Skyrim Drabble Collection
Because I want to have them all in one place. (And I'm totally not procrastinating my homework right now, nope.)
These are all the drabbles I've written for the weekly community challenges at tes_skyrim, where 10 prompts are given, you write a drabble based on one of the prompts, and then give 3 more prompts.
Prompts used:
A Tale of Two Nords
War Paint
Bring out yer dead!
The New Jarl
Shrine of Talos
A Tale of Two Nords
(spoilers for the Civil War, either side)
"Balgruuf!" A familiar voice rang out across Dragonsreach Keep.
"Ulfric! What brings you to Whiterun, my friend?" Balgruuf grinned, crossing the keep's grand hall to shake Ulfric's hand.
"Just passing through. I was on my way to Falkreath, but how could I not pay the new Jarl of Whiterun a visit?" Ulfric laughed. "This city could hardly have chosen a better man."
Balgruuf smiled. "Thank you, but I've done nothing to deserve praise."
"Not yet. But I've known you long enough to see that you'll make a fine Jarl, my friend." Ulfric grinned, bowing slightly. "You're the most level-headed man I know."
"Well, I appreciate your compliments." Balgruuf laughed. "So, how long will you be staying in the city?"
"A day or two. It's been some time since I paid a visit, I'd like to see the sights again." Ulfric rubbed his chin, where a blonde beard was starting to grow in. "I always enjoy my time in Whiterun."
"Well, you're welcome to a room here in Dragonsreach, as my personal guest."
"Thank you for your kind offer." Ulfric grinned.
"You will always be welcome in Whiterun, Ulfric."
--
The axe of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun sat on the table before him. Ulfric had been musing over it for several minutes, as the young Nord who had brought the somber message stood watching him, waiting for his answer. He concealed his strife from the messenger, angry with the Empire, with Balgruuf, and with himself that it had come to this. But there was no turning back. Not anymore.
"You will always be welcome in Whiterun, Ulfric," his old friend's words echoed in his mind.
He gave the axe to the messenger, who nodded and left.
Ulfric Stormcloak would be returning to Whiterun once again, but this time, there would be no guest room waiting for him at Dragonsreach Keep, no laughter and stories shared over Honningbrew's famous mead, and no kind words exchanged between him and the man who was once one of his dearest friends.
____________________________________
War Paint
(spoilers for the Companions)
Vilkas stared at his reflection in the wash basin. He'd been ecstatic when he and his wife were discussing where to live after their wedding and she mentioned she had a house in Markarth. He never had time to truly appreciate the canyon city's Dwemer architecture on his visits doing busy work for the Comapnions, and living there would give him a perfect excuse to marvel over the ancient carvings and Markarth's rich history. Whiterun had its sights and its history, but nothing like Markarth. His first week there, he'd been like a child walking into a bakery full of sweetrolls.
His wife had commented that she was a Thane in the Reach, probably so Vilkas wouldn't be surprised by her housecarl, a burly man who introduced himself as Argis and spent most of his time polishing his shield and tending to potted plants.
It was a week later that she'd dropped some clothing in his arms.
"Vilkas, you're nobility now..." She paused. "I'm so happy to see how much you love Markarth, but you should start dressing the part..." Pause again. "Jarl Igmund says you're making the citizens uncomfortable."
He sighed, dipping his hand into the wash basin. He could still wear his Companions armor when he was on a job, but he'd have to start dressing like a noble if he wanted to wander around the city. He looked over the clothing his wife had purchased for him, a rich blue wool outfit with a thick fur cloak, and a silver circlet adorned with sapphires, likely purchased from the silversmith in the market. The circlet made him uncomfortable. He'd been cured of his beast blood some time ago, but he had yet to overcome the instinctive aversion to silver. But that wasn't the hardest part to stomach.
"And... Please, Vilkas... No more war paint."
It was a staple of the Companions, the mark of a true warrior. Even the housecarl wore it, in a red spiral pattern on his cheek. Asking him to stop wearing war paint was like asking him to lay down his sword.
But, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The dark smears he'd painted around his eyes every day for the past several years were supposed to be intimidating, and he had no need to intimidate the citizens of Markarth as he was marveling at the architecture or discussing history with the Jarl's court wizard. The people of the Reach were famously wary of outsiders, and husband of an important Thane or not, wearing paint that made his eye sockets look sunken and empty probably wasn't helping his case much.
