why don't I go change that old bastard myself?" The breath directly blows into her neck. Ah! Why? "The fun way."
She angrily protects her neck and does her very best glare at the unrepentant warrior. Whose eyes show only an ebony slash of a pupil, undilated, and sharp sharp angles of almost glowing green.
"Hey, let's see if they still have Naarifirn hanging from the White-Gold Dick" Boethiah's voice drops to a throaty sibilant growl.
Unsurprisingly she finds it unreasonably hot.
Also cute. Surprisingly.
What's also cute is the ghosting touches on her shoulders.
She shivers, maybe cute isn't the right word for it. The siren song passes right over her ears. "Dear Boethiah, focus. Our grievances may be healed later. Not now, not when our goal is nearly at its end. And this time…"
Taking a glance in the corners of her vision, Vala seems just as punch-drunk as Boethiah. As the cultist should be! They're about to complete the big quest! Journey! Whatever.
"We have our own little hero."
…
Oh! Now, she knows what Vala is talking about!
The Thalmor aren't in the city. Awesome. No idea how that works, since the guys in red often have the elves in black in their cities. Logically, this should be the same, with all the red guys around here.
But who is in the city, is practically everyone else. It's chock full of people from across Tamriel, and practically choking with how many people exist in the ringed capital.
Making their way to the Temple of the One- where the big Martin Statue Septim is- she nearly loses her mind by how close and all over her, her two followers are. She means, yeah, sure, stick together and don't get lost in the crowd, and she's not complaining.
But…
Constant reckless challenges and dares from Boethiah in her left. "Dragonborn, let's conquer the fucking arena, show these pathetic mortals what real strength looks like."
And on her right, smooth seductive whispers and… and. "Our wonderfully strong hero. The great Dragonborn defying all those Aedra, so powerful, so good to us. You don't need to show anyone anything, all you need to do. You already know."
Boethiah. "You better fucking know. Destroy the Statue."
Vala. "Yes, destroy the Statue. Free us from our eternal solitude, My lovely hero, my beautiful champion, the greatest of my devotees."
…They are making this kind of difficult. That's her one and only complaint.
Please continue.
…
Her eyes study the big, dragon, they call a statue. She thought this is supposed to be a guy, specifically the n'wah who has the gold named after him and all that. By the way, N'wah means man, and there is not a man in front of her.
It is in fact, a dragon. And as they all know, she kills dragons. Like stealing sweetrolls from children. And adults. And Jarls. Anyone.
So let's go, time to start whack-hitting-attacki…. She doesn't have a weapon. The Dragonborn does not have a weapon. Weapons are not in the ownership of her.
This… could be a problem, sure, she's brawled people into eating the dirt. Or the wooden floors of a tavern- sorry Hilda/Hulda, the Bannered Mare needed new paneling after she suplexed Uthgerd into them.
Looking at the massive, stone, statue; she's not so sure if a suplex can work here.
Why not ask Boethiah for help? They always carry quite a large amount of weapons, always being the scant days they've traveled together. But as everyone knows, kissing people is the best way to get to know them. And she has definitely reached Master level in knowledge of Vala and Boethiahs' mouths.
However-
Both of which are absent, for reasons cited:
"Temples to that flying lizard fuck-beak? Count me out, I'm going to rule the arena. Greatest fighter in Tamriel?" Barked laughter. "Who are they trying to fool, that Ebonarm vessel is probably killing armies in the deserts of Hammerfell, right fucking now." Annoyance and anticipation cross Boethiah. Sharp on her elvish features. "By the time I get back, I better be ready to completely incarnate and demolish Akatoshit's vanity project. And then right over to Hammerfell, gotta get my licks in before the other princes get off their asses."
"Unfortunately, I too must take my leave of you. A… Daedric worshiper is not so welcome in the lair of the Divines. And, as Boethiah plays her games, so should I. Titus Mede II, the Last Emperor, and the Last Dragonborn has quite the beautiful synchronicity. When we return." Pause, Vala almost seemed to share a delightful joke with herself. But did not elaborate. "We shall see. But I feel Mephala would not be so blind to ignore your dearest triumphs, my Dragonborn."
In summary; even though she feels like she really can't summarize Vala in any way, and just trying would probably set off Boethiah; still in summary.
She's alone and weaponless against a statue. Alright.
Back to basics, then. She rolls her neck, and flexes her hands. Completely ignores the curious onlookers and the aggravated priest telling her to stop getting closer to the stonework. Whets her throat. And prepares to imagine marrying the oblivion out of Mephala, and Boeithiah, and Vala. Imagines into reality.
How you wanna do this? Huh? Dragon guy? Aka...Aka-something- technical father to her, but thats' all about soul-stuff, and that stuff just wings right past her head, and into her collected soulgems. Which she really can't tell apart from other gems, so maybe she tried to soul trap a mudcrab into an amethyst for a few days, not important.
Okay, soul donor! Comin at ya! Akatotra!
She pulls back her arm, remembers this is her favorite arm for punching arrogant superiority-infested elves into the closest thing to immortality they'll ever reach, and grins. Feels pretty appropriate considering what Boethiah and Vala have had to share about the Divines.
And with those memories fueling her, the fist slams into the base of the tower. Right into the outstretched leg.
The wholly concentrated strength of a woman of legend, forged from Alduin's return, melted in the crucible of dragonbreath, shattered without memories of her past, created to be the last Dragonborn and stand against the ends of Nirn- whose awakening signals her own.
That strength, that perfectly mundane for Tamriel strength- maybe even a little below average considering her youth and her smaller frame, incomparable to the Nords who stood against Alduin of old, maybe a tad held back by the fact she only gets sleep or proper health by way of Vala kissing her into unconsciousness, or Boethiah happily sharing her freshly stolen loot from bandits, stuffing the food into her mouth before she can even react- Anyway.
It completely crumbles the statue.
The dragon cracks from her impact. Sparks fly out, despite only her bare fist hitting the stone, and she realizes it's not from metal on stone, but from something within the stone, freed from its prison of rock. Little tongues of flame, and bruised fresh flame spit out from the spider webbing she made with her fist. The delicate pattern ripples, rips, tears through the rest of the false dragon, running up and down through its skin, branches and crevices appearing every which way, all lighting up and bursting fire from within.
Horrified worshippers and travelers from the world over watch. As does the priest of the temple, who stumbles backwards into a dead faint.
Finally, all the stone falls away into dust, and its true self is revealed, a great roaring fire. Dragonfire.
Living, breathing Dragonfire, that stares down at its would-be-killer. So alive it moves, snaking its massive head at her. The enormous wings twitch, before stretching out even further, casting out light instead of shadow.
She readies herself. Another dragon fight. Always a to-be-slayed for the perfect slayer.
A moment, where the two simply study each other. One heartbeat- if she didn't know any better, there is amusement in the way it cocks its head at her, but she does know better. And how much can you really tell from a bonfire of a dragon- Two heartbeats- unlike it's flesh and bone counterparts, this one is fully standing, and it towers over her.
The flame lunges, and she shouts.
Old, ancient magic is swallowed up by the entire mass of the core of the statue rushing down into her, doing nothing to deter the sheer onrush of the massive creature.
She closes her eyes.
And her world erupts into… into pain? Pain? What pain?
Nothing feels on fire, no scent of sweet cooked flesh, she doesn't even feel warm. Oh! Her throat- it's a little dry. That could be it!
She opens her eyes.
…
"Are you truly so foolish to believe it would be that simple? That easy to destroy the covenant between Akaotsh and mortals?" No Dragon, no color except blue and gray, and no Mephala.
No one in color, besides that gourd guy. The weird yellowy reddy robed guy who talked to her back in the Bruma prisons, wait did that happen? She only remembers Vala sort of dominating her, and then… a lot, a whole lot of lot of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Good times, really good times.
Laughter rings out, the Nerien-named guy or whatever, clearly been told of some really good joke. "You have failed in your path of destruction! The Dragonfires cannot be extinguished, not by you, not by any of the Daedra!"
She frowns. Wait, what did he say? "But I broke the statue?"
Strangely, the script says the exact same thing as she does.
"The statue, the statue." Nerien paces around her, going around the still frozen in fear and terror bystanders. "The statue means nothing! The sacrifice of Martin Septim cannot be so easily shaken by one unruly Dragonborn, no matter how great your relevance is in prophecy."
But, but that can't be! Even as she denies it, she notices something, her quest.
