Dark Anchors above Tamriel
Too Shy To Reach Out?
Send A Symbol To Explain Why We’re Not RPing Yet
♔- I can’t think of a plot for us and I want to figure that out first! ☃ - I’m not sure how our characters would meet. ☁- I’m worried you only RP with a certain group of people. ♛ - I wrote you a starter and you haven’t replied yet… ★ - I’m intimidated by how much you write ☂ - I’m intimdated by how often you post ☾ - I don’t know how to approach you ☄ - I’m super anxious about EVERYTHING ☀ - I keep hoping you’ll message me first…
taskmaster-peryite replied to your post:I almost feel sorry for the poor thing. Almost.
“You’re welcome you shitwad…” //I’m sorry Jyggalag really has him pissed.
Speaking of shitwads, don’t you have some cleaning to do?
I almost feel sorry for the poor thing. Almost.
The Champion and the One She Serves in Vvardenfell.
Or
Molag Bal hides behind Lydia from a tiny bug she is holding.
Gray ash stained the scrap of bread that made up Lydia’s breakfast in her makeshift camp at the edge of the ruined city. She’d scarcely been sure it had been a town when she’d found it the previous evening, but after a bit of digging and checking and re-checking of her map, she was sure she’d found the right place. The detour into Solstheim had proven fruitful. Old acquaintances, ones that recognized her by her legendary employer were of incalculable help in undertaking this dreaded task. Information, history, and tips on dealing with the ash and poison that permeated every cubic inch of the abandoned island. And with so few questions asked.
During this final leg of travel she had insisted on going it alone. After circling the northernmost shore of Vvardenfell with a small team of admirers she’d boarded her own small boat and headed south into the smattering of islands that dotted the east of the province’s ruin. As far as the Dunmer (or anyone else) knew, she was seeking the remains of Tel Aruhn on a scouting mission of sorts, probing the area for dangers and possible treasures. Her real goal was the island just to the west. And now, even through her wind-whipped tent and the smoggy haze over the poison salt of the sea.. Lydia could feel her destination close by. She’d reach the temple by noon.
Mindless rowing to aid the near-stagnant winds gave the Nord an unwelcome opportunity to think. She knew of few places more remote, more barren than Vvardenfell. Her master had shrines in his name scattered across all corners of Tamriel.. so why send her to this one? A test? A cruel joke? Both of these possibilities felt too simple. After all, he’d left her to her own devices since their first encounter. Why contact her again, only to send her here? It had to be something more. Each dip of her paddles into the sea pushed her further into dread. Maybe she had not been sending enough souls. The boat slid gently onto the silent beach with a soft thud. Maybe he was bored with her. Ash and water mixed in a curious way beneath her boots as she shuffled ashore, tightening the red cloth tied round her face to filter the endless gray powder that choked the air. Maybe it had been just a dream and she’d come all this way just to fall prey to some volcanic beast and never return. Molag Bal’s temple rose black and forbidding through the soot and sour air.
No.. it had not been a dream. Lydia could not conjure up the feeling it had left her with upon waking. Not on her own. The feeling that now began again to chill her very heart and numb her mind to the rest of Nirn.
Well.. here she was. Lydia wiped her goggles clear and listened to the deafening silence of the sodden, tainted island. Heavy iron doors stood miraculously unimpeded by ash or debris. Gloved hands pressed against them, using her whole weight to swing the rusting ancient hinges. Here she was.
There was very little in the temple itself. The Red Mountain had spared nothing, and it seemed that not even Molag Bal’s foul magic could protect his shrine. If he had even wanted to protect it, that is. Far more likely was that he had enjoyed watching his devotees, terrified and agonised, as the ash and smoke swept in through the crumbling doors and drowned all within the temple in thick, suffocating dust. The few skeletons lying decomposing on the ash-stained floor, their arms outstretched to the great statue of their Daedric lord in silent, begging prayer, seemed to have died with the sort of cruelty Molag Bal relished.
In fact, Molag Bal’s statue seemed to be the only intact thing in the place. Pillars and columns were torn asunder and scattered in crumbling pieces throughout the main chamber, the altar that once drank the blood of the unworthy was cracked and broken, even the ceiling seemed to groan and crumble even now. Dust fell and settled on Lydia’s already-dusty armour as the statue seemed to call to her, dragging her closer with a sharp claw under her chin. As she approached, whispers in her ear begged her, pleaded with her, for help. The prayers of the damned echoed in the halls, the crying and screaming of the dead a blunt reminder of all those she had slain in the name of her captor, her slaver, her master.
“Welcome, mortal.”
Finally, the whispers were drowned out by the terrible voice of the Prince of Domination. It seemed so much louder, so much more horrific and bloodthirsty, so much more daedric than it ever had within her head. It no longer creeped and skulked, hiding in the shadows of her memories, it blocked everything out and deafened her to the world.
“You stand in an ancient ruin, where blood has been spilled in my name for centuries. The font now grows dry, my power forgotten in this barren land, but you will renew the vigour of my temple. You will remind the Dunmer, and their weak and pitiful ancestor-god, that the will of Molag Bal is not easily ignored.”
