#daedric prince

“a new hand touches the beacon…

listen! hear me and obey.”

revisited my daedric mercenary jyllan today.

race: breton

alignment: true neutral

affiliations: daedric prince meridia, the dawnguard, self-interest

proficiencies: one-handed combat, heavy armor, speechcraft, enchanting

deficiencies: all types of magic

i was thinking of drawing more vignettes about her backstory… lemme know if you think that’s a good idea.

“SANGUINE DOESN’T SHARE FOOD!”

—Sanguine, defending his plate from Nocturnal probably

Hermaeus Mora: “If you found out you had one day left, what would you do with it?”

Azura: “Say goodbye.”

Nocturnal: “Something illegal.”

Peryite: “Accept my fate.”

Clavicus Vile: “I would message ten people and say if they didn’t forward the message to ten other people I would die tomorrow.”

Everyone:

Nocturnal: “That’s fucking awesome. Can I change my answer?”

Jyggalag: “You shouldn’t be using a straw.”

Sheogorath: “I know, I know, it’s bad for the environment and stuff.”

Jyggalag: “Yeah but I mean it’s a weird way to eat spaghetti.”

Clavicus Vile: “What should I do?”

Barbas: “Oh… This is where I give you advice and you pretend you’re going to listen to it. I like this part!”

Mephala: “Is he always like this when he loses?”

Barbas: “Oh yeah. You should’ve seen the Great Jenga Tantrum of 2E 012.”

Clavicus Vile: “NOCTURNAL BUMPED THE TABLE AND YOU KNOW IT!”

These wastes of earth are choked by wastes of sky, each pulling the other apart by the smallest hairs, and the world tumbles overhead. Hla-eix has prepared for this, having spent time in the ashlands of Morrowind, and tightens her scarf and scrapes sand from her goggles with a single motion. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t be out here, but Hammerfell is as distrustful of magic as ever, so teleportation was out of the question. The old ways of a dead world have forced her to cross the Alik’r Desert in the middle of a sandstorm, but such ancient traditions have always held her back. This is nothing new.

But there is something new: a sound, amidst all the roaring of the wind, almost like a frail brook, babbling discordantly. Hla-eix is certain the desert hasn’t made her mad just yet, so she pursues the sound.

And then she trips over its source.

Hla-eix tries to catch herself but the wind pushes her over, crashing into the dune she was climbing. She picks her head out of the sand, wipes furiously at her goggles, and looks for the cause. At first, just a dark shape sticking out of the sand. Then, she realizes, a dark shape with bright red eyes, staring at her, its mouth opening and closing like a dying twitch, screaming gibberish through a tortured throat.

Hla-eix spins around on her knees to get a better look at it. It’s a person, alright. A dunmer, by the looks of it. She casts a spell, a purple spark illuminating the eyes of her goggles for a moment, before there is suddenly silence. The sand that was carried by the storm falls to the ground like snow. She casts another spell, illuminating the small sanctuary she’s created for herself and the mer.

“You alright?” Hla-eix tries to ask, before realizing her voice is muffled by her scarf. She pulls it down and raises her goggles. She repeats the question, her voice and vision clear now.

The mer’s mouth moves, wide like his eyes, wide like he’s screaming, but even in this quiet space, it’s faint, unintelligible. Hla-eix leans in closer.

He grabs her by the straps of her backpack, his eyes like hot coals pressed into her scales. He desperately tries to be heard: “…the vision…fades…the pupil is closed, fails, bound tight to the mutation, to the home…the strained eye, spreading itself over paper like mercury…stretched thin and membranous over and over unto itself until it is dry and torn like a sailor’s flag forlorn…it…fades…”

Hla-eix clocks him in the face, knocking him out. She sits back on her haunches and her muttered question echoes in the magical bubble, unanswered: “What the fuck?”