It slowly fades into dark grey, and red. Failure.
Unbothered by her mental breakdown, the Altmer continues. "Why do you think the God of Madness didn't stop you? As much a maddened drooling, maniacal, and demented ape Sheogorath plays at, they are unique amongst the Daedra for routinely interfering for good in the world. Both outwitting and following his darker brethren's impulses."
Does this mean that everything has been done for nothing? Mephala will never go free. Boethiah will be unable to prove why they are the greatest Prince. And Vala will leave to find an actually worthy champion.
"In fact, the very statue may have been his way of both honoring one and fooling you."
He keeps talking, but she's not listening. She hasn't been listening for a while now. Too dazed, and too defeated to do anything but stare at the missing fire.
"-So go now, return to the Snow Tower. Sunder the first born of Akatosh."
Alduin, who cares about Alduin? Who gives a flying lizard's ass about that cowardly worm? A parasite, a monster of the dark, who only hides and flees. Why don't they kill him? Why don't they do anything but mock and gloat in their arrogance above her?
Those fucking strings, those goddam puppeteers, here she thought she could be free, choose for herself, do something and change something. But the script, the people, and even the world itself stop her.
"Fitting, is it not? You, who would so callously defile and ruin our world, now must go to its last Tower. The only Tower preventing our fall into Oblivion. And you will save us there. Will kill the other who would also so easily defile and rule over us mortals like the Daedra you so wish to love."
Save… Kill.
Everyone wants her to save them, and everyone wants her to kill. And no, she's not so blind to realize that Mephala and Boethiah are any different in that regard.
But she asked them too, she challenged them and tempted them into her quest of saving and killing. Funny how, the Daedric Princes must be sought out by her, while the Aedra just perfectly set her up that she only can do their bidding.
Fine. She waits for his endless prattle to stop, she waits. And waits.
Finally, he notices her unnatural focus and calm.
Nerien smiles. Happy that she has finally accepted her destiny. Proud and gloating over her loss."Ah, you've regained your senses? Excellent. As much as this world is tearing itself apart, I do wish to live long enough to see it recover and find new innovations. Perhaps after Alduin, and all the myriad of threats you will have to face, Nirn will enter a new golden era. Maybe even with you tearing down those pathetic Thalmor, Eh?" He claps her shoulder. "Then we of the Psijic Order can reenter the world. You know this whole little distraction of yours has been a great learning experience, I think. For the both of us."
She waits. And thinks.
Force is a strange word, her very first soul, her very first devouring of another's completeness. And Force is a very appropriate one for Mirmulnir. A dragon that survived eras and eras to be slain at her hand. She remembers the craggly stone peaks of Markarth, the taste of forsworn and ancient monsters hidden in the Reach. All things she's never done but has done. Even strange remembrances of a vale, but the fear of others greater than him preventing his entry to the location. The guarding of a temple of Akavir make. The prowl of dark forgotten gods and twisted men in the shape of beasts. Force was everything to Mirmulnir. And force is everything to her.
Unrelenting, unstoppable, and indomitable force.
"With so much lost and diminished over the centuries, it's hard to not lose faith. But you, Dragonborn! You are a harbinger of the greatness yet to come! You are the Last. Truly the Last, and the end of the old. It is time. To search for new heights, better ones."
He grins, waiting for her to speak.
"The Snow Tower, you mean. The big fuck all-mountain in the middle of Skyrim, right?"
"Yes, yes, Snow Tower, Snow-throat, Throat of the World. That is exactly where you need to go."
"..." Towers, he just keeps harping on and on about these towers. Towers that prevent her from reaching Mephala. Wait, no he mentioned it's the Last Tower.
"What are Towers?"
A flicker of unease crosses his face. "Unimportant to your quest. Last Dragonborn."
She narrows her eyes. So now the idiot decides to stop yapping.
You see, there's something interesting about Nerien this time around. He's actually here, he can touch her. Which means… she can touch him.
Five seconds later, Nerien is on the ground, and she's got her foot on his head. And his back may or may not be cracked from where she threw him hard enough to break the frozen stone. "Tell me what are the Towers."
Yaping continues.
…
…
"The Imperial City, a testament to the greatness that once was the Cyrodilic Empire."
Really big walls, big towers, lots of buildings, stuff everywhere. This is at least 10 times the size of Windhelm! And Solitude!
She knows she's being all wide-eyed, but this is so new and interesting compared to Skyrim! Maybe, not outside of the city can be comparable to the northern province, but this here? Nothing like it, anywhere else. Anywhere else she's seen.
Vala watches her near-skipping and bright-eyed excitement. Watches with customary calm and with that slight something of dark amusement at someone's suffering.
Hot. So is the voice. "But the rot and decay just outside break the beautiful lie."
Huh? "What rot and decay?" She remembers it being perfectly normal… and boring. Bland- burned farmsteads, empty-shattered villages, dumb-sad quests, you know the normal stuff.
Red eyes roll. "If you were not being so distracted with your infernal desire of pleasing everyone and everything around you, then you may have taken notice of the scrutiny we were under." Spidery hands tug on unseen strings, before ultimately flicking them away with disinterest. "It appears that Titus Mede the Second is playing a dangerous game."
Vala smiles. Slowly and awfully. Awfully hot.
Boethiah snorts. "Gotta love this place, nothing breeds conspiracy and king slaying like the heart of an empire on it's last legs." And takes in a long breath. "Y'know, why don't I go change that old bastard myself?" The breath directly blows into her neck. Ah! Why? "The fun way."
She angrily protects her neck and does her very best glare at the unrepentant warrior. Whose eyes show only an ebony slash of a pupil, undilated, and sharp sharp angles of almost glowing green.
"Hey, let's see if they still have Naarifirn hanging from the White-Gold Dick" Boethiah's voice drops to a throaty sibilant growl.
Unsurprisingly she finds it unreasonably hot.
Also cute. Surprisingly.
What's also cute is the ghosting touches on her shoulders.
She shivers, maybe cute isn't the right word for it. The siren song passes right over her ears. "Dear Boethiah, focus. Our grievances may be healed later. Not now, not when our goal is nearly at its end. And this time…"
Taking a glance in the corners of her vision, Vala seems just as punch-drunk as Boethiah. As the cultist should be! They're about to complete the big quest! Journey! Whatever.
"We have our own little hero."
…
Oh! Now, she knows what Vala is talking about!
The Thalmor aren't in the city. Awesome. No idea how that works, since the guys in red often have the elves in black in their cities. Logically, this should be the same, with all the red guys around here.
But who is in the city, is practically everyone else. It's chock full of people from across Tamriel, and practically choking with how many people exist in the ringed capital.
Making their way to the Temple of the One- where the big Martin Statue Septim is- she nearly loses her mind by how close and all over her, her two followers are. She means, yeah, sure, stick together and don't get lost in the crowd, and she's not complaining.
But…
Constant reckless challenges and dares from Boethiah in her left. "Dragonborn, let's conquer the fucking arena, show these pathetic mortals what real strength looks like."
And on her right, smooth seductive whispers and… and. "Our wonderfully strong hero. The great Dragonborn defying all those Aedra, so powerful, so good to us. You don't need to show anyone anything, all you need to do. You already know."
Boethiah. "You better fucking know. Destroy the Statue."
Vala. "Yes, destroy the Statue. Free us from our eternal solitude, My lovely hero, my beautiful champion, the greatest of my devotees."
…They are making this kind of difficult. That's her one and only complaint.
Please continue.
…
Her eyes study the big, dragon, they call a statue. She thought this is supposed to be a guy, specifically the n'wah who has the gold named after him and all that. By the way, N'wah means man, and there is not a man in front of her.
It is in fact, a dragon. And as they all know, she kills dragons. Like stealing sweetrolls from children. And adults. And Jarls. Anyone.
So let's go, time to start whack-hitting-attacki…. She doesn't have a weapon. The Dragonborn does not have a weapon. Weapons are not in the ownership of her.
This… could be a problem, sure, she's brawled people into eating the dirt. Or the wooden floors of a tavern- sorry Hilda/Hulda, the Bannered Mare needed new paneling after she suplexed Uthgerd into them.
Looking at the massive, stone, statue; she's not so sure if a suplex can work here.
Why not ask Boethiah for help? They always carry quite a large amount of weapons, always being the scant days they've traveled together. But as everyone knows, kissing people is the best way to get to know them. And she has definitely reached Master level in knowledge of Vala and Boethiahs' mouths.
