[center]
(Part 2/2)
[/center]

[i]Spirit Animal[/i] - Canon ([b]#5[/b]):

[hider=Wylendriel's Familiar]
By [@Spoopy Scary]

[hider=Part I: The Lesson]
The strands of sunlight that filtered through the cloudy skies shown upon the frosted fields of Whiterun hold. On this day, the second day of First Seed and year one ninety-nine of the fourth era, the frost shone like glimmering stars that had fallen from the skies. The sun was dipping behind Skyrim's mountains, casting a orange and pink hue over Tamriel. In Whiterun stands a wondrous tree at the feet of the castle of Dragonsreach, one that is revered by the holy men and women who reside in the temple it shares a space with.

 It is in this house of faith where a particular young elf and her mentor has spent numerous hours in the study of conjuration; where the magic comes from, how it is harnessed, and the dangers inherent in its practice. The summoning of familiars was a tradition among the priests and priestesses of Kyne the Nordic patron of the hunt, as the animal spirits would act as their guardians. These holy men and women took a more combative perspective of Wylendriel's lady, Kynareth, but their origins were derived from the same concept: she was the most powerful of the wind spirits. This was common ground they could find where there was enough to elicit understanding on both ends. 

Regardless of the differences in their faiths, her mentor, Jadis Starhearth, an older nord woman with salt and pepper hair, was very knowledgeable in both magic and the divines. In that respect, she was very careful in treading the line where her faith would collide with hers, but keen on preaching what she felt she knew to be the truth. She stood a few paces beside Wy with her hands held behind her.

"...as such, the summoning of your familiar draws from a different energy than the entities in classical conjuration spells. This school of magic generally draws upon daedric power from one of the realms of Oblivion. Channeling magic through both incantation and binding runes usually ensures a safe conjuration - but is never promised. Your familiar is the summoning of an animal spirit you are familiar with after you have built a connection with them."

"There's an important distinction to be made however," Wy's mentor continued, "and that is to understand that not all daedra are the same. The difference between aedra and daedra is that the daedra chose not to give their power in creating the world, but that alone is reason enough to approach them cautiously... for their decision was made in opposition of your existence in the first place. It is that same decision that gives them more presence on Nirn than the Nine. In order to banish summoned daedra, you must sever the magic that binds them to Nirn and the summoner. But first, you must learn how that binding works."

Wy nodded and closed her eyes. Session after session, they have gone through this. Building a relationship with animal spirits was a complicated task, for it was one of those things where you needed experience to summon one, but need to summon one for experience. To find a spirit required a spirit of your own which was compatible with the animal in question. It was for this reason that what few nord conjurers existed usually conjured wolves, since ingrained in their culture was a fierce sense of loyalty and honor (and quite often enjoying the carnal aspects of life). Rare exceptions among them could call upon hawks, elks, and even bears. 

She had to picture an image in her mind of the spirit she sought to conjure forth: a doe. Feel the energies around her and communicate with the spirits, connect - she struggled. She strained her body to squeeze out what magicka she could, but the magicka went nowhere. With a sharp breath, she relaxed her body and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.

"Again, Wylendriel?" Jadis asked, sounding surprised. "Strange. You're such a focused study."

"I don't know why this is so hard for me! Back home, we hold such reverence for nature and her spirits." Wylendriel bemoaned.

Her mentor smiled at her, though solemn it seemed, and she sat beside the bosmer girl and rested an arm around her shoulder. "Still thinking of home?" She asked.

"How can I not?" Wy replied.

"You torment yourself with your own thoughts. Little wonder, how can the spirits trust you if you do not trust in yourself?"

"But what if I never left?" Wylendriel argued, her voice escalating to a panicked tone. "I could've stayed and helped my people more than I would've by abandoning them."

Jadis looked slightly disappointed and began her incoming lecture with a huff. "You waste the time the Divines have given you by dawdling on the past. We can only move forward. Remember, it's natural to doubt yourself - but don't ever second guess what you know is moral."

Wy took deep breaths with closed eyes while she took in her mentor's wisdom. Part of her debated it - what if, despite her intentions, she made the wrong choice. But like Jadis said, there was no changing what happened. She was left with the question: was resisting the Dominion on behalf of her people, some of whom who were suffering by their hands, a moral decision? The question answered itself.

"So," Jadis continued, "what kind of spirit did you try reaching out to?"

"A doe," she answered.

"A doe?" She parroted incredulously. Jadis knew that the temple's newest initiate had earned the reputation in Whiterun for being doe-like. The smallest thing in a town full of mountain sized nords, wary and cautious in a new land and ever on the look-out for the Thalmor, all while exuding an aura of innocence... the kind of reputation she has obtained must have gotten to her head. Jadis has seen first hand what her spirit was really like. Wylendriel shrugged awkwardly, prompting her mentor to sigh. "And why do you think that?" She asked.

"I... don't know." Wy replied. Her answer caused Jadis's wrinkles to furrow, and her express became stern.

"I think it's time that you've spent some time in meditation." She finally said.

"Meditation? But I usually--"

"Not like this you haven't." Jadis said. "You've become disconnected from nature. I want you to stay outdoors for up to a week. No contact with civilization." Wylendriel's eyes went wide with surprise, but said nothing, allowing her mentor to continue. "Once you discover what you've been looking for, or until the allotted time is up, you may return. I trust that you, as a bosmer, will be self-sufficient enough to handle this?"

"Y-yes... of course." Wy muttered, staring at the ground, trying to understand Jadis' decision. Spending time outside the walls didn't bother her. She wasn't afraid of nature - she'd take towards the south to be among the woods in which she could easily traverse and be outside saber cat territory. The question was why. Why did she want her to do this? What was she planning?

The two bid their farewells to each other that evening, and what remained of that night was to be devoted to rest so that she may prepare for the following day... but sleep did not come easily to Wy that night. She tossed and turned, and sometimes layed totally still - but that air was as still as she was, the night quiet from the chill air which warded insects back into their burrows. A nearly maddening silence that provided no relief by means of white noise to distract her from her own thoughts and reflection upon the day. 

Today in particular was a gross reminder of failure, inadequacy, and insecurity. Still hunted and reviled by the Thalmor, no conjuration has been yet mastered, and each passing day leaves her longer away from home than ever before. She was an outsider here who didn't quite belong, neither her nor there - which leaves her to wonder about her mentor's feelings. She has committed to teaching her all about the Divines, but there are times like these where she'd send her away. What was she planning? Was there even a plan? And what can she expect from the trials ahead? 

The time between brief periods of shut eye was spent on prayer and meditation so that she could find answers to her questions. Sometimes, sprawled out on the floor, she'd write letters that will never be sent. They were on sometimes on these peculiar sheets of parchment made from thin layer over thin layer of peeled goat skin, traded from the local butcher and pressed, and then dried into a single sheet. The burnt end of a bird quill was her pen, and a small candle her ink jar. Each pen stroke done gently, singing and staining with black ash, and in the Bosmeri language of her people.

[i]"To my dear friends and family - to all the cherished people of my homeland - to the entire breadth of Valenwood;

Traveling the world has both costs and merits. While on one hand, the experience has broadened my perspective far beyond the horizons I thought to have known. In this, I am blessed with the opportunity to learn from the multitudes of people I have crossed paths with along my journey, and even now in Skyrim, my eyes have opened wide enough to see a world I was previously blind to - to this I thank a most wise and gracious elder by whom I'm being mentored.

But at the same time, I feel home-sick. I live in a land so different from my beloved home where everything I think I know feels wrong, as if I feel my head falling towards the sky, but lose my footing upon the ground. In the most disorienting of fashions, my identity struggles to resist becoming unraveled. I fear this culture-shock will be my undoing if I cannot find familiarity in the frozen north. Not all is lost, though. I find comfort in knowing that by the end, we all become one with the Earth Bones and I will find my way home to Y'ffre. Kynareth's guidance provided, I will find the Storyteller having lived a fulfilled life. 

The Thalmor has not found me yet, and I swear upon the green, that neither they nor any mortal force upon Nirn will bring me to heel. Do not worry for me. No matter my outcome, the cycle will live on and I will see you again when we become one. With any luck, we’ll have our reunion before then. 
 
Your own, Wylendriel Greensky."[/i]

Practice of such correspondence, even unsent, at least reminded her that there was a place in which she could belong. She folded the paper - if one could call it that - into a small square and stuck it into a side pocket of her satchel that sat upon the floor beside her. It somewhat renewed her resolve, and with that, she finally turned herself into bed that night and let the chill air lull her to sleep beneath her warm fur covers.

[/hider]
[hider=Part II: The First Day]
Dawn followed after dusk in what felt like no time, and with only brief periods of sleep throughout the night to ready herself, she awoke that morning feeling vastly unprepared. She felt beaten and exhausted, and every shred of light felt like burning needles sticking into her eyes. Despite how she felt, however, she knew that it would be best to leave before her mentor awoke. She took a moment to compose herself - taking deep, slow breaths and a brief prayer to Kynareth in order to thank her for the breath she has taken, and went to work. 

Quickly constructing a bindle to fill in simple necessities and rations, such as aged cheeses, cured meats, a couple of salt blocks, and a water skin. She felt it would betray the experience of the challenge if she brought her satchel that was full of most of what she'll ever need. She headed straight out the door to meet the blue-pink skies of today's dawn and hurried down the steps towards the market level before following the street that led her to the gates. The pitter-patter of her feet along the masonry did nothing to disturb the city's quiet slumber.

From there on, she followed the road eastbound past the local farmland, so that within minutes she can take the south road that would eventually take her up the misty mountains. She took in the refreshing smell of pine and fresh rain that had a mint-like coolness that barely stung her airways, and it felt almost homey. Out here, she can avoid some of the most dangerous of Skyrim's fauna. For instance, giant territory were often on large expanses of land - it was difficult for them to navigate the forests. Most especially saber cats, which preferred lurking in the tall grasslands, and their fur kept them warm in the tundra, so that their powerful legs can jump over snow banks. Out here, the easily distinguishable color of their fur would make them easy to spot among the evergreens, and the elks could take off at an impressive pace long before the cat could close enough to stalk them. 

The most she had to worry about out in the southern stretch of Whiterun Hold were wolves. A clumsy lot, truth be told, and Wy was confident she could stay at least a step or two ahead of them. They weren't like hoarvor or stranglers, which relied on subterfuge to get the drop on their prey, they were flat-footed noisy things. So when she climbed up the trail and found old tracks of, say, three dogs or something similar, she wasn't worried. Still, this early in the morning when all the bugs and birds start making all of their racket, the wolves may be waking on empty stomachs, which meant that she might want to perch herself in the trees for a little more rest soon.

Gods, the rest she could have! Only hours ago had she awoken from one of the worst nights of bed rest thus far, and it would do her well to catch up on some shut eye. Even so, all this time she still had her mind on her purpose for being out here in the first place. This was post-failure in her conjuration practice, and Jadis wanted her to find something out here. Find a compatible spirit, perhaps? It seemed all so contrived - the bosmer people had a profound connection with nature and it's creatures, so it wasn't like she misunderstood the nature of these creatures. With each little critter that scurried past, she kept a trained eye on - but nothing clicked.
 
