The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Skyrim fic: One of the Wolves (Eye of Eternity)
16:26 Jan 21 2012
Times Read: 556

I have a million and one things to do this weekend (like, you know, sleep, since it's after 2am and all), so instead of doing them I dick around in Skyrim and then get all metaphysical and write about it.



This arose because I was standing under Paarthurnax and looked into his eyes and thought "Oh my god, there are galaxies in there!" - ignoring the fact that of course that in the Elder Scrolls world, there are no galaxies, just collections of pathways to magic arranged in a pleasing and meaningful form. Also, there's a poem by William Blake, Auguries of Innocence, which starts off with:

Swap "palm of your hand" for "eyeball of a really old dragon" and yeah that's where my brain was veering.











It must be awfully mesmerising to be under the wing of a dragon, both figuratively and literally. Imagine the conversations you could have with a being that has existed since almost the dawn of time. Imagine the pressure of that existence on the mind. Mmm. Deep.



Anyhoo. Enough rambling. Storyteller is Calamathiel. Tense is deliberate. Translations for the draconic and terminology used are at the end. 1169 words.







Eye of Eternity



The climb up the mountain is as tiring as always. High Hrothgar is almost as cold within as it is without, chill stone damp with the icemelt of centuries, cracked and crumbling with age. It is a wonder the Greybeards don't succumb to lungrot well before their beards grow grey.



I pause in the lee of a rocky outcrop and ease the straps of my pack, fighting to regain my breath. The sky is crystalline and milky, sharp with cold. White clouds scud across the sun, every cloudshadow sending a brief chill over the trail. Breathing deeply hurts, not as much as it did the first time I climbed the mountain, but still every breath leaves a lingering aching fire in my chest and throat.



I sigh, briefly amused at the dragonish plume of breath that huffs before me. It is not a Shout, not even such as I am capable of, merely a purely mortal outrushing of warm air meeting cold. Laden with the essence of life, misted in its finality. Shivering, I push off from the rock and trudge on and upwards through the snow.



The wind tends to howl, here on the Roof of the World. Snow whirls past in plaited threads, stinging as it collides with unprotected skin. The sky itself shudders at the passing of one of the dragon horde, predatory shadow skimming darkly over crisp snow, and I feel as the chicken must when the hawk passes overhead. It's eerie here at the best of times, even on a calm day in full sunlight. When you arrive at night, in a raging storm, the world muffled under thick driving snow; or under an ethereal aurora-laden sky, the air singing with electricity - it's possible to forget that there is anything, anywhere else.



It's easy to just be, up here. No wonder the dragon chose this place as his lair.



I calm my breathing before walking up to him as he crouches atop his Wall. Paarthurnax, the eldest of the dragons, now; my teacher and mentor. Ancient being perched upon ancient stone, both weathered and grey and worn by time. I hear the eternal thrum of his breath, the distant thudding of his heart as I draw close.



"Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin." His voice resonates deeply, waves of sound that wash through me: head to toe, chest to back; reorganising, rearranging, resettling my innards. Every time I hear it I am stirred, startled anew.



"Paarthurnax," I say, and incline my head.



Massive talons scrape over stone as he shifts. "Do you wish to meditate upon a Word?"



I shrug out of my pack, leaving it propped against the stone, and walk closer to him. His head swivels to keep me in view. "No. I just wished... to talk."



He chuckles deeply in amusement. "Indulging my weakness for speech, again?"



"And my own."



"Hmmm, orin. Just so." He watches me as I clamber onto the wall and I try to move with grace, not an easy task on icebound rock.



This close to the dragon I am conscious of the great warmth that emanates from him, like a banked hearth on a cold night. His breath quietly thunders past, a constant in, out, in, out that runs as a calming counterpoint to the howling of the wind over the peak. He is stone and sulphur scented, with an underlying reek of copper that makes me nervous. His body is enormous, blocking out the sun and dwarfing my fragile mer body completely.