However-
Both of which are absent, for reasons cited:
"Temples to that flying lizard fuck-beak? Count me out, I'm going to rule the arena. Greatest fighter in Tamriel?" Barked laughter. "Who are they trying to fool, that Ebonarm vessel is probably killing armies in the deserts of Hammerfell, right fucking now." Annoyance and anticipation cross Boethiah. Sharp on her elvish features. "By the time I get back, I better be ready to completely incarnate and demolish Akatoshit's vanity project. And then right over to Hammerfell, gotta get my licks in before the other princes get off their asses."
"Unfortunately, I too must take my leave of you. A… Daedric worshiper is not so welcome in the lair of the Divines. And, as Boethiah plays her games, so should I. Titus Mede II, the Last Emperor, and the Last Dragonborn has quite the beautiful synchronicity. When we return." Pause, Vala almost seemed to share a delightful joke with herself. But did not elaborate. "We shall see. But I feel Mephala would not be so blind to ignore your dearest triumphs, my Dragonborn."
In summary; even though she feels like she really can't summarize Vala in any way, and just trying would probably set off Boethiah; still in summary.
She's alone and weaponless against a statue. Alright.
Back to basics, then. She rolls her neck, and flexes her hands. Completely ignores the curious onlookers and the aggravated priest telling her to stop getting closer to the stonework. Whets her throat. And prepares to imagine marrying the oblivion out of Mephala, and Boeithiah, and Vala. Imagines into reality.
How you wanna do this? Huh? Dragon guy? Aka...Aka-something- technical father to her, but thats' all about soul-stuff, and that stuff just wings right past her head, and into her collected soulgems. Which she really can't tell apart from other gems, so maybe she tried to soul trap a mudcrab into an amethyst for a few days, not important.
Okay, soul donor! Comin at ya! Akatotra!
She pulls back her arm, remembers this is her favorite arm for punching arrogant superiority-infested elves into the closest thing to immortality they'll ever reach, and grins. Feels pretty appropriate considering what Boethiah and Vala have had to share about the Divines.
And with those memories fueling her, the fist slams into the base of the tower. Right into the outstretched leg.
The wholly concentrated strength of a woman of legend, forged from Alduin's return, melted in the crucible of dragonbreath, shattered without memories of her past, created to be the last Dragonborn and stand against the ends of Nirn- whose awakening signals her own.
That strength, that perfectly mundane for Tamriel strength- maybe even a little below average considering her youth and her smaller frame, incomparable to the Nords who stood against Alduin of old, maybe a tad held back by the fact she only gets sleep or proper health by way of Vala kissing her into unconsciousness, or Boethiah happily sharing her freshly stolen loot from bandits, stuffing the food into her mouth before she can even react- Anyway.
It completely crumbles the statue.
The dragon cracks from her impact. Sparks fly out, despite only her bare fist hitting the stone, and she realizes it's not from metal on stone, but from something within the stone, freed from its prison of rock. Little tongues of flame, and bruised fresh flame spit out from the spider webbing she made with her fist. The delicate pattern ripples, rips, tears through the rest of the false dragon, running up and down through its skin, branches and crevices appearing every which way, all lighting up and bursting fire from within.
Horrified worshippers and travelers from the world over watch. As does the priest of the temple, who stumbles backwards into a dead faint.
Finally, all the stone falls away into dust, and its true self is revealed, a great roaring fire. Dragonfire.
Living, breathing Dragonfire, that stares down at its would-be-killer. So alive it moves, snaking its massive head at her. The enormous wings twitch, before stretching out even further, casting out light instead of shadow.
She readies herself. Another dragon fight. Always a to-be-slayed for the perfect slayer.
A moment, where the two simply study each other. One heartbeat- if she didn't know any better, there is amusement in the way it cocks its head at her, but she does know better. And how much can you really tell from a bonfire of a dragon- Two heartbeats- unlike it's flesh and bone counterparts, this one is fully standing, and it towers over her.
The flame lunges, and she shouts.
Old, ancient magic is swallowed up by the entire mass of the core of the statue rushing down into her, doing nothing to deter the sheer onrush of the massive creature.
She closes her eyes.
And her world erupts into… into pain? Pain? What pain?
Nothing feels on fire, no scent of sweet cooked flesh, she doesn't even feel warm. Oh! Her throat- it's a little dry. That could be it!
She opens her eyes.
…
"Are you truly so foolish to believe it would be that simple? That easy to destroy the covenant between Akaotsh and mortals?" No Dragon, no color except blue and gray, and no Mephala.
No one in color, besides that gourd guy. The weird yellowy reddy robed guy who talked to her back in the Bruma prisons, wait did that happen? She only remembers Vala sort of dominating her, and then… a lot, a whole lot of lot of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Good times, really good times.
Laughter rings out, the Nerien-named guy or whatever, clearly been told of some really good joke. "You have failed in your path of destruction! The Dragonfires cannot be extinguished, not by you, not by any of the Daedra!"
She frowns. Wait, what did he say? "But I broke the statue?"
Strangely, the script says the exact same thing as she does.
"The statue, the statue." Nerien paces around her, going around the still frozen in fear and terror bystanders. "The statue means nothing! The sacrifice of Martin Septim cannot be so easily shaken by one unruly Dragonborn, no matter how great your relevance is in prophecy."
But, but that can't be! Even as she denies it, she notices something, her quest.
It slowly fades into dark grey, and red. Failure.
Unbothered by her mental breakdown, the Altmer continues. "Why do you think the God of Madness didn't stop you? As much a maddened drooling, maniacal, and demented ape Sheogorath plays at, they are unique amongst the Daedra for routinely interfering for good in the world. Both outwitting and following his darker brethren's impulses."
Does this mean that everything has been done for nothing? Mephala will never go free. Boethiah will be unable to prove why they are the greatest Prince. And Vala will leave to find an actually worthy champion.
"In fact, the very statue may have been his way of both honoring one and fooling you."
He keeps talking, but she's not listening. She hasn't been listening for a while now. Too dazed, and too defeated to do anything but stare at the missing fire.
"-So go now, return to the Snow Tower. Sunder the first born of Akatosh."
Alduin, who cares about Alduin? Who gives a flying lizard's ass about that cowardly worm? A parasite, a monster of the dark, who only hides and flees. Why don't they kill him? Why don't they do anything but mock and gloat in their arrogance above her?
Those fucking strings, those goddam puppeteers, here she thought she could be free, choose for herself, do something and change something. But the script, the people, and even the world itself stop her.
"Fitting, is it not? You, who would so callously defile and ruin our world, now must go to its last Tower. The only Tower preventing our fall into Oblivion. And you will save us there. Will kill the other who would also so easily defile and rule over us mortals like the Daedra you so wish to love."
Save… Kill.
Everyone wants her to save them, and everyone wants her to kill. And no, she's not so blind to realize that Mephala and Boethiah are any different in that regard.
But she asked them too, she challenged them and tempted them into her quest of saving and killing. Funny how, the Daedric Princes must be sought out by her, while the Aedra just perfectly set her up that she only can do their bidding.
Fine. She waits for his endless prattle to stop, she waits. And waits.
Finally, he notices her unnatural focus and calm.
Nerien smiles. Happy that she has finally accepted her destiny. Proud and gloating over her loss."Ah, you've regained your senses? Excellent. As much as this world is tearing itself apart, I do wish to live long enough to see it recover and find new innovations. Perhaps after Alduin, and all the myriad of threats you will have to face, Nirn will enter a new golden era. Maybe even with you tearing down those pathetic Thalmor, Eh?" He claps her shoulder. "Then we of the Psijic Order can reenter the world. You know this whole little distraction of yours has been a great learning experience, I think. For the both of us."
She waits. And thinks.
Force is a strange word, her very first soul, her very first devouring of another's completeness. And Force is a very appropriate one for Mirmulnir. A dragon that survived eras and eras to be slain at her hand. She remembers the craggly stone peaks of Markarth, the taste of forsworn and ancient monsters hidden in the Reach. All things she's never done but has done. Even strange remembrances of a vale, but the fear of others greater than him preventing his entry to the location. The guarding of a temple of Akavir make. The prowl of dark forgotten gods and twisted men in the shape of beasts. Force was everything to Mirmulnir. And force is everything to her.
Unrelenting, unstoppable, and indomitable force.