Her stomach growled and an ache shot through her gut. She should probably find something to eat out here before she rested while she has the chance. Not wanting to waste her rations so soon in her adventure, she did some searching. The Green Pact forbade destroying or consuming vegetation in the wilds of Valenwood, but… the mere idea of taking the berries off a nearby bush, even if it was in Skyrim,  just seemed so wrong and disgusting to her. Instead, she thought she could instead find a small treat to hold her over - and she knew exactly what to look for. 

She had to find a tree with high branches near a flowering field. A flowering field required sunlight, so it had  to be in less dense part of the wood… closer to the river, further eastward and down from the mountain, and that wasn’t very far. It took only a few minutes of navigating the rocky terrain until Wylendriel found one such tree, and high enough in its branches hung a beehive, but not so high that it would be buffeted by the cold winds. This early in the morning, as chilly as it was, the hive was mostly inactive while the bees inside kept warm. She lifted a long fallen stick from the ground to carry on her robe, and began climbing a nearby tree with lower branches.

The elf nimbly climbed higher and higher with each branch; swinging with grace and using her weight to throw herself up to the next level, and fearlessly bounding from one side to the other like she has been all of her life. By the time she was fifteen feet off the ground, she moved onto a branch thicker towards the trunk and aimed at the tree that had the beehive in its branches. From the branch of the first tree, Wy leaped and caught the branch of the second in her hands. She let herself hang for a moment as a big smile stretched over her face - relishing in the moment of what it felt like to be at home again - before she swung her feet to wrap herself around the branch and finally crawled around until she was back upright with her back pressing against the trunk. With a stick in hand, she leaned over and slowly inserted it through the main entrance point of the hive. She felt the writhing swarm inside through the stick, but with as cold as it was outside, they remained quiet and dormant. 

She pulled the stick out with care and covered with honey - the bees on it, exposed to the air, quickly crawled back inside the hive for warmth, just like how Wy inched closer back towards the trunk and - at last - leaned back comfortably, licking away at the sweet, raw honey. It was made from… mountain flowers. A hint of lavender. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, transferring the honey to her mouth using her finger, taking this moment to relax and let the sun’s rays warm her body. The faint sound of a wolf’s howl echoed in the distance, confirming Wy’s concerns, but as high up as she was, she wasn’t concerned about them. 

When her fill of the honey that coated the stick was met, she tossed it to the ground and used her waterskin to wash her face and hands of the sticky mess so that the hive wouldn’t smell the honey on her when they became active. She hopped a few more branches until she found two that made a narrow v-shape and nestled herself between them. Closing her eyes once more, she finally allowed herself a moment of rest while she thought about the road ahead. There were few minutes to spare in the time allotted to her, so she had to figure out the challenge Jadis issued. What was her familiar? What spirit was she compatible with? Unlike last night, she drifted off to sleep in very little time.
 
This sleep would only last a couple of hours. Still, in spite of that, it was a couple of hours of needed rest.

When she later found herself joining the waking world once more, it was when the midday sun was beating on her face through the thicket of leaves. It wasn’t the most pleasant of ways to be awoken, for sure, and she groggily reached for the waterskin at her side while shielding her face from the sun. Taking a quick swig to hydrate her parched mouth, she looked around at the forest floor just as quickly to take a quick assessment of her surroundings. It was quiet. The bees were investigating the stick Wylendriel had tossed before she took her nap, apparently collecting what they could to return to their hive. Judging from the lack of pain on her body, she must’ve cleaned up well enough to avoid inciting their wrath. Just as she started budging, she heard a rustle in the grass below - Wy stopped. Looking down again, this time she saw something she did not before. The shape of a dog resting in the shade, staring at her with hungry yellow eyes. One of the wolves. It must’ve saw her up in the trees and decided to wait for her to come down. Strange… strange and clever. Especially considering how Wylendriel’s robes should’ve provided her with some camouflage - but still strange.

[i]'I would’ve suspected this behavior from saber cats. I guess he’s having a hard time finding food.'[/i]

It was looking as though she had to stay up in this tree longer than she thought. It was doubtful there was a single, lone wolf out here. There had to have been others lurking about, or at least within earshot. Her eyes locked onto the wolf below and narrowed. It must have known she had saw it by now. Even with her people’s affinity, she doubted she could pacify it. Sociability didn’t take precedence in a creature’s instincts before hunger. The smartest move would be to wait it out.

In the meantime, Wylendriel watched the natural world pass her by. The sun had shifted in the sky by about forty-five degrees, so about an hour and a half must have passed since then. Her eyes were no longer trained on the wolf that still waited impatiently at the base of the tree, pacing around and occasionally fixing its eyes on something in the far off bushes - likely others of its pack - but instead on other life, keenly studying them. Wondrous things could be discovered if one just stopped and looked. At the top of a nearby tree was an eagle’s nest. The mother wasn’t home, but her chicks waited patiently for their food to be delivered to them. One of them was flapping their little wings over and over without getting anywhere, jumping up and down, it's little wings wasn't quite strong enough for its fat body.
 
Then a gust of wind picked up, cutting through the air, and curling underneath the eagle chick’s wings. It was carried out of the nest and started falling - the chick flapped its wings like crazy, but all it did was slow its fall to the ground. Her heart began to ache - it was surely a death sentence for the poor thing. It landed on a soft pile of grass, and the sudden rustling and all the crying it made captured the wolf’s attention. It's eyes were now fixed on the helpless bird, which was the size of a small cat. Plenty big enough to satisfy its appetite. Wylendriel felt her heart ache for the poor thing… but it would betray Y’ffre’s lessons to interfere, disrupting the circle. One swift chomp - [i]crack![/i] - and the bird’s neck went limp. The sound of wet chewing and cracking bones was difficult to ignore. A shriek cut the air. A large eagle was circling overhead, having heard the earlier cries of her baby. She swooped down with talons bared, clawing at its back, and the wolf jumped back and yelped in pain and surprise. The eagle persisted and the wolf grabbed her by the end of one of her wings and pulled her to the ground. 
 
Though wounded, the eagle pulled free and scrambled to her feet. She bravely stretched her huge wingspan out and slowly stepped towards the wolf. The bird must have known it wasn't a fight she could win, but she still bothered with trying to scare the wolf off. However, the wolf had only snarled and took a few steps towards the mother eagle. Wylendriel narrowed her eyes. Now the wolf was being greedy. He had already eaten, he shouldn't be worrying himself with fighting the angry mother. Furthermore… Wylendriel’s eyes fell back to the nest. The wolf would be killing more than just the mother.
 
The priestess got to her feet and balanced on the branch, then leaped to an adjacent branch and climbed back onto the branch which held up the beehive. She crawled as cautiously and as gently as she could to avoid disturbing the hive, but quickly enough to act. 
 
“Song of night-tide canopy - stars woven between your leaves. Crow's watching eye; snake's empty belly - moving, dancing in every moment... forgetting what comes and what is gone."
 
Murmuring her quick prayer to Y’ffre, she took her skinning knife and cut the stem holding the hive to the branch and let it plummet near the two creatures below - this would hurt the hive to some extent, but it could be easily rebuilt. She just retreated to the branch she was resting in earlier and watched the angry swarm target the two nearby animals as the hive busted open. A couple stings in the wolf’s muzzle and it was gone. The eagle was mostly unbothered by them and weakly flapped her wings and flew back up to the top of the tree to tend to her wound and her chicks. Wylendriel sighed and let the wolf put distance between them, thankful that she was forgotten about. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that the eagle was watching her until every time Wylendriel looked back at them.

[/hider]
[hider=Part III: To Survive]
[b]Three days later…[/b]

The sun was inching closer towards sunset, and the air was hot.

[i]‘Why is that thing here? Of all places!’[/i]

Wylendriel’s breath, weak and raspy, panting. The grass and leaves rustled with every step. An unnoticed flower trampled underfoot. No Green Pact bosmer would ever dare…

[i]‘No wonder the past couple days have been so quiet! To think… up here? In the mountains?’[/i]

A loud, earth-trembling quake reverberated through the woods. Then another - footsteps of something utterly massive.

“Why is that giant chasing me?” She cried.  An old, low hanging branch of a tree she had been too distracted to notice whipped her in the face as she ran for dear life, scraping her and drawing droplets of blood. The pain, as much as it stung, didn’t seem to matter so much when escaping the threat of being crushed into paste or being torn limb from limb. That moment of gazing upon an old elk, so great in its majesty with a rack of antlers as wide as a carriage, were but fleeting seconds before the instant it took for an even greater giant to crush the poor creature in the palm of its hand. Then his sights were set on her, and he dropped it… she wasn’t even sure if the giant was hungry or not. If that was the case, why did it even bother pursuing her?

The trees behind her exploded into splinters as the giant bull rushed her direction. It seemed that what stamina she had drained from him had returned, and he was well on his way to being right on her heels… rather, it might be more appropriate to say he'd be right on top of [i]her![/i]
 
[i]’Damn it! I have to do something![/i] She thought in the midst of her panic. The further down the mountain she ran, the steeper some of drops were and the thicker the foliage was, but the ledges were but minor steps for the giant and the thickets did nothing to slow him down. If memory served correctly, there should be a caverns up here, east of Whiterun and the river. It was a delve favorited by bandits, but…
 
Wylendriel turned around briefly and saw the giant charging closer, shouting a guttural roar and spewing spittle with a fallen tree serving as the club in his hand. She doubted that the club was the thing he actually wanted to kill her with. Ugh, fine! There wasn't any time to be worrying about bandits. Wylendriel’s mad sprint brought her to the river soon enough, and she seemed inches away from the giant’s grasp, but she took a sharp left towards the north and avoided the massive paw. The giant’s foot tripped upon the edge of the riverbank and slippery slopes and brought the creature tumbling down onto his side with a thunderous crash. He roared after the little bosmer in anger. In the time it took for him to get up, the fleet footed elf was already making progress towards a slope up the next mountain, and White River Watch was coming into sight.
 
It was a minute or two later and her feet were smacking against the wooden stairs that were built against the mountain slope. The muffled sound of thunder was following her. She had to get inside the cave before the giant--
 
“What's a pretty little knife-eared [i]bitch[/i] doing here, eh?” Sneered a voice up ahead. From the cavern’s shadows came a bandit, who was currently notching an arrow on his bowstring. She barely noticed the smaller nord man behind the first, who was resting a short blade on his leather shoulder armor.
 
“Pretty? Nah, Brim, you're thinking of them [i]high elves,[/i]” he said, putting particular emphasis on what kind of elf, indicating no particular love for any sort of elf. “She's one of them gross cannibal sorts. Ain't no mouth [i]I[/i] wanna be stickin’ my tongue in.”
 