But most of all, it would make his wife happy.
He sighed again, splashing water on his face. No more war paint.
____________________________________
Bring out yer dead!
Natalia loosely held the Dawnbreaker, feeling its warmth pulsing through her body. She wasn't really up for being Meridia's champion, she was just bored and clearing out Kilkreath Temple had been something to do. Not quite as exciting as using the Wabbajack to cure the dead, homicidally insane Pelagius Septim III had been, but she couldn't complain much. It was a second Daedric artifact, if nothing else.
On the way back to Solitude, she passed the entrance to a crypt. Natalia didn't think much of it, but the Dawnbreaker disagreed, gently tugging her towards the entrance. There were draugr inside, no doubt about it. Might as well, she had no other plans today, and Meridia's sword clearly wanted her to do the daedra's bidding...
Then she had a thought. She had two Daedric artifacts now, both weapons... Dawnbreaker in one hand, Wabbajack in the other...
Oh, this would be an interesting day...
As she tightened her grip on each weapon, the voices of the princes echoed in her mind. "Do not let them continue to defile Skyrim," from Meridia, and... Something about cheese from Sheogorath. Then... something happened. The two voices melded into one.
Meridia, voice of life... And Sheogorath, voice of madness...
Natalia kicked open the door of the crypt, with a twisted grin on her face.
"Get out here, ya dead! Bring out yer dead!" She swung the sword around erratically, firing the Wabbajack in every direction, turning embalming tools and rolls of linen into sweetrolls and chickens.
The draugr started rushing through the corridor, right into blasts from the Wabbajack as Natalia laughed madly. "Come on, ya big ol' dead heaps of clown intestines!" She swung the Dawnbreaker at a draugr, which exploded with a brilliant flash of light, as the one that had been behind it walked right into a stray blast from the Wabbajack, turning into a very confused mudcrab.
"I can do this alllll day!" She yelled excitedly, as a draugr-turned-rabbit hopped by. "But hurry up, there's cheese a-waitin' for me back in Solitude! And you do not want to keep me from my cheese!"
The army of draugr stopped, but the Dawnbreaker pulled her forward. There were still more.
"Bring out yer dead! Or I'm a-comin' to get 'em! I know somebody who'd loooooooove to skip rope with some of your intestines!"
____________________________________
The New Jarl
(spoilers for the Civil War, Empire side)
The Throne of Ysgramor.
Brunwulf Free-Winter stood before the massive stone seat, one hand gently resting on the armrest.
He never asked for the job, but General Tullius sought him out anyway and named him Jarl of Eastmarch.
It was only natural, the legionnaires smiled and nodded, for a decorated war hero such as he to be granted the title. He would lead the ancient city torn apart by violence and prejudice into a new era of greatness. There was not a better man for the job in all of Windhelm, Eastmarch, or the entirety of Skyrim.
But Brunwulf knew he was no hero. There were no heroes in war, only survivors.
He'd said "no."
Tullius named him Jarl anyway.
So here he was, standing in the Palace of the Kings, gazing up to the threadbare tapestry adorning the top of the throne bearing Windhelm's emblem, the roaring bear.
He considered turning around and leaving the Palace, listening to the heavy doors swing shut, granting the title to someone who actually wanted it, perhaps that Captain Lonely-Gale fellow, and building a cozy shack in the southern Pale to retire to.
But... He knew, if he did that, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. What, then, would become of the Khajiit traders and Argonian laborers, who merely wanted to earn a living but were barred from entering the city walls? What would become of the Dunmer condemned to the Grey Quarter slums, who could hardly walk the city streets without fear of violence from some drunken bigot?
If anyone else were to be named Jarl, nothing would change. Windhelm would be as it always was, a once-magnificent city tarnished by hatred.
Brunwulf sighed.
Things were so much easier when he was a soldier.
He slowly lowered himself onto the throne and called over Jorlief, the steward.
There was much work to be done.
____________________________________
Shrine of Talos
(spoilers for The Forsworn Conspiracy)
She had asked so many questions. There were answers for all of them, but the answers only led to more questions. But there was one that stood out amongst all the others.
What happened in this city?