"With so much lost and diminished over the centuries, it's hard to not lose faith. But you, Dragonborn! You are a harbinger of the greatness yet to come! You are the Last. Truly the Last, and the end of the old. It is time. To search for new heights, better ones."
He grins, waiting for her to speak.
"The Snow Tower, you mean. The big fuck all-mountain in the middle of Skyrim, right?"
"Yes, yes, Snow Tower, Snow-throat, Throat of the World. That is exactly where you need to go."
"..." Towers, he just keeps harping on and on about these towers. Towers that prevent her from reaching Mephala. Wait, no he mentioned it's the Last Tower.
"What are Towers?"
A flicker of unease crosses his face. "Unimportant to your quest. Last Dragonborn."
She narrows her eyes. So now the idiot decides to stop yapping.
You see, there's something interesting about Nerien this time around. He's actually here, he can touch her. Which means… she can touch him.
Five seconds later, Nerien is on the ground, and she's got her foot on his head. And his back may or may not be cracked from where she threw him hard enough to break the frozen stone. "Tell me what are the Towers."
Yaping continues.
…
Man, I was so excited when she thought about suplexing the statue, and then she just punched it. Still coll, but not "suplex a motherfucking dragon statue" cool.
Chapter 11: Wait, if you’re Mephala then she’s Mephala, and they’re Mephala… Who isn’t Mephala?
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 11: Wait, if you're Mephala then she's Mephala, and they're Mephala… Who isn't Mephala?
…
The quest failed. The blinking instinct that guides her to location after location. Her eternal guiding compass, dead and ashen gray. Red, red fills her mind. That instinct which served as a rudimentary guide to her journey is completely absent. Unsurprisingly, as even her regular head is telling her that trying to destroy an entire mountain is impossible.
It's enough to dishearten anyone. Even a dragon. So even her own mind is against this… sounds impossible. It is impossible.
But impossible is a word for people who never get to woo a Daedric Prince. Impossible is for people who tell other gullible Dragonborn that they shouldn/t destroy mountains, break statues, try and marry Daedric Princes, and maybe, consequently, in the collateral… destroy the world. Ahem. What's she saying, is that impossible, is impossible.
At least for her.
Ignoring the panicked masses, she flits in between them. Weaving smoothly through the crowds, stepping on feet and bumping into people left and right. See? , she's a master of blending in.
The weird bluey timey stuffy shift that annoying Altmer set up gave her a head start in escaping the consequences of her actions, which is nice. Even a master of stealth, like herself, benefits from bullshit magic powers.
And with this many people- witnesses- she can't use her usual means of sneaking around either. Can't get caught, if there's no one left to catch you. Dragonborn lesson number 25, if violence doesn't solve the massive disasters looming over the whole of Nirn, then you clearly aren't using enough violence.
Like sneaking up on a bandit fort, killing one guy therefore you; poke the hornet's nest and slaughter your way through them. Violence created a problem, and violence solved that problem and your need for shinies. Simple. Smart. Genius.
Ugh. And violence is such a good stress reliever, nothing like the feeling of conquering a dungeon, smashing through fragile dusty bones and parchment-like grey skin. And currently, she's in desperate need of a stress reliever.
Annoyance and anger power through the dense panicked stampede through the Imperial City. Mostly annoyance, because of how long the journey was and now the waste it turns out to be. It's like going all the way through a dungeon and not finding the right loot for a specific fetch quest, and being completely bamboozled.
What even is this 'Cave' that is the stone? Or whatever is the heart for the Throat of the World? Why do towers have figurative hearts? Does that mean she has to seduce a mountain? She hums. How hard in comparison is it to seduce a mountain vs destroying it? On a scale from Boethiah to Mephala, where would it be? From punching a statue, to punch/kissing them?
Also, Cave. Really? Do they know how many caves are in Skyrim? How can a cave be the stone/heart thingy? By Mephala, if Nerien was lying she'd learn conjuration, just to break him again.
…
Sprint down alleyway, duck arrows. Skid along the paved path, avoid the hanging and leaning wooden planks in the way.
Thunk. An arrow twangs over her head, embedding into that leaning board. She eyes the clean exit point of the steel bolt- arrow- same thing. Makes an expression of all-the-nope. Arrows suck. Barbed heads, seemingly in use by everyone, incredible aim, and then the fact that is so difficult to throw the arrow back at them. Then why not use a bow-? Well because bows are heavy and take up a lot of room, that would be for loot. So shut up.
She bends down and passes over the board, noting the sharp arrowhead while doing so.
Huh, surprisingly high quality. It buzzes like a bee, and she's forced to squash down the urge to take the arrow out and collect another loot. Fortunately, as thunder spells shatter the air and scorch the walls, that urge to hoard goes silent, compared to the screaming urge to not die.
Especially not to an imperial hornet's nest. That's like dying to a dragon. Shameful.
"She went down this way!" Wrong, she is currently lost. So there is no way she went down whatever way, Mr Random Guard is talking about. In fact, it's likely she even went up thataways. Her compass is broken, let her remind everyone. Directions are meaningless.
So this way she goes.
The sun of the late afternoon casts long shadows to hide in, but also makes it difficult to find her way among the twisting paths and dead ends. She could chance it, but being perfectly frank, she's a dragon. Not a thief. Just a thief of the dead, and of Mephala's heart- title pending.
In the winding, cramped, and smaller than even her lithe frame, she struggles to run through the narrow alleyways, The shouts and commands from the guards and battlemages echo wildly. And in the increasingly tight areas. Well.
It's just not been a very good day to be a Dragonborn, despite how nicely it began.
If she knew that stupid statue was meaningless… Weigh it over, think about it, remember the punch, remember the flaming dragon. Honestly she might have broken it anyway, just out of frustration.
Stupid Akatosh, stupid Sheogorath, stupid Nerien, stupid her.
This entire- Eek!
Shadowy hands drag her into an unseen alcove. Covering her mouth and pulling her flush against a burning object.
She squirms and struggles against the unyielding grip. Damn guard! Get off of her! Stupidly softy and distractingly hot guard, remove your hands from her!
Warningly, the hands begin to choke her. Suffocating and crunching her into the recess. The hole in the wall almost works with the silent enemy, shielding her from further view, and stuffing her into the wall. Hah! She knew it! The walls are evil. Time for viole-
"Shhhhh, we wouldn't want them to find us, now. The screaming comes after, so please." The hand on her mouth strokes her cheek. Nails scrape, scrape against skin. "My Dragonborn, do be quiet. And cease your delicious struggle."
Hot breath washes over her ears, something sharp and shockingly chilled nibbling on the reddened shell. "Or shall I tie you up? Is that what your continued struggle means?"
Oh, it's Vala!
…
(Reunion, yay! Reveal, yay! Skip.)
...
Mephala says to her head. "Soon, my Dragonborn. Now that you've extinguished the Dragonfires, I will show you even more pleasures, unimaginable, mind-shattering bliss, and unending rewards. Never let it be said that Mephala does not know gratitude."
…Oh, that sounds really nice. Wait.
Dragonfires. Wait, quest failed.
That's… that's. Uhhhh.
To be fair, it's not her fault that Mephala is too hot for her to think!
...
A.N.
I feel like writing a pg version would be insulting Mephala, somehow.
So... Sorry, but have a nice day?
…
The quest failed. The blinking instinct that guides her to location after location. Her eternal guiding compass, dead and ashen gray. Red, red fills her mind. That instinct which served as a rudimentary guide to her journey is completely absent. Unsurprisingly, as even her regular head is telling her that trying to destroy an entire mountain is impossible.
It's enough to dishearten anyone. Even a dragon. So even her own mind is against this… sounds impossible. It is impossible.
But impossible is a word for people who never get to woo a Daedric Prince. Impossible is for people who tell other gullible Dragonborn that they shouldn/t destroy mountains, break statues, try and marry Daedric Princes, and maybe, consequently, in the collateral… destroy the world. Ahem. What's she saying, is that impossible, is impossible.
At least for her.
Ignoring the panicked masses, she flits in between them. Weaving smoothly through the crowds, stepping on feet and bumping into people left and right. See? , she's a master of blending in.
The weird bluey timey stuffy shift that annoying Altmer set up gave her a head start in escaping the consequences of her actions, which is nice. Even a master of stealth, like herself, benefits from bullshit magic powers.
And with this many people- witnesses- she can't use her usual means of sneaking around either. Can't get caught, if there's no one left to catch you. Dragonborn lesson number 25, if violence doesn't solve the massive disasters looming over the whole of Nirn, then you clearly aren't using enough violence.