As revolting as the discourse was, she was in a panic and didn't have time to be disgusted with them. Still, it was clear to her that these two had no intention of just leaving her be - she had to think of something.
 
“I am a priestess from the Temple of Kyne!” Wylendriel spat. “Let me through, I don't have--”
 
“Gee, Jold, now that I think of it, I did hear that temple took in a cannibal.” Brim mused.
 
“Ain't no temple o’ [i]mine![/i]” Jold added. “Now Zenithar - mister money bags - that’s a god I can get behind!”
 
Wy’s senses, far sharper as they were, could tell that the giant was just around the corner, and was visibly anxious to get moving. “You're wasting time!” She urged.
 
“I agree,” replied Jold. “Kill ‘er.”
 
It was as soon as Brim pulled back the string of his bow that the giant peered around the mountain. As quickly as Brim saw it, turned and shot the arrow at the giant when it started running up the mountain slope. Wy flinched, and was momentarily confused, but looked back when the giant roared out in pain. Brim started notching another arrow and, like a doe, Jold was frozen solid upon sight. Wy pushed past the both of them and scrambled towards the caverns, breaking Jold’s fearful trance. As the giant inched closer, Jold followed after Wy into the caverns and Brim shot another arrow only for it to get caught by the giant’s massive club. The bow-wielding nord was too slow to get away from the monster’s swing and was batted off the mountain, where he'd presumably land in The Pale. Unrealistic, yes, but she couldn't help but wonder how far his body would fly from a swing like that. He was probably dead upon impact. She'd pray for the loss of life, but…
 
[i]”You elven bitch!”[/i] Jold screamed, jumping atop of her, fighting with her in trying to wrap his hands around her throat. “You led that thing here!”
 
Wy stopped trying to slap his hands and instead grabbed his wrists. After a brief second, her hands started glowing green and it wasn't long after then she felt herself slowly reenergizing and the bandit’s grip growing weaker. When he finally released her, she gasped for air and threw the man off of her with strength unseemly of a priestess thanks to that magic. Unfortunately, she didn't notice the giant reaching its arm through the cavern, and Jold was within reach. The giant pulled him closer with his fingers, probably grinding him into the floor a little bit and crushing his bones. After he was pulled into the giant’s palm, the monster squeezed hard with a grunt. Wy just heard sickly wet noises and breaking bones mixed with the he screams that were suddenly silenced. She felt like throwing up. The giant just dropped dead Jold and tried its damnedest to inch after Wy, and she kicked her feet trying to get as far away as she could. This greedy thing… it wasn't like the wolf, it wasn't concerned with eating at all! It was hunting for sport!
 
Wy climbed to her feet and started running deeper into the caverns. If the layout was what she thought it was, if her brief survey from the outside was any indicator, there should be an exit that could help her escape for good. Running through the caverns, barely noticing the lack of bandits present (were there only two?), her hunch was right as the end of the cavern ended at another wooden platform. She looked all around her… it was like a steep drop on every side. She tried to look around the edge of the mountain to see if the giant was still peering into entrance or if he finally gave up… much to her dismay, it was neither of the two, but was looking straight at her and he definitely seemed to be trying to figure out how to get to her. Wy sighed and let her shoulders drop… finally, she can relax.
 
The tree that giant has been using as a club came flying right at her.
 
She dove out of the way back towards the cavern as half of the platform broke into splinters. “Oblivion damn you!” She shrieked, covering her head from the falling debris. Her hands got scraped up pretty badly, though it was manageable. She was more alarmed by the sound of the nearby rock tumbling down the mountainside. She sneaked a peek around the mouth of the cavern. Nothing. Was he gone? She peeked a little bit further...

Just as Wy inched closer, the giant’s face swung around from the other side of the rock, staring at her from a mere few feet away.

[i]’That bastard climbed the side of the mountain. Like a damn imga!’[/i]

The priestess jumped to her feet and bolted back towards the cavern, and the giant was pulling himself up to be level with the cavern’s exist. She was far enough inside that she would be out of the giant’s reach, but now she was on her hands and knees trying to catch her breath.

[i]’I can’t believe this. He has me trapped inside. Kynareth, how am I going to get out?’[/i]

She was answered with a half-hour of silence. Why was she so quiet? Was this a test? Every time she thought the giant was gone, he’d peer in through the hole to see if she were still there. That damn, crafty… ugh! She has been waiting so long for him to leave!. She can’t just wait until he brings the damn mountain down on her head. If she headed out the other way, the giant would simply see her leaving and climb back over. It was just like the time with the wolf… how did she get out of that mess? A gust of wind from outside blew through the tunnel, and as cold as it was, sent shivers up her spine. Her memories flashed before her eyes - a gust of wind and the chicks fell. Cried for help - eaten. The mother arrives… the mother arrived and she fought. Fell wounded… she stood her ground. Wings out. Stood her ground… wings out. Wylendriel looked up at the giant, half of whom’s face was looking into the inside of the caverns. Stand her ground. That’s the only way she was gonna get out of here.

“I think I finally understand...” Wy muttered. "Thank you, Jadis."

She pulled herself up to her feet and dusted herself off, stung her hands a little bit. They were still roughed up, but they were so minor that went the priestess brought her hands together and bathed them in a restorative light, they were healed over in a moment’s notice. She took a deep breath, drew her skinning knife, and paced forward with her hands at her sides. Chin up. Lip steadied. The giant’s interest was evidently piqued as she started moving closer to his reach.

“Forgive me Y’ffre, the Storyteller, and Kynareth, the mother, for what I am about to do…”

Another step, and the giant looked in.

“...to send you a child of Nirn, for its transgressions against nature’s balance...”

Another step, and the giant’s hand reached in through the mouth of the cavern.

“...for they would profane your bountiful treasures…”

Another step, and the hand went to grab the priestess.

“...and forgetting what will come, and what is gone.”

As the giant tried to take her into his grasp, Wy plunged the knife deep into the giant’s finger beneath his fingernail. He reared back in pain, pulling his hand out of the cavern and holding it in the air before him as he latched onto the mountainside with his other hand. [i]’Now --’[/i] she raised her hand in the air and made the clear mental image of the animal she was looking for… the eagle, standing its ground before the wolf; collected her magicka and sought to bind this animal spirit to her, not to the land- she [i]was[/i] Nirn, but one small part of it - and an eagle in a brilliant white-blue luminescent glow materialized before her. From Aetherius it flew, and it kept flying towards the giant outside the cavern with its talons bared and sinking them into the monster’s eyes, bloodying them to pulp then dissipating in thin air.

The giant roared once more in agony and lost his grip upon the mountain and fell backward. Each second was followed by one thunderous crash after another as it tumbled upon the mountain. Eventually the giant’s roars stopped when his head smacked against a boulder real hard, but the continued to fall until he finally hit the ground and lay lifeless beside the river. Wy  rushed over to the cavern exit and peered over the edge - sure enough, he lies motionless at the base of the mountain. Her knees felt weak. She did it! She actually conjured... she... Jadis wanted her to find herself and... she wasn't any doe, no; but most importantly, she's survived. The priestess fell on her bum and pressed her back against the cavern wall. The only thing she had energy to do was to stare toward the ceiling and laugh to herself, tears of relief running down her face.

She was glad no one was here. She must have looked like a maniac.
[/hider]
[/hider]
[hider=Larendil's Brawler]
By [@Peik]

‘’Are you absolutely sure that you want to speak to the mer, sir? Moriche are no more than gritty, miserable ignoramuses. Especially this one, we've already interrogated him.’’

‘’You know very well that it is in the Dominion’s interests to learn all we can from our foes. We have an assassin on our hands, do we not? No doubt it was a premeditated attack, given how our foe came out of nowhere and started a barber shop. Of course, those damned Imperials did not expect us to see the connection with this Sadri fellow and the Penitus Oculatus. I am certain a trained assassin such as he would be well versed in resisting torture. This new method developed by Zigmundil Freudhar tells us even more than what they know about themselves!’’

Ganillon raised an eyebrow. What he had heard of the mer was nothing but rumors of his obsession with sexual organs and an alleged addiction to ground-up Moon Sugar snuff, or as its inventors the Bosmer called it, Co-Coinn. 

Larendil saw the doubt in Ganillon’s eyes. He wasn’t the only one questioning the efficiency of this method. He knew all too well that was why he was no longer at Alinor, but instead in this damned outpost off Woodhearth. Thankfully his uncles had pulled some strings to give him a position prodigious enough to order these fools around.

‘’Bah, what would a simple warden like you know. Just bring him in,’’ he said to Ganillon with a dismissing gesture. The well-dressed, martial warden left and sighed in annoyance the moment he shut the door, no doubt frustrated about this fifty-year old brat being a superior to decorated veterans of the Great War.

‘’Take the damn Moriche here. Our [i]esteemed superior[/i] wishes to see him.’’
[hr]
When the prisoner was first brought in, Larendil wanted to protest, because from what he saw they had brought in a flesh Atronach, or somehow brought in a Bonewalker from Morrowind, so torn up was the arrival’s face and skin. It was only after the shackled individual walked a few steps closer to the light that he managed to make out the pointed ears and red eyes that marked a Dunmer. It seemed that his subordinates had tried to make the man talk through more conventional methods. How base and dreadfully foolish.

‘’Sit down,’’ Larendil commanded. The Dunmer practically threw himself onto the velvet-laden sofa, gasping in pain and a concentrated effort to feel the most he could of the fabric. Compared to the cobblestone floor on which he had been sleeping on for the last few days, this was almost heavenly.

‘’You are Sadri Beleth, correct? My subordinates have long mentioned their inability to get any leads out of you. Even our esteemed Inquisitors have conceded that their magic has failed to find any clues in your feeble brain.’’

Sadri looked at the man, mouth slightly ajar - the last interrogator had dislocated his jaw with a strong kick. With his cataract-laden eye, hunched back and hanging neck, he looked more like a puppet, or a recently reanimated corpse. 

‘’Ah, playing hard to get, I see. Don’t worry, I am not here to hurt you. Please, tell me about your childhood.’’

Sadri’s good eye opened wide. ‘’What?’’ He slurred, trying to push back the spit gathering in his mouth with his tongue. It seemed to him that the Thalmor, frustrated with the ineffectiveness of their treatment (Mer such as Sadri often received lighter punishments, thanks to the privilege of their race), had decided to go with a much crueler and bone-chilling torture method – taking the piss with him. Truly there was no method more unpredictable. 

‘’Your childhood,’’ the Altmer responded flatly.

Sadri blinked repeatedly. Not wishing to anger his latest interrogator and be forced to leave his latest seating (boy, the sofa was comfortable!), he took a deep, painful breath, and then began speaking after his interrogator inked his quill and gave him the go-ahead with a graceful gesture.

‘’Well, I was born in Bergama about fifty-sixty something years back. I really don’t remember much… I used to wander around with the local kids, play games, didn’t do much. Parents were well-off, they tried to get me educated instead of sending me off to be an apprentice.’’

