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Your One-Stop-Shop for everything you need to know about Cordelia's upcoming Fan-Fic, [TITLE WITHELD], a story with multiple threads and multiple perspectives combining to tell a unique story constructed around the events of The Elder Scrollls V: Skyrim, and the DLC's Dawnguard, Hearthfire, and Dragonborn.
You'll find character bios and descriptions, as well as excerpts from upcoming chapters as they near completion. Stay tuned here to get all the latest updates and hints from [TITLE WITHELD].
You'll find character bios and descriptions, as well as excerpts from upcoming chapters as they near completion. Stay tuned here to get all the latest updates and hints from [TITLE WITHELD].
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The earth shuddered beneath her feet as the dragon crashed down, its body now too weak to navigate landing. With a feeble roar it finally collapsed, inert.
The world returned to her in bits and pieces. First, the calm, but constant rushing of the river at her back, followed by the patter of rain against both it, and her dragonscale armor. The birds did not yet return to their songs in the wake of such commotion as had been created int he heat of their battle, but life and nature filled the strange silence that always followed such mighty deaths she had never heard anything more sacred than the quiet tune of nature that surrounded her now.
She stepped forward, bracing her hands on the higher ground jutting above the river's silty shore, and pulled herself up.
There he lay, the dragon. His scales glistened in the rain.
He was near enough that she could place a hand on his wing, to feel the solid muscle hiding below. She wished she hadn't killed him -- that she hadn't needed to kill him, but no one knew how to live with the dragons, and the dragons certainly hadn't figured out how to live with anyone else. For now, she was given as little choice in the matter as they.
As her vision blurred, she felt the now-familiar soul-deep pulse throw through her -- as if the world was a drum and she its resonance. Light swirled around her, accompanied by the indecipherable whispers of the ethers as the dragon's soul was drawn into her own. She gasped, the sharp Reach air chilling her lungs as she tilted her head to the sky.
The dragon's essence filled her, robbing her of thought and feeling. She hardly blinked against the soft kiss of rain as it fell against the flush of her cheeks, but the sorrow she felt for every dragon's death diminished with each drop until all that remained was a quite, bittersweet pang, which eventually gave way to the relief of living through another battle.
The dragon's soul -- his life essence, had been absorbed, and she felt stronger for it. Though it meant slaying his kind in the future, she vowed not to waste the gift he hadn't meant to give her.Black Orchid likes this.
Name: Lyssandra Inverna
Imperial: Voice of the Emperor - 1/day mass calm
Member of College of Winterhold - practicing Illusion and Conjuration with some attention to Restoration and Destruction (ice tree, exclusively).
General Studies: Linguistics, specializing in historic and forgotten tongues.
Other Skills: Alchemy, Enchanting,
Follower: Jenassa (for Red analogue)
Plan: Blaze through intro (no mods "Alternate Start", rendering Helgen non-cannon to character's experience or story); hop a cart to Winterhold; join College; travel to various Word Wall sites dragon-free (probably with Brelyna gang-pressed into joining); pick up Jenassa in Whiterun someday; fulfill destiny as Dragonborn; build house in Haafingar with massive library.Sah likes this.
You read that correctly.
shadowkitty and Wolfbane have put together a fancy little Companions RP, and something about it teased me from retirement. It's blowing a few minds, so I understand if you need to take a minute to adjust to this news.
You can keep tabs on the RP by following the Dark of the Moon link here. [Link to come when the IC thread is up!]
I've put together a character I think will be entertaining to play, entertaining to read, and versatile in terms of character depth and narrative usefulness.
I wish I had more entertaining things to say here, but my coffee hasn't kicked in yet, so this is all you get.
I hope you enjoy reading the RP as much as I hope to enjoy playing in it.lizardisok likes this.
Vorstag stirred the pot of what would be a hearty rabbit and mushroom stew when he was done, which bubbled quietly over the fire he'd built in the alcove where the hagraven's alter still stood. Now and then, he looked up from the still-pale stew to observe her silent intensity. She kept mostly to herself, which was fine enough most days, but there were some days when her silence bordered on the worrisome. Though she appeared now much as she had the day she contracted his services, there was something about the way she read the hagraven's book that didn't quite sit well with him.
"What is it you're reading," he asked at last, sitting back from the fire on his heels.
Suriah didn't look up as she turned the page. "A fictional account of a real event." It explained very little, but at least he'd succeeded in engaging her again. He had noticed through their travels how she would disappear inside herself for days on end, saying little and eating less. That she responded at all struck him as progress.
Prying no further for the time, he flipped open the leather flap of their food rations, and pulled out the wax-cloth covered bread. Tearing off two hunks, he offered one to the girl. She didn't look up, but after a few moments passed she did accept it, which was more than she had done the night before.
Smiling to himself, he turned back to the stew, stirring it occasionally as they shared a silence he considered to be more comfortable than before.
"You should add the hanging moss," she said after the sun's light had faded from the tower.