Like sneaking up on a bandit fort, killing one guy therefore you; poke the hornet's nest and slaughter your way through them. Violence created a problem, and violence solved that problem and your need for shinies. Simple. Smart. Genius.
Ugh. And violence is such a good stress reliever, nothing like the feeling of conquering a dungeon, smashing through fragile dusty bones and parchment-like grey skin. And currently, she's in desperate need of a stress reliever.
Annoyance and anger power through the dense panicked stampede through the Imperial City. Mostly annoyance, because of how long the journey was and now the waste it turns out to be. It's like going all the way through a dungeon and not finding the right loot for a specific fetch quest, and being completely bamboozled.
What even is this 'Cave' that is the stone? Or whatever is the heart for the Throat of the World? Why do towers have figurative hearts? Does that mean she has to seduce a mountain? She hums. How hard in comparison is it to seduce a mountain vs destroying it? On a scale from Boethiah to Mephala, where would it be? From punching a statue, to punch/kissing them?
Also, Cave. Really? Do they know how many caves are in Skyrim? How can a cave be the stone/heart thingy? By Mephala, if Nerien was lying she'd learn conjuration, just to break him again.
…
Sprint down alleyway, duck arrows. Skid along the paved path, avoid the hanging and leaning wooden planks in the way.
Thunk. An arrow twangs over her head, embedding into that leaning board. She eyes the clean exit point of the steel bolt- arrow- same thing. Makes an expression of all-the-nope. Arrows suck. Barbed heads, seemingly in use by everyone, incredible aim, and then the fact that is so difficult to throw the arrow back at them. Then why not use a bow-? Well because bows are heavy and take up a lot of room, that would be for loot. So shut up.
She bends down and passes over the board, noting the sharp arrowhead while doing so.
Huh, surprisingly high quality. It buzzes like a bee, and she's forced to squash down the urge to take the arrow out and collect another loot. Fortunately, as thunder spells shatter the air and scorch the walls, that urge to hoard goes silent, compared to the screaming urge to not die.
Especially not to an imperial hornet's nest. That's like dying to a dragon. Shameful.
"She went down this way!" Wrong, she is currently lost. So there is no way she went down whatever way, Mr Random Guard is talking about. In fact, it's likely she even went up thataways. Her compass is broken, let her remind everyone. Directions are meaningless.
So this way she goes.
The sun of the late afternoon casts long shadows to hide in, but also makes it difficult to find her way among the twisting paths and dead ends. She could chance it, but being perfectly frank, she's a dragon. Not a thief. Just a thief of the dead, and of Mephala's heart- title pending.
In the winding, cramped, and smaller than even her lithe frame, she struggles to run through the narrow alleyways, The shouts and commands from the guards and battlemages echo wildly. And in the increasingly tight areas. Well.
It's just not been a very good day to be a Dragonborn, despite how nicely it began.
If she knew that stupid statue was meaningless… Weigh it over, think about it, remember the punch, remember the flaming dragon. Honestly she might have broken it anyway, just out of frustration.
Stupid Akatosh, stupid Sheogorath, stupid Nerien, stupid her.
This entire- Eek!
Shadowy hands drag her into an unseen alcove. Covering her mouth and pulling her flush against a burning object.
She squirms and struggles against the unyielding grip. Damn guard! Get off of her! Stupidly softy and distractingly hot guard, remove your hands from her!
Warningly, the hands begin to choke her. Suffocating and crunching her into the recess. The hole in the wall almost works with the silent enemy, shielding her from further view, and stuffing her into the wall. Hah! She knew it! The walls are evil. Time for viole-
"Shhhhh, we wouldn't want them to find us, now. The screaming comes after, so please." The hand on her mouth strokes her cheek. Nails scrape, scrape against skin. "My Dragonborn, do be quiet. And cease your delicious struggle."
Hot breath washes over her ears, something sharp and shockingly chilled nibbling on the reddened shell. "Or shall I tie you up? Is that what your continued struggle means?"
Oh, it's Vala!
…
(Reunion, yay! Reveal, yay! Skip.)
...
Mephala says to her head. "Soon, my Dragonborn. Now that you've extinguished the Dragonfires, I will show you even more pleasures, unimaginable, mind-shattering bliss, and unending rewards. Never let it be said that Mephala does not know gratitude."
…Oh, that sounds really nice. Wait.
Dragonfires. Wait, quest failed.
That's… that's. Uhhhh.
To be fair, it's not her fault that Mephala is too hot for her to think!
...
A.N.
I feel like writing a pg version would be insulting Mephala, somehow.
So... Sorry, but have a nice day?
- Location
- United States, New Jersey
I was half-expecting her to go 'man this boss-fight is hard, lemme just ~ kill' on it.
Chapter 12: Do it for the-
ArtemisAvant
Some idiot, who's running from carpal tunnel
- Location
- Cornfield Central, Indiana
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Chapter 12: Do it for the-
…
His head thunks on the great oaken desk, and dust and papers jump in time. Hop hop. They're breeding like damn rabbits. The paperwork, the endless reams of parchment, it just never stops. Everyday, the complaints, the missives, and the bullshit that crosses his desk grows larger. Nothing puts it anywhere near an incinerator.
He rolls his forehead on the barest stretch of free oak. Oh, that's rather nice. Nice and cool-
"Sir! Someone's destroyed the Statue!" His already open door flies into the wall. And there goes all the carefully set up arms and armors. Wonderful. That's the fourth time this week.
General Decianus lifts his head. Remembers to open his weary eyes, not calling a restoration mage again. And blinks at the Imperial soldier. "Is the city on fire, quaestor?"
Said quaestor fumbles to attention, but 'discreetly' stares out a dusty window. "Uhhh. no sir!"
By the nine, the new recruits… Alright back down to the nice cool wood. Good flammable oak.
Muffled, his voice growls out. "Are the Thalmor invading again?"
"No sir!"
Dammit. He would have liked to go back to war. Just a little bit. Wouldn't even make a real difference, everyone knows they're already at war. Just in the waiting period, and the waiting period is always the worst part. As all his men say- fucking lucky bastards privateering in Hammerfell.
No good general enjoys killing, but something about the Thalmor. Well… let's just call it doing the world a favor.
"Ugh. The Emperor was assassinated?"
Good, that'll shut up Commander Maro. Be a mess for everyone too, and will probably lose them the war. But. Gold in sand.
Gold in sand. Commander Maro's posturing when everyone knows he's only there because the Blades are dead, grates on the ears like nothing else. Can't even sleep to the sniveling weakling's talks.
The soldier gasps, some fair maiden out of High Rock would be proud of that one. "N-never! You don't think the Emperor-"
Decianus waves a hand. No, the Emperor is not dead… Oh, that was the one trapped, he winces.
Akatosh, it's like hearing an avalanche in person. Slow papers slide and slide until they hit the floor, bringing more of their companions down. Then the whole heap starts sliding until everything ends right off his desk and onto his floor.
"Just. At ease. At ease." His head rises… just to thunk back harder into the desk. "As you can see, my itinerary is too full to worry about some petty vandalism."
"...uhhh. Sir, no disrespect, but I don't think we can call it just petty."
What happened to the good old days? When he was respected? And not some glorified bureaucrat. Talos, he bets General Jonna doesn't have to deal with this skeever shit. Probably off guarding the border, killing Thalmor infiltrators, getting down and dirty with the men. Mud and blood.
It's a weird thought, but he misses mud. He really does.
"All vandalism is petty. According to the blah- blah- blah, laws of the Septim dynasty." Some statue being defaced, or being graffitied with some juvenile nonsense, even insurgency against the Emperor is expected, and allowed in some cases. In this case, because he doesn't have the time to even acknowledge it and its thousands of brothers in arms.
"Now, if you're done adding more drinks to my tab, the tab I'll use to cleanse my mind of this, then get the Oblivion out of my-"
"S-Sir!" The quaestor actually finds the stones to be upset, hilarious. Being upset, what are they recruiting children now? How weak are they, if they need to recruit some milk-drinking whiny sand worms- " It's the Statue of Akatosh! In the Temple of One!"
…
His hand rests on his hilt, and the other swings with his movements. No, he's not trying to scare the Daedra out of anyone, he's just too lazy to move his bad arm. Never recovered after the March of Thirst. The Alik'r, called it sun-poisoned, but he calls it as it is. Another gift from that rotten cunt, Lady Arannelya. Lady of the nose of preposterous sizes.