‘’Interesting, interesting, never thought Dunmer parenting could be anything more than horrid. You weren’t specialized in your education, correct?’’

‘’I guess not?’’

‘’…Lackluster education, half-taught…’’ Larendil muttered to himself, weighing every word in his mouth before scrawling them to the paper in front of him. Sadri would have protested, but he assumed that he did not have the privilege. The Mer interrogating him right now felt like a kid pretending to play doctor with a toy – don’t budge, and he’ll break your limbs. Go with the flow, he’ll leave you, or so Sadri thought.

He thought wrong.

‘’Right. Now close your eyes. When you think ‘Bergama’, what comes to your mind?’’

Sadri was hesitant to close his eyes, expecting that the mer would electrocute him the moment he did so, but the childish naiveté in his voice convinced him, plus, he didn’t have any other choice, he complied.

‘’I, uh, the Old Well.’’ 

The Old Well was a ruin, overlooking the vast stretch of desert that lay beyond the southern edge of Bergama – some of the older children had come up with a rumor that the Old Well was once a tower, yet a volcano explosion had devoured the old city and left nothing but the tip of its tallest spire, that being the Old Well. Sadri remembered how his grandfather’s face had gone pale when he had asked whether the story was true or not. It had convinced him in his childhood that the story was correct.

‘’And what may this Old Well be?’’

‘’It was a well,’’ Sadri retorted, before hurriedly continuing into a more elaborate answer in fear of repercussions. ‘’Used to be a common spot for kids to play – at night, it was a teenage lovers’ meeting spot. Friend of mine Najad, he used to work as a carpenter’s apprentice back then – we used to make wooden ‘love idols’ for kids to buy, told them if they stashed it under their beds, the girl they loved would love them back. Spent that money on sweets, toys and wooden swords.’’

Larendil rolled his eyes at just how banal the excuse was. The Penitus Oculatus had instilled a quite believable story in this man’s mind – perhaps a sleeper agent? That was why this method was perfect. Picking apart semantics and themes, reactions… to know more about one than one oneself could know, no tool was more powerful.

‘’Hmm, hmm…’’ Larendil mused as he kept writing. ‘’And what comes to mind when you think of this Old Well?’’

Sadri took a breath, unable to sigh, in fear of the possible wrath of his interrogator.

‘’I had a crush of my own, Nevyna. We used to meet there. His father did not like my father, though, we never got together.’’

He felt sullen all of a sudden, not wishing to disclose any more details about his previous love. When he had returned to Bergama with the onset of the Great War, Nevyna’s husband had gone off to war. When news of his death reached the town in 173, Sadri and Nevyna’s relationship had made an attempt to rekindle itself, in what had begun as sincere consolation for a past friend. Unfortunately for Nevyna, her child had never taken a liking to Sadri. It had never taken off. 

Here, now, Sadri was in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Valenwood, waiting for his execution, and it was almost as if this new interrogator was his instrument of death, and this new instrument had chosen to take the metaphor of making his life ‘flash before his eyes’ literally. First his childhood, now his teenage years…

‘’And what of Nevyna?’’ 

‘’What about her?’’ Sadri asked, slightly defensive in tone.

‘’Tell me about her.’’

‘’She was a nice girl.’’ 

Larendil raised his eyebrows and lowered his head, looking derisively at Sadri. 

‘’…Yeah, she was a nice girl. Pale skin for a Dunmer, thoughtful eyes, hooked nose. Dumber than she looked, but she had good intentions.’’

‘’…Mhm, yes, yes. It’s all good now, making itself more and more blatant.’’ 

‘’What?’’ Sadri asked, confused.  

‘’Why, isn’t it obvious? The Well, teenage loves, thoughtful eyes… It all points to your love for your mother. Your focus on women, water and wells, these are all symptoms for desire for the vagina, why, it’s obvious. You want to be your father; you’re envious of him for having your mother. Not to worry, though, it’s all normal. I’ll have a more comprehensive analysis after a full month.’’

‘’A month?’’

‘’Yes, yes, we’ll have to postpone your execution for a month, but it’s all good. Your life may be forfeit, but you’ll leave an excellent psych evaluation behind. No better legacy... I can see it now, Larendil’s Assassin! You’ll be famous, my friend.’’

Sadri spent a moment in pain to spring up his muscles, and threw himself forward with all his strength to land a punch on Larendil’s face. When the Altmer fell off his chair with the impact, Sadri slumped over the table on which he had been writing to jump on the man, but found it impossible to raise his legs high enough to vault over it – pulling himself over the table, he fell on Larendil on his face, thankfully elbow first. He heard a loud crack. 

Outside the door, Ganillon watched the debacle from the covered window on the door, smirking.

‘’Shall we intervene, sir?’’ One of the guards asked.

‘’Maybe in a few moments.’’ 
[hr]
Sadri’s actions earned him a solitary confinement cell, with a mattress to sleep upon and an extra meal. He also got his execution expedited, from a month to two weeks’ time.  

Larendil lost his position as the Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after the eponymous breakout that occurred a week later his failed psychoanalysis session. He wrote a heavily embellished paper on his experiences.

Ganillon was reinstated as Master Warden of Seven-Roots Dungeon after Larendil was expelled. He has since retired and returned to Alinor.
[/hider]

[i]Historical Figures[/i] - Canon ([b]#6[/b]):

[hider=Sagax's Musings on Martin Septim]
By [@Frizan]

As a child, my father would tell me stories about the Empire's past, local heroes, its Emperors and their achievements. I remember my favorite story being the exploits of the Hero of Kvatch and Martin Septim, illegitimate heir to the Septim dynasty sired by Uriel Septim VII himself.

Just what was going through his head when they broke the news to him? When they told him his whole life prior was an utter lie and that he, and he alone, was the last surviving heir of Emperor Uriel Septim VII(may he ever sit by the side of Tiber Septim)? Surely he was confused, maybe with a hint of pride...or perhaps resentment? My father admitted that he could not tell me, as the man didn't leave behind many writings, and he confided in few, if any, that he interacted with. 

The reign of Emperor Martin Septim(may he ever sit by the side of Tiber Septim) was sudden and unfortunately short, yet he accomplished so much in just a few weeks time. He led the counter-assault on the Bruma Oblivion Gate alongside the Hero of Kvatch and saved the city from destruction, just before sacrificing himself to forever seal the Oblivion Gates and cast Mehrunes Dagon back into his realm of obsidian and fire. But before then? Nobody really seems to know, as the short-lived Emperor was ultimately an unknown entity before the Oblivion Crisis. Rumors abound that Emperor Martin was a cultist of the Daedric prince Sanguine in his youth, but evidence is lacking, and such gossip was most likely concocted by those opposed to His Imperial Majesty. 

I was always found stories of Emperor Martin and the Hero of Kvatch interesting and almost uplifting, and now I believe I know why. Their stories exemplify that ordinary people can eventually become larger than life, that a man need not always remain at the station designated to him for the rest of his days. Emperor Martin lived his early years as a simple priest, while the Hero of Kvatch was nobody at all. But then they became so much more, they became legends, the subject of heroic tales told around fires all over the world.

In the times we live in now, we could use more heroes. Above all, we could use more people with the wisdom and courage of men like Emperor Martin Septim and the nameless hero that saved Tamriel.
[/hider]
[hider=Niernen Learns About Divayth Fyr]
By [@Hank]

[img]http://images.uesp.net//e/e0/LG-cardart-Divayth%27s_Experiments.png[/img]

[i]22nd of Frostfall, 4E194
Silgrad, Morrowind
Llerwyn Othado’s manor[/i]

“Serjo Othado?” 

“Yes, Niernen?” 

“What do you know of Telvanni magic?” 

Llerwyn looked up from his scrolls and put down his quill. He stared at Niernen in the flickering candlelight for a few seconds over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, his face unreadable, before he replied. “I thought you came here to learn war magic.” 

He was old and wrinkled and his ancient hands, while still dutifully carrying out his wishes, contorted into a claw-like shape, weary with arthrosis. The girl standing in the doorway of his study was young -- [i]so[/i] young, he thought, her cheeks smooth and her hair luscious, and her copper eyes studied him intently. 

“Of course,” Niernen said, unsure whether this was a reprimand or not, “but… well, I’m just curious, that’s all.” She waited for a response but Llerwyn remained silent. “Is it true that they used to live in giant mushrooms they grew with magic?” 

Llerwyn huffed. “Used to? They still do. House Telvanni wasn’t entirely destroyed by the Argonians, you know. There’s a fellow up in Solstheim who lives in such a tower, near Raven Rock. I visited him once when I was summoned there by Councilor Morvayn to see if there was anything I could do about the ebony mine. It dried up, you see. Very bad for business. I wanted to ask the wizard if he, perhaps, knew of any magic that might help, but he barely had time to see me. Tried to pass me off to an assistant of his. Useless boy, of course.” 

Niernen crossed her arms and sighed as quietly as possible. 

“Either way… yes, they grow their towers with magic. I just think they’re showing off. It’s far from practical to have an entirely vertical house. Can’t get up or down without levitation magic, which was of course banned. Why? Do you want to grow a house made out of fungus?” Llerwyn asked and frowned. 

“No, no,” Niernen said and gestured dismissively with her hand. “What other magic did they possess? They must have been very powerful in combat if they studied magic their whole lives.” 

“Ha!” Llerwyn barked and laughed. “You would think so, but no. The Telvanni tried to close the Oblivion gates during the Crisis, two centuries ago, and failed. You know who succeeded? The [i]Argonians.[/i] Chased the Dremora right back where they came from. And then the those lizards ran right over the Telvanni when they invaded Morrowind. It took House Redoran to stop them, as you well know. No, the Telvanni were always far too busy studying the more… hmm, how to put it?” Llerwyn tapped his chin with a bony finger while he mused over his words. “They weren’t content to study the areas of magic defined within the traditional schools of sorcery.” 

Pleased that she had managed to coerce her teacher to talk, Niernen sat down on an empty chair next to Llerwyn’s desk. “Like what?” she asked.

“Have you ever heard of Divayth Fyr?”

“No.”

Llerwyn sighed and shook his head, as if disappointed. “Lord Fyr was one of House Telvanni’s most powerful sorcerers. While he wielded great influence he never aspired to political power and refused to join their Council. He wrote several books and there were books written about him too. Like the other wizard-lords he lived in a mushroom tower of his own creation. Below Tel Fyr lay the Corprusiarium, a prison of sorts, where he kept victims of Corprus, the “divine disease” spread by Dagoth Ur. You [i]have[/i] heard of Dagoth Ur, I should hope?” 

“Of course,” Niernen replied and rolled her eyes. 

“Hmph. Either way, Divayth Fyr would experiment on the victims of Corprus in the hopes of creating a cure. He succeeded in at least one case; the Nerevarine himself, who attained immortality in the process.” 

Niernen’s eyes widened at this. “Immortality? How?” 