Paarthurnax settles down more comfortably on the rock once I'm seated, wings folded back and neck curved sinuously so he can keep me in view. I look up into that great eye, misted with time and flecked with all the stars of the Void, and as usual am lost. The shining orb holds me effortlessly, draws me in, dumps me into the midst of Oblivion. I'm swimming amidst nothingness, floating forever in the vastness of eternity. For a mere second I behold all that was, all that will be: the movements of Aedra and machinations of Daedra and everything in between. I am a god, the god; my eyes touch all of time and my fingers behold all the bridges to Aetherius. I dance a joyful galliard with Secunda, a stately pavane with Masser; I flirt with Magnus' elemental cloak and bask in his presence, bathing in the essence of magic. I am a dragon in my arrogance, a worm in my humility; both vaster and more insignificant than anything that came before or will come again.



And then he blinks and I'm merely a woman, cold and uncomfortable, short of breath and acutely aware of my own fleeting span of days, sitting on a old stone wall beneath the wing of the greatest predator alive. I shiver and I swear if he could smile that dragon would have the hugest smirk on his face right now.



I remind my lungs to breathe and look up at him, at all he represents, and wonder how he manages to continue to live day after day, year after year, century upon century upon millennium. Surely the weight of all his time would be too oppressive to allow him to continue to go on?



He blinks again and his eye is once more clouded with age, with mundanity. Perhaps it is within the mind of a dragon - not-born, unchanging, unyielding - to accept the pressure of immortality without so much need for reassurance, as we lesser races do. Perhaps he truly is a child of Akatosh. Perhaps, if he is, then so am I, and we are truly kin.



The thought is sobering, for if it is true, then I am fatebound to destroy my brethren. I am a kinslayer. For a woman without bloodkin of her own save those chosen only recently, this is not a path to be contemplated for long. The ache of loneliness where the warmth of family should be cannot be soothed so easily.



Perhaps my face, fleshy and mobile, reflects these thoughts. Perhaps my gloom infects the air around me. Perhaps the very essence of loss permeates the aether between us.



For whatever reason, Paarthurnax rumbles, recapturing my attention.



"So, Dragonborn. Tell me of your ahmul, your mate. Talk to me of this one."



I smile. It is an indulgence. Soon enough his mood will shift and he will dwell upon the death of his kin by his kin, hurl himself into the air to disappear for days while he mourns his loss and fights his very nature; but for now I allow myself to follow his whim. I tell him of my love, my Farkas: strong and sure and dedicated, lover and Companion, fellow beastchild; waiting impatiently at home by a warm fire.



I am not sure he understands the nuances of mortal relationships, but the telling is a happy one; and for a moment we share that warmth before the coldness of the Void descends upon us again.





Translations: Ahmul - husband; Drem yol lok - "peace fire sky": greetings, hello; Dovahkiin - dragonborn; Orin - quite, as in "yes, indeed".



Terminology: Greybeards - monastic order historically linked to guiding the dragonborn. High Hrothgar is their stronghold. Oblivion - the infinite plane which surrounds the mortal plane, composed of many planes in and of itself. Aedra/Daedra - divine beings who dwell in Oblivion, worshipped by mortals. Aedra roughly translate as "good", they created the mortal world, Nirn. Daedra roughly translate as "evil", they cannot create, only change. Very, very roughly. Aetherius - the plane of magic. To mortals it appears as the sky. Secunda - the lesser of Nirn's two moons. Masser - the greater of Nirn's two moons. Not going into their relationships/histories/cosmologies here. Magnus - the god of sorcery, who departed Nirn upon its creation and tore a hole in the fabric of Oblivion through which the light of Aetherius shines, which mortals perceive as the sun. Stars are lesser holes torn in the fabric.



Whew. I think that's it.

Skyrim fic: One of the Wolves (Calamathiel's Prologue)
05:44 Jan 04 2012
Times Read: 566

So. Writing, because I have nothing better to do on my "weekend". (kicks dirt under rugs and shuts doors to messy rooms)



Part of One of the Wolves - theoretically the first part. I got the imagery the other day at work and ran with it. People look at me weirdly when I sit in the lunch room on my break furiously scribbling down stuff... I have no idea why. It's no worse than sitting in there playing on an iPhone.