Suddenly, the flashes of purple and groans of soulless creatures of Coldharbour returned to Lydia’s mind, just as they always did when her Prince invaded her subconscious. Through the hellish haze of Oblivion, an image of a burial mound appeared - ghosts swirled around it, their wispy faces permanently screaming in anguish and their arms flailing in pain.
“This tomb holds the bones of the Ulven family, a noble and pious clan that, even in their exile, swear loyalty to the Prince of Plots who betrayed them. You are to find this tomb, you are to desecrate the remains of Boethiah’s faithful, and you are to splinter the bones and salt the ashes of all the treacherous Dunmer you find there.”
Blood began to ooze from the stone hands of Molag Bal’s statue, seeping into the dust and pooling around Lydia’s feet.
“Anoint your blade with the blood of your master, mortal, and go forth to wreak havoc in my name.”
“Mortal…”
The whispering voice of Molag Bal crawled around inside Lydia’s skull, wrapping itself around her unconscious mind like a snake wraps itself around its prey. For the first time in months, the Prince’s quiet, calm, seductive voice was heard again by mortalkind - and it was his reluctant champion, his twisted creature of Coldharbour, who was tortured by the words.
“You will not wake. You will hear my words in your loneliest and most vulnerable hours, and you will know that of all beings, Molag Bal was the one who came to you.”
The last vestiges of whatever dream his quarry had been having were wrenched away, replaced by the barren haze of Coldharbour - the world seemed different, as though seen through someone else’s eyes; a dull purple flame burned around the periphery of her vision, perpetually threatening to engulf her in flames before retreating when she focussed on them.
“Heed my command, mortal. You will journey to the ash plains of Morrowind. You will venture through the choking smog and you will find my ancient temple at Tel Aruhn.”
Burning tendrils of sadistic laughter tightened around Lydia’s sleeping body, the terrible Daedra’s very gaze, even from far-off Oblivion, enough to chill her blood.
“Hurry along, little mortal. I will be waiting.”
“Mercy? Do you not know who I am, mortal?”
mannimarco rotattion 360
“Now, I have a soul in Oblivion that needs claiming. Take care of the house while I’m gone. Ha ha ha!” Molag Bal - Skyrim
:p You can use it for fanfics or other as long I’m credited !
Painted the hard way with only a crappy sketch D8 !
*chokes on cereal* WHAT EVEN
This gives me the urge to write a satirical short story on the subject. Oh dear lord… xD
[*spits out coffee*]
Varieties of Faith in the Empire, Brother Mikhael Karkuxor of the Imperial College.
God of Schemes
He hadn’t gone over this moment in his head as many times as he should have. And it showed now, as he fought panic, his last sense telling him not to show weakness - it was doubtful anything could provoke more disgust in the Lord of Brutality, but weakness, with a good chance, would. If only his logic would have worked better.
“No, I-!”, he started, before the words melted into a roar of pain. He tried to escape the pain instinctively, which only resulted in the shackles grinding sharply into his flesh. His body was tensed, breath coming in sharp, quick pace, pain twisting his features. He hoped for the pain to end, but it was likely that he was to die here. But it was in the mortal nature to not accept it. You fought it. Tried to worm your way out. It had been his speciality. Before…
“No, my lord, it was… a misunderstanding!” he groaned, a desperate attempt to buy time. “I would never! I only want to serve you, it was a… A foolish ambition! Passing ambition! I only serve you, my lord!”
It sounded like a sad lie even in his own ears, but nothing else came to his mind, already blurred with terror.
Molag laughed. Even now, his slave refused to submit. Even in the face of certain agony, even when the Prince of Domination was staring with heartless, soulless flaming eyes into the Worm’s very soul, he remained stoic. It would be great fun to break this one.
“Servants do not require ambition, Worm.” The regal title of ‘king’ was no longer appended, even with irony, to the elf’s name. “And you - an elf with little skill beyond that which I granted you - require it least of all.” Another hot firebrand pierced the ragged remains of Mannimarco’s ostentatious robes, and the frozen air of Coldharbour pressed like the blunt edge of a knife against the searing agony, a juxtaposition of such demonic agony that even the incorporeal souls of the nearby Shrivens screamed in pain. “I want to hear you plea, creature of dirt. Give me your excuses, mortal,” the final word was spoken like a slur, reminding the Elf who had sought to overrule death itself that every soul in Coldharbour was mortal, each one revived and destroyed like flowers by the cruel whims of their Daedric master - “impotently try to extend your miserable existence, try and squirm and wriggle out of your fate.” The Prince spoke with a sadistic glee that was perhaps more painful than every instrument of torture he had in his arsenal. It grated and sliced at the very will of his victims, and reminded them that here, they were at his mercy.
And they weren’t likely to get any.
Why did you refuse to create Mundus?
Why would I want to sacrifice my infinite power for the sake of scuttling mortals? Were it not for the admittedly great amusement one can garner from toying with you, I would have ended myself and the whole unstimulating lot of you around the same time you were squeezing your own boils for nourishment.
lord-sanguine answered your question: // I’m in the mood to draw some silly pictures of…
Malacath and Dagon in tutus? You can never have enough tutus.
// Hell yes
Perfection.