“The name “divine disease” wasn’t an empty boast. Fyr theorized that it was actually the physical effect of contact with the divine upon a mortal body, which had both beneficial and extremely detrimental effects. The exact machinations of Corprus remain poorly understood to this day, but Fyr’s concoction successfully nullified the negative effects in Nerevar-Come-Again. Ironically, you could say that he was blessed by Dagoth Ur in the end.” 

“Are there other immortals now because of Corprus, too?” 

Llerwyn raised his hands and shrugged. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. It was part of the prophecy that preceded the Nerevarine’s appearance that he would be immune to all diseases, and much like vampirism or lycanthropy, Corprus provided such an immunity.” He cleared his throat and continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Prophecies have power, Niernen, especially those uttered by a Daedric Prince. I’m inclined to believe that prophecy was true and the Nerevarine was a special case. As far as I know, everyone who Fyr gave his experimental cure to died instantly.” 

Niernen whistled. “How do you know all this?” she asked and tilted her head. 

“Because I was alive at the time, of course,”  Llerwyn replied and laughed. “That was near the end of the Third Era, so a little over 200 years ago. Dunmer wizards can live for a long time. A little Restoration magic goes a long way. But none lived as long as Divayth Fyr, who was born Chimer and walked this earth for more than 4000 years.” 

Dumbfounded, Niernen fell silent. 

“And of course your next question is ‘how?’, again,” Llerwyn said, still smiling. “And that’s precisely the core of House Telvanni’s problem: I don’t know. Nobody knows. They did not share knowledge with each other. It was even customary for ambitious Telvanni to assassinate one another to make way for themselves. House Redoran is no stranger to an honorable duel to the death every now and then, like how your ancestor Bolvyn fought and died to the Nerevarine, but not anything like the Telvanni. They were truly ruthless and very, very isolationist. When I receive a letter from a young daughter of an esteemed member of my House to request a position as my apprentice, I acquiesce. A Telvanni lord would have fortified his defenses and hired an assassin. Ours is a much better way to go about things, I believe.” 

Niernen thought about this for a few seconds while she looked at her lap. “Is he dead now?” she asked, eyes flitting back up to Llerwyn’s face. “You talk about him in past tense.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” the old Dunmer replied. “If anyone could have survived the Red Year, it would be him. I simply haven’t heard anything about him since then. One begins to make assumptions after two hundred years have passed. For all I know he retreated underground, or into Oblivion. Perhaps he lives on the other side of Morrowind in what remains of House Telvanni’s holdings. Or the Argonians got him. Who’s to say?” 

Llerwyn looked down at his papers and blinked a few times, his lips mouthing along to his thoughts. “Oh yes!” he muttered quietly and moved to pick up his quill. 

“Honestly,” Niernen said and sat up straight in her chair, interrupting Llerwyn’s attempt at resuming his work, “it sounds like Divayth Fyr performed very important research and his magic [i]was[/i] useful. He cured the Nerevarine and he lived to be thousands of years old. Imagine what he could tell us about the days of the Chimer?” 

“Does that matter?” Llerwyn snarled, suddenly annoyed. “A lot of his efforts were useless and deplorable, too. He made… [i]daughters[/i], female clones of himself, though I’d be more inclined to call them abominations, and he used them as consorts too. Can you imagine?” He looked disgusted. “Either way, his life was his own, that doesn’t matter either -- the point is that he and the other Telvanni couldn’t protect Morrowind. This isn’t the Third Era anymore, Niernen. The Tribunal are gone, the Nerevarine is gone and even the Empire is close to disintegrating again. Whether or not the Telvanni research was important is irrelevant to us because it is not our station to carry it out. We are the defenders of Resdayn. Do you know what you can rely on to carry out that sacred duty? Do you?” 

Niernen attempted to respond, but Llerwyn wagged a crooked finger at her and she closed her mouth again. 

“Fire and thunder!” the wizard spat, and for a brief moment his eyes lit up with the fury of a much younger elf. The moment went as soon as it came and Llerwyn sank bank in his chair -- he looked so old and frail to Niernen then it was almost as if he was about to disappear into his ornate robes. She stared at him expectantly, eyes wide, picturing how fierce her mentor might have been in his day. 

“Bah,” Llerwyn grumbled. “You need not worry. That Telvanni wizard on Solstheim I told you about, Neloth, seems to be carrying on Divayth Fyr’s work. In spirit, anyway. I think he was studying the ash of Red Mountain when I visited him. That’s exactly the kind of nonsense Divayth Fyr would have occupied himself with for a few centuries.” 

Then he returned his gaze to his scrolls again, this time with an air of finality about him, shuffling his papers while whispering urgently to himself. Niernen took the hint, excused herself and made her way out of the room. She stopped at the door and turned to look over her shoulder at the elder Othado, but he did not spare her another glance. She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away. The younger Othado should be around somewhere too. Niernen wondered if he was as fierce as Llerwyn might have been. Smiling to herself, she left the old wizard to his devices.
[/hider]
[hider=Do'Karth's Thoughts on Jagar Tharn]
By [@Dervish]

[I]Do’Karth’s explains his thoughts on Jagar Tharn at a fire on the outskirts of Rihad to a group of Redguard, the night after a Sandsteed race[/I]

Many people have asked Do’Karth in his travels the same question as you; what do the Khajiit see in the Thalmor? Why would we as a culture band with those who see us as an inferior people, who have nakedly bare ambitions to ensnare Tamriel under their rule? Perhaps it is prudent to understand our history, and why we Khajiit were quick to embrace an old ally who had aided us in times of great need and in turn abandon the Empire, which had conquered us, taken our lands, and ignored us when we faced great peril. 

Tiber Septim was a conqueror; his rule, and the rule of his descendants, shared no love of Do’Karth’s people. The Renrijra Krin are a group of outlaws who laugh in the face of authority and they alone rose up to the injustices the Khajiit had faced; did you know after the Five-Year War with Valenwood, and the expansion of Elsweyr’s lands into the Northeast of Valenwood, and from eras past both sides of the Niben River and all of Blackwood had been Khajiiti lands? Imagine having your ancestral lands taken from you by an Empire that had conquered your people with a god of Brass and when your people try to take agency for your future, the same Empire forces you to give up these lands you had reclaimed because a single city in Cyrodiil wanted them? That is the legacy of the Empire, and now imagine that for 10 years, a Daedra worshipping madman had disguised himself as the Emperor and let the Empire fall into chaos? That was the reality, and he did not have Elsweyr’s interests at heart.

The false Emperor sat by and watched as the Bosmer slaughtered thousands in Torval, and he did not mobilize the Legions to respond to the atrocity. The Khajiiti people rose up and paid back the slaughter with war against Valenwood. For nearly five years, our people clashed, weakening themselves as we sought vengeance. And so, in the end, both sides of the Xylo river belonged to Elsweyr… until the war ended and the false Emperor decreed that the lands that we had bleed over were to be returned to the arbitrary borders the Empire had established when they first enslaved us.  We recognize that his malice had corrupted all of the provinces, and it seemed that the fragile union that held the Empire together was fraying as old hatreds led to freshly spilled blood. 

It is easy to see why under these conditions, and with such a cruel deception, we Khajiit were all too eager to accept the Aldmeri Dominion as our allies and friends. We have had a history of aligning with the elves, and despite our war with the Bosmer, the Dominion was a way to mend those wounds, and if you go back far enough to the First Aldmeri Dominion, you’ll find the wretched Tharn name trying to destroy Do’Karth’s people; Javad Tharn corrupted the Mane with Dro-M’Athra spirits and tried to plunge Elsweyr into chaos by destroying the very soul of Khajiit. With such an enemy, and it being revealed that the false Emperor shared his name many years later, why would Khajiit ever trust the Imperials when the Altmer aided us when Elsweyr suffered from the Knathaten Flu, or ended the Void Nights, and the Aldmeri Dominion helped end Javar Tharn’s twisted machinations. We are in their debt. 

Many forget that the Empire slaughtered many in Senchal and many desert nomads to assemble that damned Brass God that would enslave all of Tamriel under Septim rule. We Khajiit never will. All it gave was peace based on a lie. At least the Thalmor did not force us to change our way of lives or give up our lands and freedoms in exchange for our help. That is why the Khajiit prefer the rule of your most hated adversary, and why Do’Karth admires Hammerfell for ridding themselves of the shackles of foreign domination. 
[/hider]
[hider=Tsleeixth’s Musings on Jorunn the Skald-King]
By [@Mortarion]

The period of the Second Era known as the Interregnum, which marked the end of the Second Empire with its beginning and heralded the coming of the Third Empire with its end, was one marked by near-constant conflicts across the entirety of Tamriel. Little is known of the finer details of the period save crucial events like Tiber Septim’s conquest of the warring nations and the name of a few of the major alliances that surfaced during the Interregnum itself, such as the Daggerfall Covenant, the First Aldmeri Dominion, and the Ebonheart Pact.

Perhaps it’s due to the fact that I’m a Saxhleel myself, or perhaps it could be because I’ve lived most of my life in Skyrim, but the Ebonheart Pact has always seemed to me the most fascinating of these three groups. Imagine it, an alliance between Nords, Dunmer, and Argonians! Such an alliance seems impossible, and yet it happened during the chaotic times of the Interregnum when the three races united to repel an invasion from Akaviri. 

Of the many figures prominent in the Pact, the one that has always drawn my attention the most has been Jorunn the Skald-King. One would think that in an alliance such as the Pact, where the nations that composed it had a long story of animosity towards each other for various motives, the existence of a single leader would be implausible, as none of the three nations would have enough faith in one another to support a leader that didn’t came from their own people. 

This is why Jorunn’s figure fascinates me, for here we have a Nord who, seemingly, had the trust of the leaders of both Morrowind and Black Marsh. I often wonder what it is that allowed the Skald-King to win the trust of both the Dunmer and the Argonians and to secure his position as High King of the Great Moot that governed the Ebonheart Pact. Was he a shrewd manipulator, presenting himself as a champion of Nords, Dunmers, and Argonians while only caring about the first of the three? Or did he genuinely believe that each race that formed the Pact were equally important? Did he dream of a future in which the Nords were the supreme leaders of the Pact, where the Dunmers and Saxhleel toiled for the benefit of the people of Skyrim? Or did he dreamt of a future in which the three races stood side by side as equals?

I don’t know the answer to these questions but I can’t help to think about them, especially in light of what happened at Dawnstar but a few days ago. What would Jorunn the Skald-King think about his people butchering the Argonian refugees for a crime they hadn’t committed? I...I like to think that he’d be appalled at the fate of my people, furious that his own kind would stoop to such a low level as to massacre refugees. What would he think of the fact that Morrowind has allied with the Akaviri invaders that they once helped banish from Tamriel? What would he say if he heard that we Saxhleel are retreating to Black Marsh to defend ourselves due to the Hist’s call, forsaking those who long ago were once our allies? 