"Hanging moss. My mother used it in her stews. It adds an earthy tang to the meat." When he didn't respond, she pointed at her herb pouch, tossed carelessly beside the food rations. He picked it up and looked within. Inside, he saw nothing.
"Think of the moss, and reach in," she said, probably having anticipated his ignorance.
He had never been very clear on the ways of magic, but having grown up in the Reach he wasn't as put off by it as other Nords seemed to be, so fixing the image of moss in his mind's eye, he reached into the pouch.
"Oh," he said as his fingers brushed against the crisp dried moss. Pulling it out, he looked back in the pouch, marveling briefly at a small interior which looked so empty.
"Crumble it," she said, eyes still glued to the pages of the book she'd found earlier beneath a skeletal hand.
"Oh," he said again, crushing the moss between his palms over the stew.
"You crumble it so it doesn't soak up all the stew and become moss again."
"That makes sense," he said, stirring the pot to mix the new seasoning into the broth. As he watched it bubble and simmer, the fragrant steam rising through the tower's open crown, his mind wandered. The last time he'd cooked a rabbit stew, he was with . . . Her . . . .
"I wonder if they dream," Suriah said, interrupting his brief reverie.
"What's that?" He tapped the spoon against the side of the pot and propped it against the bread loaf.
"Vampires. I wonder if they dream."
"Is that what you're reading about?"
She made a noise that could have been an affirmation. "It talks about them sleeping, or it sleeping -- there's only one vampire in this story--, but it doesn't say if it dreams or not. I wonder if their minds work as ours do once they're dead." She tilted her head, turning another page, but her pale eyes held a kind of distance that made him wonder if she really saw the words. "What changes when they die?"
Vorstag's gaze shifted to the wall beside the girl as they sat in silence. He didn't have an answer for such things. Hagravens, vampires, werewolves, they all started as humans, didn't they? But then they weren't anymore. What DID change inside them to so forget themselves? Or perhaps it was an abandonment of what they were before to embrace what they'd become.
Glancing back to Suriah, he felt the air shift again. Tomorrow may be better, but he felt she'd said all she intended to say for the night.
The internet is fairly buzzing with the news that the Jim Henson company and an imprint of Random House are looking for a new writer to pen the next book in the Dark Crystal legacy. I may have seen the Author Quest page the day it was posted, I may have not, but it wasn’t long after starting that it was shuffled my way via Facebook. My heart flipped a little with the excitement of what could be done, and sank with the emptiness where a story could have sat, but didn’t yet exist. The truth is, I had fan fiction ideas for Labyrinth before I was tempted by any other material. Maybe it was David Bowie dancing in tight pants, or the dialogue between Sarah and the four guards in the (buh-buh-buh-BUM!) Certain Death riddle (OooOooOooo!), but it resonated with me in away I could cling to more easily, I think. However, as much as I consciously thought I loved Labyrinth more, Dark Crystal had already taken up a deeper residence in my psyche, biasing me toward the unlimited possibilities of that hazy realm between fantasy and sci fi it so effortlessly embodied.
One of the things I remember the most from my childhood and watching Dark Crystal was the Gelfling Wall of Destiny. There was so much timelessness buried in the carvings, this knowledge that a thousand years ago the wall had been carved by hands that knew the written word, by minds that understood the importance of recording history, it impressed on me the weight of ages and the fathomless passage of time marked occasionally by moments preserved in stone and prophecy. A monument against time and the transience of memory, a glimpse into the minds of the ancestors and a promise of what was to come, the Wall of Destiny was the single most important aspect of the Dark Crystal to me, and became the seed of everything I’ve poured into Eleasia, Prince of Darkness, and nearly every other project I’ve held most dear.
When I was old enough to really analyze what Jim Henson and Brian Froud had done with their team to develop Dark Crystal, I realized I wasn’t merely watching a good movie, I was experiencing everything behind the movie. To be specific, I could feel the influence of that special brand of fantastical sci-fi that was held over from the 1970′s; I felt the implied history of an ageless world with more whispered of off screen than could be expressed on; and, most recently, I felt the the sense of compulsory motion behind the actions of both the urRu and the Skeksis, which intrigued me most of all.
The opulent costumes of the Skeksis spoke of an almost vulgar level of flamboyance, each trying to outdo the others, but the faded lace and frayed hems spoke of a passage of time so great that all the posturing became a matter of course, happening by rote, not passion. They had the same arguments, the same shifting alliances repeating over and over as their pool of comrades dwindled to eight, and the dull-edged blade of madness crept into the isolation of their reality.
The urRu do not appear exempt from this decay, though their activities do seem more benign, as they made their sand paintings with an air of meditative repetition rather than guided intent, and tracked the movements of the stars, and recorded their thoughts in the fabric of their coats.