The quaestor follows behind him, probably living in fear for speaking out of turn. Sure, he'll let him be afraid longer. Be good for them, toughen them up.
He doesn't even squint at the high sun, just glares at the cordoned-off area.
"So some random, beggar-looking, woman stumbles her way into the temple, and decides to punch the Akatosh out of a statue?" The general chews on it, hmmm. Tastes like bullshit.
"I don't buy it, and I can afford to buy a villa in High Rock." This reeks of a bigger worse, purpose. He can buy, some beggar decided to ruin his day and piss in Akatosh's face, oblivion, he can even buy that the statue broke from it. It's been 200 years -give or take- and who knows what those fucking elves tried to do to it.
No offense to the Altmer, Bosmer, Orismer, and Dunmer communities. Decianus has only the purest, least racist hate for them. Mostly Altmer and Bosmer… Some good orcs in the Legion, brazen soldiers. Solid blacksmiths.
But to avoid the whole Imperial Guard, the city guard, and even some off-duty battlemages?
Decianus spits out. "Thalmor Infiltrator?"
Those corrupted Daedra-worshiping scum. Sorry, death-worshiping supremacists. They were just led by a Boethiah Cultist, that one time. It's shit like this that really makes a man question if he should start licking Sheo's balls. Get better help from the Princes than the Divines.
Maybe the insane god would have given him and his men some cheese, and wine in the desert. Damn, why didn't he start then? Because they're the Empire and his men would have been forced to court-martial him if he started cavorting with Daedra. Eh…. Would have been worth it.
"Well?" He gives a dead-eyed glare to the quaestor. "Answer me."
They blink, the soldier blinks as if they aren't the only ones there. "Uh."
Resist urge to laugh.
"Uhh, I don't know." They remember themselves and hastily add. "Sir."
"You don't know, or you don't want to disagree with me?" He crouches down, and No- fuck you, his back doesn't creak like an old broken tree. It only playfully protests breaking posture.
The stone dust is still here. Good.
"..." Their silence is answer, enough for him.
Disgusting, disgusting. A terrible taste in his mouth.
He flings the stone sand back.
The shrill scream pierces through the deserted temple, but none of the guards show even a hint of a reaction. The Empire's finest, indeed. "Quit your screaming, and look." Taking his own command to heart, Decianus fixes his eyes on the gathered dust. Grey paints an outline of a woman. Along with several half-formed, half-painted figures. Ghosts in the sands.
In the fiery gold of Hammerfell, where everything fades under the sun and winds. Where the only comfort can be found in fucking cacti and pressing forward. The Redguards have a strange magic, a mix of Alteration and Illusion. He'll call it Mysticism if those Mage's guild wouldn't show up the very next day and lecture him on the changes of the 4th era.
The quaestor squawks. "You're a mage, sir? - No, more importantly, is that her?"
Decanius circles the image. "She's shouting." It's even moving the dust… the dust in the current present. Her future. Their past.
That confirms it then.
"What the fuck's the Dragonborn doing in Cyrodil?" He snaps his heavy gaze to the soldier. "Is the World-Eater situation resolved?"
"No… sir."
The stone dust bursts apart. Magicka disintegrates the weak material, and leaving only the grit in his mouth.
As a General. As the only General in the Imperial City as of now, he manages the whole of the capital. He's forced to read it all: the complaints of too many refugees, the shortages of shortages- no wait, they're actually overstock on shortages- the rising tension and crime rates, the dissolution of order in the streets, the broken Arena, the losers' complaints of unfair use of poisonous shadows the strange infestation of spiders in the Emperor's tower. The White Gold Tower's occupants sudden desire to murder each other. Sudden by which he means that the Elder Council actually did something…
"Daedra."
Decianus isn't a superstitious man. But he's starting to wonder if the Empire's cursed.
…
The pale gold forces itself over the horizon, bypassing the crags and gleaming cold knives. In the end, everything comes back to this. The start of a new day, another dawn. Another day to pitifully beg at Mephala's back. A new dawn to maybe, just maybe get the joy of licking feet- she means, changing fate. Yes. Changing fate.
It's not just her, is it? Who feels the pressure drop around Mephala? Like a physical manifestation of displeasure? Cause, that would be totally unfair. Totally. Not that she doesn't deserve it- may she be struck down if she even implied indirectly that it would be unfair of Mephala to be mad. Never, rip her heart, hope to die.
No, she just means it would be unfair for the world if they don't also feel like a dog waiting at its master's heels. Desperate for the last scraps of affection and even attention, at this point. The great glorious light of her life, the savior from the endless monotony.
"You certainly are in the doghouse." Boethiah certainly doesn't feel the same.
She can't even send an angry glare. That's how sad she is!
"Ugh, don't look at me with that pathetic expression."
There. Is that better? "Dagon's unshaved balls, just fuck or something."
Their arm wraps her, jostling her into a headlock, and one spiked gauntlet points at Mephala. Who walks ahead of them with the severe chill, crunching the fallen snow. "Look, I feel with you, but if you and Melphie are gonna be such dumb n'wahs because of a little stepping stone…then I'll kill you before you add your melodramatic bullshit into Oblivion."
She levels an unimpressed stare at Boethiah. "I'll kill you first." Kind of a strange thought, especially with her overall quest, but. Hey, considering who she's dealing with? Feels like the right thing to say.
"I'd love to see you try." And honestly, they really do look very appreciative of the thought, proud in a way- anticipation curling the fine eyelashes into a vicious smirk.
Before they school themselves into a more serious expression. "But for real, We." A finger flicks her head. "Or really you should get Mephala out of her weird mood."
Weird? What's weird about being angry? And disappointed? Shouldn't those be two things that Boethiah would be the most familiar with?
Poor them, still so confused about Mephala's moods. Poor Boethiah.
Even she can tell Mephala is not weird, just perfect. Perfect angry- it's a limited time addition to the greatness of apparently-Vala-in-disguise-wow-what-an-amazing-disguise-incredibly-impressive-as-expected-of-Mephala-really.
Actually, if she's thinking about it, that means she affected Mepahla, therefore she has influence over the Daedric Prince, which then makes her of some importance!
She's been noticed! No- she has been noticed for a while now, she just hasn't noticed her reality of being noticed!
How magnanimous, truly the target of her affections is without equal. Especially, how pretty, pretty everything, the Daedric Prince is. Prince of her heart.
"...Are you just going to stare at Mephala's ass then?"
"Shhh. I'm trying to think of the best description." Round.
Perfect.
"Unholy shit, you're useless."
"Compared to Mephala, everyone is useless."
…
Decianus steeples his hands on the war table. His steely gaze sweeps over the occupants. Occupants including: the Emperor, his Penitus Oculatus, the Mages Guildmaster, the liaison between General Tullius and Cyrodil, and… Of course, several empty seats for the foremost generals of the Legion, still stationed in their respective regions.
"Are we all prepared then?" He leads, but not first without bowing his head to the Emperor. Titus II barely inclines back- a measure of his worth as a true leader for the Empire. Decianus may joke about the assassination of the Emperor, but the man showed his mettle in the Great War. It's no question that Titus II is the only reason why they are even able to be here in the Imperial City. there's no question that the Emperor respects Decianus, but the careful management of decorum and austerity- with powerful disregarding of that during the War, left an impression on everyone.
"Then let the meeting to decide the fate of the Last Dragonborn commence." Dramatic, but for something like this, it deserves dignity and pretention.
The liaison steps up, unveiling a large parchment with a description of the woman. "A short refresher by your leave." Pause.
"The Dragonborn is a legendary warrior- prophesied to be both the last of their kind, and the savior of Nirn from the threat of Alduin. She therefore is given the soul of a Dragon to consume and to grow more powerful upon defeating other dragons. See the encounter at the Western Watchtower of Whiterun, for the first recorded appearance of this ability."
"Do we have a measure of how many souls she has eaten then?" Decinaus flicks his eyes to the Guildmaster. Hooded and strange to the senses. Naturally, the mystic asks for numbers.
"No." replies the Liason, almost embarrassed, so she quickly moves on. "But we have confirmed her ability to speak the same language of the dragons, and the Greybeards." A known body of useless old monks wasting away at a monastery in the mountains. They taught the bastard Stormcloak to kill a man with a word.
"According to Nordic tradition, the Dragonborn has an instinctive understanding of this language, what they refer to as shouts." She meaningfully stares at the Guildmaster.