Questions like this buzz incessantly within my mind, trying to find an answer which could explain to me what happened to lead us up to this point. Our people were allies once, even if it was an alliance of convenience we could still work together and as one, what happened to us that these bonds shared between our three nations, tenuous as they might have been, have been so irrevocably broken? Could a figure like Jorunn unite Argonians, Dunmers, and Nords again? I’d like to say that this doubts, these incessant questions, of mine come as merely the result of trying to find a way in which Skyrim, Morrowind, and Black Marsh could once again be at peace. Yet I fear that these thoughts come as a by-product of a much more selfish thought….for I can’t help but wonder if I could have truly called Skyrim my homeland if things hadn’t come to this? Would the leadership of Jorunn the Skald-King, would his work, have allowed me to call myself a true son of Skyrim? 

I suppose these questions don’t matter in the end, Jorunn has been dead for hundreds of years and whatever links existed between the members of the Ebonheart Pact seem to have been irrevocably broken. Whatever dreams and thoughts I had of Skyrim being my homeland where dashed on Dawnstar that terrible night, thinking about the Skald-King and what could have been won’t help me quell the doubts in my mind.       
[/hider]
[hider=From the Travelogue of Sir Aalaraamaalaraamaa]
By [@Peik]

[i]...Amongst these travels, I should say that I met Dunmer fighting against the Nerevarine's forces too; while most of them were unscrupulous mercenaries in it for the coin, there were those with personal stakes as well. One particular example that I had the luxury of interviewing had in fact started off as a mercenary, although by the time of our conversation, he had become a full-on partisan. This maimed mer, named Sadri Beleth (I do not shy away from using his name, for the war has ended long since, and to my limited knowledge, so has his life) struck me as a cutthroat to stay away from at first glance. Later on I would find him a fine fellow to engage in conversation with, although, as usual with most Dunmer, he was prone to giving strangers a cold shoulder unless amused with a gift, which was, in his case, wine.

It was in one of those days during which I accompanied this rather diverse mercenary company that I learned that Mister Beleth had in fact served in the Nerevarine's army during the Reclamation War; there were other veterans in the Company, although sadly, I did not get to know them all too well, and thus, unsure as to whether they would like to see our conversations exposed for all to see here, I shall include solely the conversation that I had with this world-weary fellow, who more than welcomed the possibility of his words being published, for posterity. For the reader's discretion, I should mention that while I refrained from rewording Mister Beleth's sentences, the fellow, being not only a Dunmer but also a past sailor and a drunkard, had a tendency to curse as frequently as an Orc thinks of murder and a Khajiit thinks of theft. Therefore, for ladies and the more proper gentlemen amongst our readers, I took the liberty of merely omitting the variety of curses he had in his repertoir, and replacing them with[/i] '*EXPLETIVE*'[i].[/i]

[i]The conversation is as follows:[/i]

YOURS TRULY- Sir, I could not help but notice that you've mentioned your regrets about serving in, ahem, 'that pompous, patronizing *EXPLETIVE*'s army. Were you an Armiger, perchance?

BELETH- Nae, those *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*s were recruited from amongst native Dunmer only during that time. For all the good it did them. *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*s.

[i]Mister Beleth takes a sip of his wine.[/i]

YOURS TRULY- But you did serve during the Reclamation War? 

BELETH- Yes, I did. I was broke out of my *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*, had no clue what to *EXPLETIVE* do with my *EXPLETIVE* life, and thought I could get myself a *EXPLETIVE* reward or something. And I did, admittedly. Then I *EXPLETIVE* lost it.

[i]Mister Beleth refills his glass. I notice at this point that he empties his glass with every sip.[/i]

YOURS TRULY- And what was the reward, sir? 

BELETH- A copious amount of gold. Although I did also get a *EXPLETIVE* handshake and a compliment, from the *EXPLETIVE* Nerevarine himself.

[i]I gasp with excitement. This lowly Dunmer has met the Nerevarine? How incredible![/i] 

YOURS TRULY- You've met the Nerevarine? By Auriel, please tell me about it! Was he... charming? Majestic?

[i]Mister Beleth glares at me. I put on a more solemn and acceptable expression. I often forget that these primitives are at war.[/i]

BELETH- *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE*, that's what he was. He was this taller than I, (he raises his arm completely) and had a *EXPLETIVE* halo of fire burning bright behind him, like he was some sort of *EXPLETIVE* saint. Clad head to toe in *EXPLETIVE* pitch black armor, save from above his royal *EXPLETIVE* neck. I still remember a bright red magic crown of... *EXPLETIVE* something floating atop his *EXPLETIVE* head. We were all standing in this line, and he came and shook our hands one by one, although I'm not sure if he was walking or *EXPLETIVE* floating. 

"Thank you for your service," that's what he said to me when he shook my hand. I was afraid that his armor was some sort of *EXPLETIVE* Daedra out to suck my soul dry, it looked like regal *EXPLETIVE* terror with its smooth *EXPLETIVE* curves and puffed cloth, and yet looking into his eyes was somehow even more *EXPLETIVE* terrifying. He had a *EXPLETIVE* weight to his actions, yet it felt as if he was doing *EXPLETIVE* nothing. He was expressionless when he shook my hand. Stone *EXPLETIVE* cold. As if he were looking at some sort of *EXPLETIVE* rodent. Dagon knows, that's probably what he thought of me, if he actually did bother with thinking about my lowly *EXPLETIVE*.

YOURS TRULY- You sound impressed, sir.

BELETH- You bet your *EXPLETIVE* I was impressed. Not even his *EXPLETIVE* shadow moved without his will. *EXPLETIVE* was like a damn God. 

YOURS TRULY- Do you think that he was, or is, a God? You did mention some knowledge about the concept of mantling, however disputed it may be.

BELETH- Maybe. Maybe. I've yet to see a God who can beat Want, though.

YOURS TRULY- And what is it that you want, sir? 

[i]Mister Beleth downs his glass quite resolutely.[/i]

BELETH- Murder the Gods and Topple their Thrones, sir. That is the mantra. I want his *EXPLETIVE* *EXPLETIVE* dead.
[/hider]

[i]What Ifs[/i] - Non-canon, poetry ([b]#7[/b]):

[hider=Sevine, the Deserter]
By [@MacabreFox]

An anguished heart,
Tormented and battered.
Oh what have I done?
Where have I gone?

Home is dead.
My feet carry me onward,
down paths unexplored,
dusty dirt roads instead.

Never to show my face again,
branded a coward.
Weakness is not like a Nord,
I fled to distant lands.

There is no love, for a deserter,
be they man or woman.
See now, how their eyes scorn
and judge a woman torn.

I could not raise my axe,
my blade did not fall
A mockery I have become.
I turn my face from the sun,
slip through the shadows,
a ghost of the woman I was.
[/hider]
[hider=Leif Losing Sevine]
By [@MacabreFox]

Pale was her skin,
a body trembling in my embrace,
A sweat stained face,
Words of delusions
spoke asunder.

There is no fame
No glory
In death
A blade poisoned
From whence it came,
An unsung story.

A crown of fire,
Forever gone.
Ashes scattered,
amongst the winds.

A life cut short. 
My own life come to end.
And I sail from port,
To port, an empty bed.

Brown glass bottles,
Are flecks of her distant memory.
Swaying feet, and a needed throttle
To wake myself from this story.

But is it a story?
Is it a dream?
Or is it an everlasting nightmare.

Forever haunted,
Her ghost torments me.
Evergreen eyes gaze back from the shadows,
A taunt, a tease, of what will never be.

And if I could, but hold her again,
Breathe life anew,
I would be a changed man,
She was one of the few,
That stole my heart.

Her voice carries on the wind,
A whisper,
Words never clear,
A deeper, darker fear.
[/hider]
[hider=Do'Karth, Triumphant Assassin]
By [@Dervish]

Crimson flows through us all
From the highest man to the lowest one
When one’s life seeps into the sands
We all look the same when we are gone
Oh how the mighty have fallen

A spear in the dark came from a defiant hand
Finding purchase within the Mane
A leader selected by Alkosh’s will
Aboard a palanquin finds his refrain
Like all men a journey forced to end

A simple betrayal carried on without thought
The assassin slips away into humid night
A purpose sown from years before
Resolve shown when the time was right
He thinks nothing of the doom he’s wrought

Even so the assassin finds himself empty
Did he not deliver his people liberty?
A kingdom not ruled by Men or Mer
Nothing he thinks will dull the epiphany 
The desire for redemption is tempting

Even so the pay rewards are fine
Recognition and infamy sully his name
He leaves his people with orders in hand
Another life to be taken all the same
It will all be worth it this time
[/hider]
[hider=Mistress of Plate]
By [@Frizan]

Oh me Johnnies, have ye heard of the craze?

The new craze at the end of the Golden Road?

Sailors, Nobles and Artists, too, all spend their days,

Hollerin' for the lass...with the pretty red bow.

In Anvil there lives a beautiful girl,

With her lovely locks all in a whirl,

And on her wrist sits...a pretty red bow!

They say she spent her young-life with a blade,

Waiting to be sent off to enforce the Empire's ways.

Well, she spends her days wearing hard plate,

But hear me, boys, this'll be the strangest one to date!

She wears her heavy plate,

And walks along the runway,

Hearing her sweeties hollering,

Hollering for the lass...with the pretty red bow.

Oh, the chainmail hugs her pretty curves,

And her smile so bright it burns!

When she turns to you, this Mistress of Plate,

By Dibella, you'll swear the meeting was fate!

Oh they'll leave to draw up anchor,

To shop for pastries at the baker,

But they always come back for her.

Hollering for the lass...with the pretty red bow.
[/hider]
[hider=The Knife of Cyrodiil]
By [@Frizan]

Sit down young sailorboy, rest your heels,

And let me tell you a tale of the Knife of Cyrodiil.

Sired by a Legion father,

born out of a Legion mother,

yet he knew nothing of war's slaughter.

But when the time came to serve,

he waited not but one moment,

my boy, he jumped up with a surge.

He declared "I will become the greatest soldier!"

He swore any burden he would gladly shoulder,

Be it blade, armor or a boulder.

One day along the Gold Coast

he patrolled amongst the green trees.

It was there he met bandits, numbering twenty and three

lead by a man named Henry Martine.

"Hold there, hold there!" shouted Henry Martine,

"This land's bounty be for me!"

But our brave soldier would not budge,

he looked at Martine as if he were sludge.

"Oh no, oh no, Henry Martine, none of Cyrodiil is for thee!"

"If you wish to live yet another day, you and yours shall leave with me!"

But old Martine refused the command, but nor did he flee,

instead he challenged the man and his force, to decide who would go free.

Blades clashed, and blood flew

Fresh crimson replacing the morning dew.

Oh Henry Martine was thrown to his knees, his men now numbering three

He begged "have mercy for me, I shall go with thee!"

But he would hear none of his pleas.

"Oh no, oh no, Henry Martine, your time has come to an end!"

"I gave you a chance, yet you overestimated your ken..."

"And now no longer will you stalk among the trees!"