Anyhoo. Adding drabbles to this series as I go. One day I'll get them sorted out into some sort of order.







Calamathiel's Prologue



My name is Calamathiel, and I don't know who I am.



I know what I am, of course, I realise the evidence of my eyes well enough. My skin is a dusky, ashen black; my ears are long and pointed. My eyes, reflected in polished metal or a still pool, are deepest crimson. I am a Dunmer, a dark elf. A woman, by the contours of my body. I am product of family: inextricably tied to hearth and home, to clan. I am a link in the chain of ancestors stretching from dawn til dusk of eternity. One of many, a unit, a whole. But I am a Dunmer alone, without the succour of family, without tribe, without ancestor. And a Dunmer alone is no Dunmer at all.



So that is what I am.



But it is not who I am.



My earliest memories extend back no further than a year. I awoke, groggy and confused, on the back of a wagon taking me to my execution. Can you imagine what that is like? To become suddenly, gloriously aware, only to find out that you will die - not at some nebulous time in the future, not tomorrow, not next year, not in two hundred years, but right now? To look upon sun and trees, to smell fresh air and flowers and the stench of desperation for the first and last times simultaneously? Becoming bombarded with images, thoughts, feelings; to remember the names of things you did not even know you knew? Can you even begin to know how it feels?



My first journey was made in the company of traitors and thieves, bound and bowed but not broken. I was born amidst blood and fire; ruin was my birthing gift. My first steps were taken amidst the broken and burnt bodies of those who would have had me killed. I was sheened, not with the clear salty fluid of birth, but the thick sanguineous lifeblood of my captors. My midwife was a dragon; a sinister liberator, a doom-bound usher into this new life.



I did not come screaming into this world, wailing at my abrupt departure from the comforting warm darkness of a mother's womb that I never knew. Comfort is a luxury in life that is to be treasured, but it is not one to be grasped. Life is hard, and pleasures are fleeting. Only the solidity of family can be relied upon.



I will not leave this world screaming, either. That is not my way. To face the storms head on and proud, to stand not alone with but with a cherished other, others, to complement and complete, a brotherhood to call my own.



Though I know not who I am, I know this: I will search, with strength and dignity, and I will find myself. I will find my soul, my centre, my home. And once found, I will not let it go.

Also: this music. 42 minutes and 34 seconds of rain softly falling, of thunder on a distant horizon. Wind rustling through sere grasses on an open tundra, the serenades of birds and crickets and frogs; all with a gentle background of serene notes and chords, deep bass notes and gentle, tinkling strains. I am... undone.



Jeremy Soule, I do believe I love you.

Skyrim fic: One of the Wolves (pt 1)
01:14 Jan 01 2012
Times Read: 569

Funnily enough, with the New Year I find I'm writing again. Skyrim fic, this time around, though I also have 2 original works in progress. Slow progress, but progress. I don't know what it is, for 6 months I couldn't write a thing, now I have words tumbling out of me like no one's business.



Anyhoo, Skyrim fic. Here is a bit of my Farkas/f!Dunmer PC/Vilkas love triangle fic. (For those of you who don't know who they are, I'll see at some stage about putting some piccies up, just not now, because I have to go to work.) Theoretically at some stage it will travel from when she meets them, to when she finally hooks up with them both, but I'm just doing drabbly bits from individual points of view for now, not in chronological order. This section is from Farkas' POV.



No warnings necessary, come spoiler for the Companions questline if you are doing that sort of thing. For information on what stuff mentioned is, look here: http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Skyrim. Or comment, and I'll explain.







Farkas



The first I knew of it was the crashing of the front door, followed by a heavy thump and irritated muttering in a familiar voice. Lydia grinned at me from across the table, where we were sharing a simple lunch.



"It seems our Thane is finally back, and her short temper is showing. Perhaps you should go and... hmm... soothe her ruffled feelings? I'll even leave you both to it."