She'd asked people questions, and they'd awkwardly stutter a half-answer, directing her towards somebody else and awkwardly telling her to leave. Then she'd cross paths with a Markarth guard, who'd smugly advise her not to stick her nose where it didn't belong. She couldn't see any of their faces, but she could feel them staring her down through their helmets. She'd quietly nod and nervously try to find the next lead.
Eventually, she found her way back to the Shrine of Talos, where Eltrys had asked to meet. She rested her hand on the door, taking a deep breath before gently nudging it open, staring down at the stone walkway as she headed inside, trying to keep a low profile. This city was controlled by the Empire, and Talos worship was a crime here and would be prosecuted.
"Eltrys, I have so many questions..."
"We warned you not to ask questions in Markarth, little lady."
"What?" She looked up. Three guards were casually leaning on the pillars around the Talos statue. On the floor, slumped against the statue was a middle-aged Breton, clutching a large wound to his stomach that was losing blood at an alarming rate. "Eltrys..." she gasped as he blinked at her, tried to force out the words "I'm sorry," and slowly let his head drop.
"You've caused us a lot of trouble, girl." Another guard spoke up, this one a woman.
"But you've made our job awful easy. Wasn't hard to follow your trail back here. You may prove useful to us yet..." The third one added, the shadow of a chuckle in his voice as he reached for his axe.
"Now, you can come quietly..." The first one polished his axe with a scrap of green cloth, "or you can resist, and make things more interesting for us. And you may die."
She gave a twisted, pained look, whispered a prayer to Talos, and dropped to her knees. "I'll come quietly."
The first guard put away his axe. "Disappointing, I was hoping we'd have a little more fun with you."
"Then we'll be taking you to Cidhna Mine, where you'll serve the rest of your life mining silver for Markarth as punishment for all the murders you've committed, and all the panic you've caused. Won't the citizens be happy, knowing it wasn't the Forsworn after all, but a simple girl... A simple girl who is now safely locked away in Cidhna Mine, where she won't be able to hurt anyone ever again." The woman guard grabbed her shoulder and harshly pulled her to her feet.
"Murders? But I didn't-"
"You're going to Cidhna Mine, kid. And no one escapes Cidhna Mine."
____________________________________
These are all the drabbles I've written for the weekly community challenges at tes_skyrim, where 10 prompts are given, you write a drabble based on one of the prompts, and then give 3 more prompts.
Prompts used:
A Tale of Two Nords
War Paint
Bring out yer dead!
The New Jarl
Shrine of Talos
A Tale of Two Nords
(spoilers for the Civil War, either side)
"Balgruuf!" A familiar voice rang out across Dragonsreach Keep.
"Ulfric! What brings you to Whiterun, my friend?" Balgruuf grinned, crossing the keep's grand hall to shake Ulfric's hand.
"Just passing through. I was on my way to Falkreath, but how could I not pay the new Jarl of Whiterun a visit?" Ulfric laughed. "This city could hardly have chosen a better man."
Balgruuf smiled. "Thank you, but I've done nothing to deserve praise."
"Not yet. But I've known you long enough to see that you'll make a fine Jarl, my friend." Ulfric grinned, bowing slightly. "You're the most level-headed man I know."
"Well, I appreciate your compliments." Balgruuf laughed. "So, how long will you be staying in the city?"
"A day or two. It's been some time since I paid a visit, I'd like to see the sights again." Ulfric rubbed his chin, where a blonde beard was starting to grow in. "I always enjoy my time in Whiterun."
"Well, you're welcome to a room here in Dragonsreach, as my personal guest."
"Thank you for your kind offer." Ulfric grinned.
"You will always be welcome in Whiterun, Ulfric."
--
The axe of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun sat on the table before him. Ulfric had been musing over it for several minutes, as the young Nord who had brought the somber message stood watching him, waiting for his answer. He concealed his strife from the messenger, angry with the Empire, with Balgruuf, and with himself that it had come to this. But there was no turning back. Not anymore.
"You will always be welcome in Whiterun, Ulfric," his old friend's words echoed in his mind.
He gave the axe to the messenger, who nodded and left.
Ulfric Stormcloak would be returning to Whiterun once again, but this time, there would be no guest room waiting for him at Dragonsreach Keep, no laughter and stories shared over Honningbrew's famous mead, and no kind words exchanged between him and the man who was once one of his dearest friends.