And so was his blade brought low, brought low

Into the brow of Henry Martine and all those in his tow.

His head was stuck on a pike along the Golden Road,

A sign to others that they too would be brought low.

All wicked then knew they would be struck no deals,

by the man known as the Knife of Cyrodiil.
[/hider]

[i]Modern AU[/i] - Non-canon ([b]#8[/b]):

[hider=Sevine the Biker]
By [@MacabreFox]

[center][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/3UeJPPItQx5apifO5NWE9H?si=wpwlpORQTouTz1GSd8kMLQ] Aesthetic Music [/url][/center]

[i]October 11th, 2018 - Maine[/i]

“Hey Sevine, you gonna be okay locking up tonight?” The familiar voice of Michael carried towards her as he peeked his head out from the door to the kitchen. 

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Go on and go home to Sam.” Sevine said, a grin on her face as she placed both hands on the counter. “I’m just gonna finish wiping down the bar, and then I’ll be on my way home too.”

“Alright boss. Get home safe, it’s suppose to rain cats and dogs here soon.” He waved at her before disappearing out the back door. Sevine busied herself with cleaning up the front of house, she polished the glasses and silverware before deciding to call it quits for the night. She stretched her arms high above her head, the joints in her back popping in relief. She rolled her head along her shoulders before pulling on her black denim jacket, and switched out of her ragged converse for a pair of Doc Martens. She locked the back door to the bar, and headed for her motorcycle, helmet tucked under one arm. 

She settled onto the seat of her black 1985 Honda Rebel, her pride and joy. She had rebuilt the bike after her dad passed away a couple years back. It was his to begin with, but she wanted it to serve as a reminder of him. Sevine kicked the engine over, and pushed the kickstand back. Revving the engine, she pulled out of the parking lot and began the long drive home. She lived an hour past town, but she didn’t mind. The ride helped clear her mind after stressful days from dealing with rowdy customers.

Just like Michael said, it started to rain cats and dogs. Black rain clouds blanketed the night sky, hiding the moon and stars behind the torrential downpour. She flipped the visor on her helmet down, wondering why she hadn’t checked the news this morning before she headed out for work. She passed a few cars coming into town, but her headlight soon became the only light shining in the blinding rain. Sevine took her time getting home, she knew to play it safe when it rained. 

It wasn’t long before she turned off the state road and headed down the county road that would take her home. The winding road rose and fell with the hills, leading through a thicket of trees until she turned off the road and headed down a gravel path, slowing the bike. She came into a clearing where a worn log cabin still stood, the headlight of her motorcycle reflecting off the windows. Sevine rolled the bike under a covered garage, and shifted the kickstand, then killed the ignition. She made the short walk to the cabin, and unlocked the door. Switching on the light, her cats, Rowan and Artemis came to greet her with soft meows.

“Hi babies.” She cooed softly, petting them as they circled around her feet. Sevine peeled off her soaking wet jacket, and threw it inside the washer. She ventured into the kitchen where she noticed that she had one new message on her home phone. She pressed play, and pulled open the fridge.

“[i]Hey sis, it’s me. I was calling to check up on you, I tried to text you and call you on your cell. You haven’t called me back this week, I wanted to know if me and Tyler could visit you for the holidays since I’ll be on break. Gimme a call back. I love you, bye.”[/i]” Liliana had moved to Ohio for college and was busy attending the Ohio State University to become a veterinarian technician. She fetched out the leftover lasagna she made and set it in the oven to reheat. She returned to the fridge where she fished out the half-empty bottle of wine from last night, and settled down on the couch, kicking off her boots where she then propped her feet up on the coffee table. She sighed, and let her body sink into the worn sofa. The cabin belonged to her father, a vacation home of sorts. They used to come up here when her mom was alive and spend the whole summers foraging for wild blackberries. Sevine had quit her job as a forensic scientist, the grief of losing her father proving too much to bear at the time. She wanted to be close to him, to his memories, and this is where she remembered him best. 

She brought the bottle to her lips, and took a swig. Rowan jumped on the sofa beside her, curling against her. 

“I missed you kitty.” Sevine bent down and planted a kiss on her head before the stove chimed, her lasagna was ready. Groaning, she hopped off the couch and made her way to the stove, where she set the pan of lasagna on the stove top. She reached into the cabinet and pulled out a plate, cutting herself a steaming hot piece of the pasta and set it on the plate. Sevine rummaged in the cutlery drawer where she pulled out a fork. She leaned against the counter, plate in one hand, fork in the other, blowing carefully on each piece. Sure, someone could say that Sevine was homesick for Indiana, but she preferred to keep her emotions out of people’s business. Maine was close enough to home, while being close to her dad.
[/hider]
[hider=Leif, Struggling Musician]
By [@MacabreFox]

[i]January 25th, 2019 - Seattle, Washington[/i]

“...And I, can’t take this anymore.
The way that I,
See you with him.
Because girl,
I know you’re not happy.

And I, can see it in your eyes.
So don’t try, and hide these lies.
Because girl,
I know you could be happy.

And I, hate the way you cry.
Cuz baby, why do you stay?
Why don’t you runaway?
Why don’t you runaway with me?

Cuz I can’t take this anymore.
No, I can’t take this anymore.
No, no, I can’t take this anymore.”

Leif’s voice echoed gruffly from the microphone. There was a small gathering of onlookers in the rundown bar of [i]Irish Democrat[/i]. A few people cheered, and the rest clapped before turning back to their pints of beer. He sighed, he had put so much work into advertising on social media, but it seemed that he couldn’t draw the crowds like he had hoped. He moved to stow his guitar in its case, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Hey you did a great job up there,” Sam said. Sam was the bartender, and he had seen the early days of grunge, he continued to encourage Leif even when he felt like he wasn’t good enough.

“Yeah thanks Sam.” Leif brushed off the compliment, not feeling the good about himself.

“Want a pint?” The older man chirped.

“Nah. I’m gonna head home.”

“Alright. I’ll see you next Friday?”

“Yeah I’ll be here.”

“Alright. Take it easy kid.”

Leif headed for the door, and stepped out in the dark of night. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his pack of smokes, putting a cigarette between his lips, and inhaled slowly. The curl of smoke rising up like an ethereal tendril under the orange glow of the lamplight. His mind wandered, thinking of how far he had come since dropping out of college. Who needed a Liberal Arts degree to make music? Not him. The repercussions of him dropping out reverberated through his family, his mother was heartbroken, and his father was livid. In fact, his father refused to speak with him now. On the other hand, his mom would call every now and then to check up on him. As a last act of rebellion, Leif headed north from Berkeley, selling what belongings he had to buy an old Volkswagen van. He headed for Seattle, the heart of grunge music. If anyone would find him and help him turn his hope of becoming a solo grunge rocker into reality it be there. 

His mind wandered to Deidre, he wondered how she was doing these days. The last time he saw her was in California, the day she broke up with him. Leif stamped out his cigarette and headed to the back parking lot to his van where he climbed inside, stashing his guitar in the passenger seat. His hands came to rest on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the brick and mortar building. 

“[i]Leif… I can’t keep doing this.[/i]” Deidre’s words echoed in his head.

“[i]Baby, no. Listen to me. I promise I’ll be a better man. I promise I’ll change.[/i]”

“[i]You always say that! You say that you’ll change, but you never do.[/i]”

“[i]Deidre, baby. Look, I’ll quit drinking. I’ll do it for you. I’ll get a job, I’ll make us money. I swear. Just-[/i]” 

“[i]Stop. Just stop. My heart can’t take it anymore, Leif. All you tell me is lies. That’s all I hear coming from you. You’re-[/i]”

“[i]Baby please. One more chance. That’s all I’m asking. Gimme one more chance, and I’ll prove you wrong. I swear. No more booze, no more pot, no more acid, no more cheating.[/i]”

“[i]I want to believe you, but I can’t. I can’t keep putting myself through this, Leif. The semester is over, and I’m going home to my folks.[/i]”

“[i]You’re fucking full of yourself Deidre. The only reason why you’re going home is to be with Alex. I’ve gone through your phone, I’ve read your messages on FaceBook with him. You think I’m such a bad guy huh? Well you’re not so perfect either you fucking slut.[/i]”

“[i]Get the hell out of my apartment, or I’m calling the cops.[/i]” He remembered how she had started to cry at his words, and it broke him. How could he… how could he treat her like that? What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just treat her like she deserved?

Deidre had flown home to Illinois that weekend, and he had left for Seattle. He still followed her on Instagram, and he had been right. She had left him to be with Alex. At least she seemed happy. His gut twisted in guilt, he could have been a better boyfriend to her. He realized how hard he was gripping the steering wheel of the van, his knuckles had turned white. Hot tears stung his eyes, he grit his teeth in frustration. God, he was a piece of shit for a human being.

Leif switched the ignition over, praying that his van would start. He still needed to replace the alternator, but he didn’t have the funds for it quite yet. The Volkswagen rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the parking lot, his headlights cutting a yellowed path on the cracked pavement. He was headed for the beach. 

It took around forty-five minutes for him to reach the sandy shores of the beach. He put the van in park and grabbed his guitar case, heading for the sands. It was colder here on the beach than it was city, but of course it was, it was January for Christ’s sake. But the cold would bring some clarity. His combat boots sank into the sand as he walked out towards the water, finding a spot to sit on the sandy knoll. He tucked the case between his legs, resting his chin in the groove as his eyes watched the waves crash on the beach. 

He must have sat there for a good thirty minutes before lifted the guitar out of its case. He settled it atop his thighs, his long legs stretched before him, the grey-green skinny jeans were worn through at the knees. Gently, his fingers drifted across the strings, his mind too scattered to focus on any song he had in mind. The cold winter wind bit through his shirt, but he didn’t care. His melancholy had that kind of effect on him, it made him not care about how he felt internally, even if he struggled with the turmoil surrounding his heart. Ah. That was it.

“Your kiss, is like poison sweet as wine…” Leif nodded to himself, that was a good start, the spark of creativity flared within him.

“Your kiss is like poison, sweet as wine.
Moving slowly down my spine.
Your hands are as cold as death,
Baby where have you been?

Give me one last kiss,
Something I won’t miss, when you’re gone.
Here I am, with lips sewn shut,
Backtracking the needle and thread,
Of these words in my heart,
Cuz it never meant anything at all.”
[/hider]
[hider=J'Turga and Tamriel 2018]
By [@Dervish]

The bus shifted into gear after the customs officer, a Nord man with a five o’clock shadow and a respectable beer gut, completed his passport check by going row by row and checking the passengers one at a time, more of a tired routine than anything particularly engaging. Other than a few extra inquiries and one particularly terse bag check for a Dunmer woman who wasn’t aware that seeds weren’t permitted across the border, the passengers began their journey across the border and into the Northern province of Skyrim, cruising down a four-laned highway to Balgruuf Station at the heart of the province, where other transportation would take passengers to the other cities or into Whiterun proper, if that was their destination. 