Winking, she stood up and snatched the last apple, then sauntered out of the room. I heard her creaking tread down the stairs and her clear greeting to her Thane, then the door opened and shut and all was quiet.



I sighed. I would strike down any man who called me a milk drinker, but I had yet to see anyone stand before an angry Dovahkiin without some unpleasant consequences.



Even if she was my wife. No, especially.



I grit my teeth and made for the stairs, thinking of battles won - the Silver Hand, trolls, bandits, wolves...



She was sitting in front of the fire, her back bowed such as I'd never seen it and her head in her hands.



"It's good to see you, love," I said quietly as I crossed the room. She didn't move, didn't respond, not even her normal pestering for a home cooked meal or a valuation on whatever trinkets she'd picked up on her last trip. It worried me.



I laid my hands on her shoulders - they were tense, hard; so I kneaded gently, marvelling as always at the contrast between her tiny frame and my large hands. As her muscles softened so did her posture, until she lay draped across the small table, arms loose and eyes closed. I ran long smooth strokes down her back from the top of her head, parting her thick dark hair to expose the back of her neck. She shivered absently as I skimmed fingers over vertebrae, and her voice when she spoke was no louder than the muted crackle of the fire.



"It's your brother. Damn fool has got it into his head he wants to kill a dragon. And he wants me to show him how to do it."



Her head turned to the side in time for me to catch her face twisting, then her eyes opened, fixing on me unerringly, startling me as they always did with their red within red depths.



"Azura forgive me, Farkas, I told him I would. I'll help him. And now I have to take him to some godsforsaken dragon peak in the north and try not to get him killed so he can have the pleasure" and she spat out the word with heavy distaste "of slaughtering a dragon."



I was confused. "But love, you are Dovahkiin. That is what you do."



She pushed up and away, the chair clattering against the stones as she evaded my hand.



"You think I don't know that?" The heels of her boots clicked an angry rhythm against the floorstones as she paced. "I've had everyone from your Jarl to the town guard to a bunch of old men stuck on a mountaintop telling me what I am and what I do! 'Be Dovahkiin,' they say. 'Kill the dragons,' they say. I don't see any of them killing dragons!"



She turned aside and clutched her tunic over her heart, twisting the fabric. "Or stealing their souls," she muttered darkly.



I blinked. "But you like the Jarl. And the Greybeards."



She sighed. "I know, Farkas, I know. That only makes it worse. They're so... eager for me to do what they think I'm born for. What I am born for. It's just... Every dragon I kill - a little more of me changes. I don't want to hate them for it."



I stepped up behind her and pulled her back into me, ignoring her efforts at resistance. "They only want to help," I said softly into her ear. "You are new and different to them, exciting and dangerous. Their saviour. They want to keep you safe so you can save us all."



She snorted. "Yeah, by throwing me at every dragon between here and the Reaches."



I shook her slightly. "You do not teach the cub to hunt by leaving her in her den all winter. You teach her by pushing her out into the snow to stalk her prey."



She stiffened. "You're right, Farkas, I'm sorry. Just sometimes I wish..." she stopped and shrugged.



"You wish for the den, not the snow?"



She nodded.



"Look around you, dear. This... this is your den. And I - I will always hold your shield and your honour."



She turned around in the circle of my arms and looked at me, our eyes nearly level. Hers were bright and shining, exotic and alien but familiar and dear to me.



"And my love?" she asked, her voice husky and deep.



I swallowed. "And your love." She smiled and closed her eyes and leaned in, full lips parted, and I sank into them as I had when she first agreed to my interest in her, in the depths of Ysgramor's Tomb.



Eventually she pulled back and looked at me through lowered lashes. "Take me upstairs, shieldmate, show me our den."



I grinned and lifted her easily, nuzzling into her neck as she wrapped her long legs about me. And I took her up to our den and laid her down, and together we approached the gates of Sovngarde.



After she'd cried her release and settled into a restless sleep, I strapped on my armour and sword and went in search of my fool of a brother.



(to be continued)