"Ah, thank you." The probable Archmage/Guildmaster, whatever the mages call it, gestures his/her long robes around. "I'll take over from here. Shouts are ancient magic, as old as Dragons, so imagine before even the White Gold Tower was even dreamt of."
The hood lowers. "Now… this gives the Dragonborn unprecedented variability and versatility. From some studies and collaborations with the College of WInterhold, we know that these shouts are… Powerful magic on par with the greatest spells of today, and even surpasses many of them."
They quickly mumble out. "At least for a Dragon- Anyways, since the entire language can be theoretically made into these Shouts. We're dealing with an Oblivion Crisis level threat."
Making jokes at a time like this. Decianus coughs. "Speaking of… we have reason to suspect that the Dragonborn is in the company of Daedra. Or at least in some way being followed or influenced by powerful Dremora. Maybe even Daedric Princes. Primary Suspects are Mephala, Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, Boethiah, and Sheogorath; but only because we cannot rule him out-"
"General, if I may interrupt?" His head bows so quickly it nearly hits the table. "Of course, your majesty!"
Titus the Second rises. "Thank you, General Decinanus." The aged man stares at the large unfolded parchment, before turning his back on them.
"We must face the truth, as terrifying as it may be… I can only see one possibility, one terrifying potential cause for her to visit our fine city, in the company of Daedra. And to then destroy the Statue of her predecessor…"
He chuckles, deeply and clearly. "It seems all those cursed with dragonblood find their way to the Daedra. But. Reigniting the Oblivion Crisis, a mere two centuries after its end? Fate does have its terrible sense of humor."
The war room erupts into chaos at the Emperor's words: The liaison falls out her chair, the Penitus Oculatus audibly gasp and then cover their mouths- as if they can take their branch in conduct back, the Guidlmatser flares his magicka, hurriedly raising their hands in surrender, and Decianus lets his head hit the table.
As if nothing happens behind him- unbeknownst to them, the elderly military leader has a small upturn to his lips. The Emperor continues. "Our course is clear, we must preempt the Dragonborn. Fortunately, the Aedra are kind to us, the Dragonfires are still lit. So she must seek out a new method to open the path to Oblivion."
Titus raises his head to the sky. "... If only we could understand her motivations, what terrible curse she has been put under. What could turn such a legendary warrior against Nirn?"
…
…
His head thunks on the great oaken desk, and dust and papers jump in time. Hop hop. They're breeding like damn rabbits. The paperwork, the endless reams of parchment, it just never stops. Everyday, the complaints, the missives, and the bullshit that crosses his desk grows larger. Nothing puts it anywhere near an incinerator.
He rolls his forehead on the barest stretch of free oak. Oh, that's rather nice. Nice and cool-
"Sir! Someone's destroyed the Statue!" His already open door flies into the wall. And there goes all the carefully set up arms and armors. Wonderful. That's the fourth time this week.
General Decianus lifts his head. Remembers to open his weary eyes, not calling a restoration mage again. And blinks at the Imperial soldier. "Is the city on fire, quaestor?"
Said quaestor fumbles to attention, but 'discreetly' stares out a dusty window. "Uhhh. no sir!"
By the nine, the new recruits… Alright back down to the nice cool wood. Good flammable oak.
Muffled, his voice growls out. "Are the Thalmor invading again?"
"No sir!"
Dammit. He would have liked to go back to war. Just a little bit. Wouldn't even make a real difference, everyone knows they're already at war. Just in the waiting period, and the waiting period is always the worst part. As all his men say- fucking lucky bastards privateering in Hammerfell.
No good general enjoys killing, but something about the Thalmor. Well… let's just call it doing the world a favor.
"Ugh. The Emperor was assassinated?"
Good, that'll shut up Commander Maro. Be a mess for everyone too, and will probably lose them the war. But. Gold in sand.
Gold in sand. Commander Maro's posturing when everyone knows he's only there because the Blades are dead, grates on the ears like nothing else. Can't even sleep to the sniveling weakling's talks.
The soldier gasps, some fair maiden out of High Rock would be proud of that one. "N-never! You don't think the Emperor-"
Decianus waves a hand. No, the Emperor is not dead… Oh, that was the one trapped, he winces.
Akatosh, it's like hearing an avalanche in person. Slow papers slide and slide until they hit the floor, bringing more of their companions down. Then the whole heap starts sliding until everything ends right off his desk and onto his floor.
"Just. At ease. At ease." His head rises… just to thunk back harder into the desk. "As you can see, my itinerary is too full to worry about some petty vandalism."
"...uhhh. Sir, no disrespect, but I don't think we can call it just petty."
What happened to the good old days? When he was respected? And not some glorified bureaucrat. Talos, he bets General Jonna doesn't have to deal with this skeever shit. Probably off guarding the border, killing Thalmor infiltrators, getting down and dirty with the men. Mud and blood.
It's a weird thought, but he misses mud. He really does.
"All vandalism is petty. According to the blah- blah- blah, laws of the Septim dynasty." Some statue being defaced, or being graffitied with some juvenile nonsense, even insurgency against the Emperor is expected, and allowed in some cases. In this case, because he doesn't have the time to even acknowledge it and its thousands of brothers in arms.
"Now, if you're done adding more drinks to my tab, the tab I'll use to cleanse my mind of this, then get the Oblivion out of my-"
"S-Sir!" The quaestor actually finds the stones to be upset, hilarious. Being upset, what are they recruiting children now? How weak are they, if they need to recruit some milk-drinking whiny sand worms- " It's the Statue of Akatosh! In the Temple of One!"
…
His hand rests on his hilt, and the other swings with his movements. No, he's not trying to scare the Daedra out of anyone, he's just too lazy to move his bad arm. Never recovered after the March of Thirst. The Alik'r, called it sun-poisoned, but he calls it as it is. Another gift from that rotten cunt, Lady Arannelya. Lady of the nose of preposterous sizes.
The quaestor follows behind him, probably living in fear for speaking out of turn. Sure, he'll let him be afraid longer. Be good for them, toughen them up.
He doesn't even squint at the high sun, just glares at the cordoned-off area.
"So some random, beggar-looking, woman stumbles her way into the temple, and decides to punch the Akatosh out of a statue?" The general chews on it, hmmm. Tastes like bullshit.
"I don't buy it, and I can afford to buy a villa in High Rock." This reeks of a bigger worse, purpose. He can buy, some beggar decided to ruin his day and piss in Akatosh's face, oblivion, he can even buy that the statue broke from it. It's been 200 years -give or take- and who knows what those fucking elves tried to do to it.
No offense to the Altmer, Bosmer, Orismer, and Dunmer communities. Decianus has only the purest, least racist hate for them. Mostly Altmer and Bosmer… Some good orcs in the Legion, brazen soldiers. Solid blacksmiths.
But to avoid the whole Imperial Guard, the city guard, and even some off-duty battlemages?
Decianus spits out. "Thalmor Infiltrator?"
Those corrupted Daedra-worshiping scum. Sorry, death-worshiping supremacists. They were just led by a Boethiah Cultist, that one time. It's shit like this that really makes a man question if he should start licking Sheo's balls. Get better help from the Princes than the Divines.
Maybe the insane god would have given him and his men some cheese, and wine in the desert. Damn, why didn't he start then? Because they're the Empire and his men would have been forced to court-martial him if he started cavorting with Daedra. Eh…. Would have been worth it.
"Well?" He gives a dead-eyed glare to the quaestor. "Answer me."
They blink, the soldier blinks as if they aren't the only ones there. "Uh."
Resist urge to laugh.
"Uhh, I don't know." They remember themselves and hastily add. "Sir."
"You don't know, or you don't want to disagree with me?" He crouches down, and No- fuck you, his back doesn't creak like an old broken tree. It only playfully protests breaking posture.
The stone dust is still here. Good.
"..." Their silence is answer, enough for him.
Disgusting, disgusting. A terrible taste in his mouth.
He flings the stone sand back.
The shrill scream pierces through the deserted temple, but none of the guards show even a hint of a reaction. The Empire's finest, indeed. "Quit your screaming, and look." Taking his own command to heart, Decianus fixes his eyes on the gathered dust. Grey paints an outline of a woman. Along with several half-formed, half-painted figures. Ghosts in the sands.