____________________________________
War Paint
(spoilers for the Companions)
Vilkas stared at his reflection in the wash basin. He'd been ecstatic when he and his wife were discussing where to live after their wedding and she mentioned she had a house in Markarth. He never had time to truly appreciate the canyon city's Dwemer architecture on his visits doing busy work for the Comapnions, and living there would give him a perfect excuse to marvel over the ancient carvings and Markarth's rich history. Whiterun had its sights and its history, but nothing like Markarth. His first week there, he'd been like a child walking into a bakery full of sweetrolls.
His wife had commented that she was a Thane in the Reach, probably so Vilkas wouldn't be surprised by her housecarl, a burly man who introduced himself as Argis and spent most of his time polishing his shield and tending to potted plants.
It was a week later that she'd dropped some clothing in his arms.
"Vilkas, you're nobility now..." She paused. "I'm so happy to see how much you love Markarth, but you should start dressing the part..." Pause again. "Jarl Igmund says you're making the citizens uncomfortable."
He sighed, dipping his hand into the wash basin. He could still wear his Companions armor when he was on a job, but he'd have to start dressing like a noble if he wanted to wander around the city. He looked over the clothing his wife had purchased for him, a rich blue wool outfit with a thick fur cloak, and a silver circlet adorned with sapphires, likely purchased from the silversmith in the market. The circlet made him uncomfortable. He'd been cured of his beast blood some time ago, but he had yet to overcome the instinctive aversion to silver. But that wasn't the hardest part to stomach.
"And... Please, Vilkas... No more war paint."
It was a staple of the Companions, the mark of a true warrior. Even the housecarl wore it, in a red spiral pattern on his cheek. Asking him to stop wearing war paint was like asking him to lay down his sword.
But, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The dark smears he'd painted around his eyes every day for the past several years were supposed to be intimidating, and he had no need to intimidate the citizens of Markarth as he was marveling at the architecture or discussing history with the Jarl's court wizard. The people of the Reach were famously wary of outsiders, and husband of an important Thane or not, wearing paint that made his eye sockets look sunken and empty probably wasn't helping his case much.
But most of all, it would make his wife happy.
He sighed again, splashing water on his face. No more war paint.
____________________________________
Bring out yer dead!
Natalia loosely held the Dawnbreaker, feeling its warmth pulsing through her body. She wasn't really up for being Meridia's champion, she was just bored and clearing out Kilkreath Temple had been something to do. Not quite as exciting as using the Wabbajack to cure the dead, homicidally insane Pelagius Septim III had been, but she couldn't complain much. It was a second Daedric artifact, if nothing else.
On the way back to Solitude, she passed the entrance to a crypt. Natalia didn't think much of it, but the Dawnbreaker disagreed, gently tugging her towards the entrance. There were draugr inside, no doubt about it. Might as well, she had no other plans today, and Meridia's sword clearly wanted her to do the daedra's bidding...
Then she had a thought. She had two Daedric artifacts now, both weapons... Dawnbreaker in one hand, Wabbajack in the other...
Oh, this would be an interesting day...
As she tightened her grip on each weapon, the voices of the princes echoed in her mind. "Do not let them continue to defile Skyrim," from Meridia, and... Something about cheese from Sheogorath. Then... something happened. The two voices melded into one.
Meridia, voice of life... And Sheogorath, voice of madness...
Natalia kicked open the door of the crypt, with a twisted grin on her face.
"Get out here, ya dead! Bring out yer dead!" She swung the sword around erratically, firing the Wabbajack in every direction, turning embalming tools and rolls of linen into sweetrolls and chickens.
The draugr started rushing through the corridor, right into blasts from the Wabbajack as Natalia laughed madly. "Come on, ya big ol' dead heaps of clown intestines!" She swung the Dawnbreaker at a draugr, which exploded with a brilliant flash of light, as the one that had been behind it walked right into a stray blast from the Wabbajack, turning into a very confused mudcrab.
"I can do this alllll day!" She yelled excitedly, as a draugr-turned-rabbit hopped by. "But hurry up, there's cheese a-waitin' for me back in Solitude! And you do not want to keep me from my cheese!"