For J’Turga, he simply was going with the day and seeing what opportunities awaited. Leaning against the large window pane with feet on the obnoxiously patterned seat next to him and his rucksack and bicycle tucked somewhere under the bus in storage, the Khajiit was adorned in a black cotton jacket and trousers to match, a green long toque that covered his ears and hung loosely on the back of his head, and a pair of fingerless gloves that kept his hands warm while letting him idly shuffle music on his player with a cracked screen and dead backlighting, the earbuds tucked away somewhere under the polyester blend of his hat. 25 years old and a native of the Kingdom of Anequina, he decided some time ago to spend a few years travelling before succumbing to the rituals of adult life where a suit and tie awaited him like a noose at his father’s travel agency, or at an office like his mother. Neither prospect delighted J’Turga greatly, and after a particularly vibrant moon sugar prompted vision, the Khajiit knew he still had a lot of life left to experience, and instead of arguing the semantics of responsibility with his parents, he gathered what little savings he’d earned from stocking a warehouse at some retail outlet and decided to see what the world had in store. 

It had been three years, and he’d already seen much of Tamriel, taking seasonal jobs to pay for his perpetual working vacation where he told himself that he would eventually return home when his quest had found a proper conclusion, or some sign from Masser and Secunda told him he’d filled his soul with enough purpose that he could resume his duties as a productive member of some community instead of being some subversive Dro-M’athra that chose not to belong.  Maybe he was meant to find some foreign hottie girlfriend with smooth skin and no fur, or maybe he was going to get signed on by some big-shot Anvil director who wanted some dashing Khajiit lead for his next big film. Who was to say what Hermorah had in store for him?

He looked out at the massive peaks around him and wondered what this place had been like to travel in before modern transportation. Even the mighty Throat of the World, the tallest mountain of them all, had a series of gondolas going to the summit where a weather station was set up near the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, which in turn had turned into something of a teahouse and mead hall tourist attraction where people took breathtaking selfies from the top of the world. Maybe J’Turga would do it, when he could afford the 40 Septim lift ticket. Perhaps he would attempt to learn how to ski and work at a resort. The possibilities, much like the land, were vast.

Likewise, the fabled hot springs of Eastmarch had become quite the tourist attraction that saw thousands of people flocking to entirely too crammed pools, and the roadways were often backed up from people pulling over to snap pictures of the famed mammoths and giants of Skyrim, who despite coexisting with the men and mer of Skyrim for thousands of years, never seemed to move beyond their traditional ways, and the Skyrim government had to spend considerable resources in conservation to make sure that their range reserves were preserved. At least one or two idiot tourists were maimed per year getting too close for photographs, as if the towering humanoid beings were decorations for their amusement. The only thing that was amusing was the headlines of how witnesses described how much air the hapless victims managed to achieve. 

An excited gasp came from somewhere behind J’Turga, and the Khajiit turned to look out the window as excited murmurs came from across the bus, including a particularly busty orc woman who had all but crawled on top of him to look out the window. Gliding across the mountains off to the West was a massive shadow with an impossible wingspan. Despite himself and the particularly well-endowed company that was all but pressing herself against him, the Khajiit smiled as he watched the dragon soar across the peaks, like something out of a power metal album cover or some old fantasy tale. Of course, dragons were like the giants, intelligent species, but they elected to keep to themselves and not trouble civilizations armed with anti-aircraft weaponry and machine-guns and attacks had been so rare for the past two centuries that people had begun to think that the stories of dragon attacks were myths that vilified the poor animals, kind of like wolves. There were enough videos of them torching some poor farmer’s herd of sheep to buy into that for the common person, but there were enough bleeding hearts out there that anything that wasn’t immediately chewing on their face was a pure and innocent thing that needed to be held like a glass slipper.

Once the excitement died down when the dragon disappeared from view, peoples’ phones and cameras clicking like a symphony of crickets, they returned to their seats and J’Turga was allowed his space once more. Once the orc realized that she’d been rather overexcited about the occasion, her green face turned red, to which she was rewarded with a friendly, knowing wink from the Khajiit. He turned to a well-earred copy of the [I]Tamriel Gazette: Skyrim Edition[/I], one of the rare newspapers that had been in print since at least the 4th Era and was still putting out physical papers, and began to skim over the headlines and classified. The Ka Po’ Tun Emperor in Akaviir was threatening hellfire on Morrowind for trade provocations, some Altmer school teacher had been arrested for demonstrating necromancy in a class of 9th graders in Gilane, a sex cult was at large somewhere in Valenwood. The horoscope told him that The Lady smiled on him today, and he’d be reunited with an old friend, but that he was still incompatible with Atronachs and Serpents; those star signs never crossed. It was all pretty standard fare that washed over J’Turga as he put the paper down and looked at his stack of pamphlets for tourist attractions. There was the prerequisite skiing in Skyrim’s fabulous peaks of powdery snow, an adventurous free-diving tour in shipwrecks near Windhelm where attendees would be taught how to brew their own water breathing and cold-resistance potions, the Winterhold Festival of lights, a white-water rafting adventure, and  of course, the spectacular Northern Lights that appeared away from the city lights. Maybe the rafting would be fun, and perhaps they were looking for river guides. It was something he’d rather enjoyed in Cyrodiil, and how hard could it be? He slipped that one into his breast pocket and idly skipped two or three more tracks until a guilty-pleasure pop song by a pair of Bosmer twins came on, and he hoped no one else could hear it.

By the time the bus arrived outside of Whiterun’s downtown, it was growing far too late in the day. Deciding to grab a bite to eat, the Khajiit wandered down the street from the bus terminal and found himself checking his phone for local restaurants, including an Elsweyr Fondue franchise, Shattershield Sweetrolls, and most curiously, the Stronghold Steakhouse, which was a unique Skyrim establishment that was based on indigenous orcish dishes that sometimes involved horses. 

You only live once, right?

His mind set, J’Turga set off to the Stronghold, and he passed by a curious building on the strip; M’aiq’s Fortune Tellers. A robed Khajiit statue stood outside, proudly pulling on his Fu Manchu, and the sign said that M’aiq would read all of the stars and standing stones to find out if you were destined for love, fortune, or great success. It had to be worth 12 Septims, right?
[/hider]
[hider=Sagax Speculatus' Underground]
By [@Frizan]

"GERONIMO!" It was a bird! No, a plane! Wrong again, it was the Stupendous Sagax, flying high towards victory on his skateboard with purple flame patterns and bright green wheels. He was starting simple for this trick, doing three horizontal spins before landing back on the ramp, flying past his friends as he twirled on one wheel, landing back on all four before hitting the next halfpipe. Mounting the edge for a grind, Sagax slid a few feet before kicking off, now simply going back and forth between the ramps as he built up speed. When he thought he had enough momentum, Sagax crouched low on his board to limit his air resistance. Just before reaching the next halfpipe, he threw his cap up high in the air, almost fifteen feet or so Sagax judged. Perfect.

Up he went, straight into the air with laser precision. He dismounted in mid-air, grabbing his board with one hand and spinning slowly. As soon as he met it, Sagax snatched his cap before falling down, slapping it back on and remounting just in time to touch down on the ramp. He then proceeded to ride in a circle standing straight up, bowing in a smug display of self-satisfaction to his applauding audience. Yeah sure, they only numbered about twenty and most were his friends, but still, praise was praise.

"Dude, sick! Little bro's been dying to see that one, man." Came Frank. He was a good dude, brought up by good people. His brother, Rick, wasn't all that talkative, but he was a nice kid. Liked to watch Frank and the others ride; he was only five and his mother wouldn't let him get on a board. Fortunately, Frank and Sagax were both in their twenties, officially considered adults, so she trusted them with Rick.

"Bah it was nothing..."

"Oh come ON, bro, nothing? That was some Tony Hawk shit you pulled! Seriously, how do you make it look so easy?"

Sagax just shrugged. "Dunno, man. Think I just got a gift s'all. Besides dude, I've been doing this since I was fourteen. You just started!" He was about ready up for another ride, but was interrupted by his own rumbling stomach. "Shit, I'm starving...we should get some grub."

"Pfft, like where? We don't exactly got much cash right now." Valorie chimed in. There we dark bags under her eyes, which themselves were tinged with red. She was either on something or stayed up all last night playing one of her online games. Neither would have been out of the ordinary. "Can't just pull up the console out here."

"Hm...hey, those vending machines by the entrance still work don't they?"

"Yeah, why?"

With a sly grin, Sagax signaled for the three to follow him. Of course, he didn't leave before waving to his crowd and giving out a few high-fives. Soon, a young upstart took Sagax's place in the middle of the makeshift arena; he wished the girl good luck as she passed.

"So, anyone got any quarters?" Asked Valorie. Then she noticed Sagax was kneeling in front of the coin slot, hands fiddling with something. "Hey! The fuck are you doing?"

"Oh, me? Nothing."

"Right, sure. Whatever you say, Garrett." Sagax couldn't help but smile at that. He always loved those games, though if he really was good as Garrett he wouldn't need to work as a UPS driver.

Frank clucked his tongue and shook his head at Sagax. "Dude, if your sister knew you were still pulling these tricks..."

"She ain't gonna know..." he responded, only half-listening. Man, getting a vending machine open was hard work, needed a lot of focus. Why'd they have to make them so damn secure?

"I just don't see how you aren't scared of Piper, man. 'Cause she can go zero to a hundred real fast. I know I wouldn't ever want to mess with her, she'd rip me in half!" 

"Man...she's hot, though." Frank added with a sigh of defeat. He tried getting with her before, and Piper let him know exactly how far out of her league he was.

"And if my sister knew you were still talking about her like that-"

"DUDE! Don't even joke! I ain't even gonna be able to sleep tonight now...might not wake up tomorrow."

Finally, after minutes of fumbling around, Sagax heard the telltale [i]clunk[/i] of the latch flipping up. Looking around him, Sagax saw no witnesses, and he knew for a fact there were no cameras in that relatively dumpy section of the public park, so it was safe to pop the machine open.

"Mmh...I love bad boys." Purred Valorie.

"You love anyone that gets you food." Frank scoffed.

"Now that ain't true, Frank. They have to be cute first!"

Once they all grabbed what they wanted(within reason; the key was to not take too much), Sagax closed the machine back up, making sure to lock it. Didn't want anyone to have a reason to be suspicious. 

Looking up, the group saw the sun had reached the top of the sky, and that sadly meant it was noon. All the "Normies" and their brats would be coming any minute to take over the park like they always do. More kids meant more park police, and that meant less fun to be had.

"Hey, I'm gonna head off now. My only day off this week, so I want to spend as much as I can of it in an air-conditioned apartment." Sagax said as he mounted his skateboard once more. "I'll catch you guys around later. Peace." He kicked off with a wave and rode on back home, leaving the others to their own devices. He hadn't been able to play Team Fortress 2 much, and Sagax figured there were a lot of backs that needed stabbing, and sentries that needed sapping. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.
[/hider]