In the fiery gold of Hammerfell, where everything fades under the sun and winds. Where the only comfort can be found in fucking cacti and pressing forward. The Redguards have a strange magic, a mix of Alteration and Illusion. He'll call it Mysticism if those Mage's guild wouldn't show up the very next day and lecture him on the changes of the 4th era.
The quaestor squawks. "You're a mage, sir? - No, more importantly, is that her?"
Decanius circles the image. "She's shouting." It's even moving the dust… the dust in the current present. Her future. Their past.
That confirms it then.
"What the fuck's the Dragonborn doing in Cyrodil?" He snaps his heavy gaze to the soldier. "Is the World-Eater situation resolved?"
"No… sir."
The stone dust bursts apart. Magicka disintegrates the weak material, and leaving only the grit in his mouth.
As a General. As the only General in the Imperial City as of now, he manages the whole of the capital. He's forced to read it all: the complaints of too many refugees, the shortages of shortages- no wait, they're actually overstock on shortages- the rising tension and crime rates, the dissolution of order in the streets, the broken Arena, the losers' complaints of unfair use of poisonous shadows the strange infestation of spiders in the Emperor's tower. The White Gold Tower's occupants sudden desire to murder each other. Sudden by which he means that the Elder Council actually did something…
"Daedra."
Decianus isn't a superstitious man. But he's starting to wonder if the Empire's cursed.
…
The pale gold forces itself over the horizon, bypassing the crags and gleaming cold knives. In the end, everything comes back to this. The start of a new day, another dawn. Another day to pitifully beg at Mephala's back. A new dawn to maybe, just maybe get the joy of licking feet- she means, changing fate. Yes. Changing fate.
It's not just her, is it? Who feels the pressure drop around Mephala? Like a physical manifestation of displeasure? Cause, that would be totally unfair. Totally. Not that she doesn't deserve it- may she be struck down if she even implied indirectly that it would be unfair of Mephala to be mad. Never, rip her heart, hope to die.
No, she just means it would be unfair for the world if they don't also feel like a dog waiting at its master's heels. Desperate for the last scraps of affection and even attention, at this point. The great glorious light of her life, the savior from the endless monotony.
"You certainly are in the doghouse." Boethiah certainly doesn't feel the same.
She can't even send an angry glare. That's how sad she is!
"Ugh, don't look at me with that pathetic expression."
There. Is that better? "Dagon's unshaved balls, just fuck or something."
Their arm wraps her, jostling her into a headlock, and one spiked gauntlet points at Mephala. Who walks ahead of them with the severe chill, crunching the fallen snow. "Look, I feel with you, but if you and Melphie are gonna be such dumb n'wahs because of a little stepping stone…then I'll kill you before you add your melodramatic bullshit into Oblivion."
She levels an unimpressed stare at Boethiah. "I'll kill you first." Kind of a strange thought, especially with her overall quest, but. Hey, considering who she's dealing with? Feels like the right thing to say.
"I'd love to see you try." And honestly, they really do look very appreciative of the thought, proud in a way- anticipation curling the fine eyelashes into a vicious smirk.
Before they school themselves into a more serious expression. "But for real, We." A finger flicks her head. "Or really you should get Mephala out of her weird mood."
Weird? What's weird about being angry? And disappointed? Shouldn't those be two things that Boethiah would be the most familiar with?
Poor them, still so confused about Mephala's moods. Poor Boethiah.
Even she can tell Mephala is not weird, just perfect. Perfect angry- it's a limited time addition to the greatness of apparently-Vala-in-disguise-wow-what-an-amazing-disguise-incredibly-impressive-as-expected-of-Mephala-really.
Actually, if she's thinking about it, that means she affected Mepahla, therefore she has influence over the Daedric Prince, which then makes her of some importance!
She's been noticed! No- she has been noticed for a while now, she just hasn't noticed her reality of being noticed!
How magnanimous, truly the target of her affections is without equal. Especially, how pretty, pretty everything, the Daedric Prince is. Prince of her heart.
"...Are you just going to stare at Mephala's ass then?"
"Shhh. I'm trying to think of the best description." Round.
Perfect.
"Unholy shit, you're useless."
"Compared to Mephala, everyone is useless."
…
Decianus steeples his hands on the war table. His steely gaze sweeps over the occupants. Occupants including: the Emperor, his Penitus Oculatus, the Mages Guildmaster, the liaison between General Tullius and Cyrodil, and… Of course, several empty seats for the foremost generals of the Legion, still stationed in their respective regions.
"Are we all prepared then?" He leads, but not first without bowing his head to the Emperor. Titus II barely inclines back- a measure of his worth as a true leader for the Empire. Decianus may joke about the assassination of the Emperor, but the man showed his mettle in the Great War. It's no question that Titus II is the only reason why they are even able to be here in the Imperial City. there's no question that the Emperor respects Decianus, but the careful management of decorum and austerity- with powerful disregarding of that during the War, left an impression on everyone.
"Then let the meeting to decide the fate of the Last Dragonborn commence." Dramatic, but for something like this, it deserves dignity and pretention.
The liaison steps up, unveiling a large parchment with a description of the woman. "A short refresher by your leave." Pause.
"The Dragonborn is a legendary warrior- prophesied to be both the last of their kind, and the savior of Nirn from the threat of Alduin. She therefore is given the soul of a Dragon to consume and to grow more powerful upon defeating other dragons. See the encounter at the Western Watchtower of Whiterun, for the first recorded appearance of this ability."
"Do we have a measure of how many souls she has eaten then?" Decinaus flicks his eyes to the Guildmaster. Hooded and strange to the senses. Naturally, the mystic asks for numbers.
"No." replies the Liason, almost embarrassed, so she quickly moves on. "But we have confirmed her ability to speak the same language of the dragons, and the Greybeards." A known body of useless old monks wasting away at a monastery in the mountains. They taught the bastard Stormcloak to kill a man with a word.
"According to Nordic tradition, the Dragonborn has an instinctive understanding of this language, what they refer to as shouts." She meaningfully stares at the Guildmaster.
"Ah, thank you." The probable Archmage/Guildmaster, whatever the mages call it, gestures his/her long robes around. "I'll take over from here. Shouts are ancient magic, as old as Dragons, so imagine before even the White Gold Tower was even dreamt of."
The hood lowers. "Now… this gives the Dragonborn unprecedented variability and versatility. From some studies and collaborations with the College of WInterhold, we know that these shouts are… Powerful magic on par with the greatest spells of today, and even surpasses many of them."
They quickly mumble out. "At least for a Dragon- Anyways, since the entire language can be theoretically made into these Shouts. We're dealing with an Oblivion Crisis level threat."
Making jokes at a time like this. Decianus coughs. "Speaking of… we have reason to suspect that the Dragonborn is in the company of Daedra. Or at least in some way being followed or influenced by powerful Dremora. Maybe even Daedric Princes. Primary Suspects are Mephala, Mehrunes Dagon, Molag Bal, Boethiah, and Sheogorath; but only because we cannot rule him out-"
"General, if I may interrupt?" His head bows so quickly it nearly hits the table. "Of course, your majesty!"
Titus the Second rises. "Thank you, General Decinanus." The aged man stares at the large unfolded parchment, before turning his back on them.
"We must face the truth, as terrifying as it may be… I can only see one possibility, one terrifying potential cause for her to visit our fine city, in the company of Daedra. And to then destroy the Statue of her predecessor…"
He chuckles, deeply and clearly. "It seems all those cursed with dragonblood find their way to the Daedra. But. Reigniting the Oblivion Crisis, a mere two centuries after its end? Fate does have its terrible sense of humor."
The war room erupts into chaos at the Emperor's words: The liaison falls out her chair, the Penitus Oculatus audibly gasp and then cover their mouths- as if they can take their branch in conduct back, the Guidlmatser flares his magicka, hurriedly raising their hands in surrender, and Decianus lets his head hit the table.
As if nothing happens behind him- unbeknownst to them, the elderly military leader has a small upturn to his lips. The Emperor continues. "Our course is clear, we must preempt the Dragonborn. Fortunately, the Aedra are kind to us, the Dragonfires are still lit. So she must seek out a new method to open the path to Oblivion."
Titus raises his head to the sky. "... If only we could understand her motivations, what terrible curse she has been put under. What could turn such a legendary warrior against Nirn?"
…
- Pronouns
- Robot
Hmm, just saw this story. It isn't the most crackish story I've ever seen (that is a compliment), despite the premise (XD), but a few of the transitions could be better between scenes or POVs.
Keep it up.
Keep it up.