The army of draugr stopped, but the Dawnbreaker pulled her forward. There were still more.
"Bring out yer dead! Or I'm a-comin' to get 'em! I know somebody who'd loooooooove to skip rope with some of your intestines!"
____________________________________
The New Jarl
(spoilers for the Civil War, Empire side)
The Throne of Ysgramor.
Brunwulf Free-Winter stood before the massive stone seat, one hand gently resting on the armrest.
He never asked for the job, but General Tullius sought him out anyway and named him Jarl of Eastmarch.
It was only natural, the legionnaires smiled and nodded, for a decorated war hero such as he to be granted the title. He would lead the ancient city torn apart by violence and prejudice into a new era of greatness. There was not a better man for the job in all of Windhelm, Eastmarch, or the entirety of Skyrim.
But Brunwulf knew he was no hero. There were no heroes in war, only survivors.
He'd said "no."
Tullius named him Jarl anyway.
So here he was, standing in the Palace of the Kings, gazing up to the threadbare tapestry adorning the top of the throne bearing Windhelm's emblem, the roaring bear.
He considered turning around and leaving the Palace, listening to the heavy doors swing shut, granting the title to someone who actually wanted it, perhaps that Captain Lonely-Gale fellow, and building a cozy shack in the southern Pale to retire to.
But... He knew, if he did that, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. What, then, would become of the Khajiit traders and Argonian laborers, who merely wanted to earn a living but were barred from entering the city walls? What would become of the Dunmer condemned to the Grey Quarter slums, who could hardly walk the city streets without fear of violence from some drunken bigot?
If anyone else were to be named Jarl, nothing would change. Windhelm would be as it always was, a once-magnificent city tarnished by hatred.
Brunwulf sighed.
Things were so much easier when he was a soldier.
He slowly lowered himself onto the throne and called over Jorlief, the steward.
There was much work to be done.
____________________________________
Shrine of Talos
(spoilers for The Forsworn Conspiracy)
She had asked so many questions. There were answers for all of them, but the answers only led to more questions. But there was one that stood out amongst all the others.
What happened in this city?
She'd asked people questions, and they'd awkwardly stutter a half-answer, directing her towards somebody else and awkwardly telling her to leave. Then she'd cross paths with a Markarth guard, who'd smugly advise her not to stick her nose where it didn't belong. She couldn't see any of their faces, but she could feel them staring her down through their helmets. She'd quietly nod and nervously try to find the next lead.
Eventually, she found her way back to the Shrine of Talos, where Eltrys had asked to meet. She rested her hand on the door, taking a deep breath before gently nudging it open, staring down at the stone walkway as she headed inside, trying to keep a low profile. This city was controlled by the Empire, and Talos worship was a crime here and would be prosecuted.
"Eltrys, I have so many questions..."
"We warned you not to ask questions in Markarth, little lady."
"What?" She looked up. Three guards were casually leaning on the pillars around the Talos statue. On the floor, slumped against the statue was a middle-aged Breton, clutching a large wound to his stomach that was losing blood at an alarming rate. "Eltrys..." she gasped as he blinked at her, tried to force out the words "I'm sorry," and slowly let his head drop.
"You've caused us a lot of trouble, girl." Another guard spoke up, this one a woman.
"But you've made our job awful easy. Wasn't hard to follow your trail back here. You may prove useful to us yet..." The third one added, the shadow of a chuckle in his voice as he reached for his axe.
"Now, you can come quietly..." The first one polished his axe with a scrap of green cloth, "or you can resist, and make things more interesting for us. And you may die."
She gave a twisted, pained look, whispered a prayer to Talos, and dropped to her knees. "I'll come quietly."
The first guard put away his axe. "Disappointing, I was hoping we'd have a little more fun with you."
"Then we'll be taking you to Cidhna Mine, where you'll serve the rest of your life mining silver for Markarth as punishment for all the murders you've committed, and all the panic you've caused. Won't the citizens be happy, knowing it wasn't the Forsworn after all, but a simple girl... A simple girl who is now safely locked away in Cidhna Mine, where she won't be able to hurt anyone ever again." The woman guard grabbed her shoulder and harshly pulled her to her feet.
"Murders? But I didn't-"
"You're going to Cidhna Mine, kid. And no one escapes Cidhna Mine."
____________________________________