For both, life is an imitation of living, a compulsory existence of movement and action punctuated occasionally by moments of lucidity. They have spent so much time in their separate forms that the urRu and Skeksis have essentially reached a state of entropy, where memory of their origins and the why behind their actions has decayed to a point of equilibrium against the necessity to continue acting, because anything less would be to die, and I think enough of an urSkek spark remained to keep them clinging to routine so they could one day be made whole again.
I don’t have a plot just yet, and tonight I begin the adventure of The World of Dark Crystal, but I can tell you what will guide my hand throughout the writing process; paying homage to a man who never let the limitations of what others thought could be done define what he knew was possible. I write this for you, Jim. Thank you for never being anything other than who you were. You are, and always will be, my greatest hero.
I was too young when I fell in love with the Dark Crystal to have a life established enough on any course to have it changed when I was exposed to his work, so I can’t say he changed my life. What he did impart, or rather, what I took from his work, was the essence of what would help me define the shape I would want my life to take. Without his vision and passion available to me at the time, I don’t believe I’d be where I am today, passionate about my art, dedicated to writing more than a well-told sequence of events, and reading up every extent Dark Crystal book I could get my hands on to deepen my affinity for the vividly painted and desperately ancient world of Thra.
Yes, I am throwing my hat in the ring for the Dark Crystal’s Author Quest, and I encourage all of you to do the same, because without our adoration of this work it could not continue surviving and thriving thirty years later, and I firmly believe the world in which we let the Dark Crystal die is a hollow word of less wonder, magic, and beauty than our own.
I’m terrible about chronicling progress on anything, but this is one of those projects that sings deep inside me, like an urSkek song of surpassing beauty, sorrow, longing, and joy in need of expressing, but not entirely native to my senses, and if I can help anyone else discover the unique and earnest wonder of The Dark Crystal, and of Thra, and of Aughra, of the intrepid Gelfling, the tragic Skeksis, and the lonely urRu through my own exploration and self-discovery, then it will be all the more worthwhile in the end. With any luck, and maybe a little less procrastination, I’ll keep you apprised of the journey I take as I become a part of the world of The Dark Crystal, and the magic of Thra.
Ji'Ju the Wise. No, Ji'Ju the Brave. No! Ji'Ju the One Who Knows How To Make Potions. Yes. Jun 4, 2013
Complexion: Dark brown with white markings. ("Ji'Ju has seen things which would make Ji'Ju's fur turn white. Ah. It already has.")
Description and Bio: Born in the warm sands of his beloved Elsweyr, Ji'Ju grew up the smallest of his mother's litter. While his brothers grew up strong and became great warriors, Ji'Ju stayed home and tended to the flowers. Though his father complained that Ji'Ju would never amount to anything, always comparing him to his brothers, Ji'Ju simply continued tending his flowers. When his brothers were all killed in a series of unfortunate events relating to their bloody careers, his father stopped complaining.
When Ji'Ju learned that growing flowers and other herbs could be legitimately useful, he immediately set out to learn the effects of every ingredient in the world. This, of course, drove him mad with adverse side effects caused by some of the less friendly ingredients.
It was in his quest to learn the secrets of all ingredients which led him to explore Skyrim in the time of dragons. ("Ji'Ju thought they were intriguing, until they burnt Ji'Ju's tail. Now they are only nuisance.")
Hadvar: What's your name, prisoner?
Ji'Ju: Ah, yes. Name. Ji'Ju's name. What is Ji'Ju's name. Ah, Ji'Ju is Ji'Ju.
Torturer: Oh sure, just take all my things.
Ji'Ju: Is good you offer; makes less rude when I take anyway.
"Oo! Fur bracers. These will feel good against Ji'Ju's fur."
"Ah! Potions! Yes." He searches the room. "Potions, potions. A cupboard. Ji'Ju knows much about potions. And cupboards."
"Ah. A rabbit. Your fur is also soft."
"You wish to die? Ji'Ju can help with that."
"Ji'Ju is, eh, quite short. Ji'Ju believes it is because his brain is so big, Ji'Ju could not grow beneath it."
Name: Sebastian Eduard Tussaud
Build: Svelte, muscular.
Description and Bio: Despite being the epitome of what Breton upper society breeds in their "winner-take-all" society, Sebastian was raised by a family of scholars, and as such was always considered the black sheep. Where his sister, Suriah, reveled in the restoration of crumbling tombs and debated at length with their parents over what an author meant by the use of the word "fallen", he turned to the sword. He could see in their eyes, though their love for him never dimmed, that it was tinged with disappointment that he chose the "path of the brute" instead of the "glories of the mind".
Tall for a Breton, he was surprisingly svelte and agile with a narrow frame encased in taut, sinewy muscle -- a fact that did not escape the attention of the eligible ladies of High Rock. (Even a few utterly ineligible ladies made a point of watching him at the training yard from time to time.)
At the age of seventeen, following a retaliatory raid on the nest of vampires responsible for a rash of disappearances and murders in Evermor, Sebastian left home for Skyrim. Tales of the Dawnguard far to the frozen East had surfaced, passed from tavern to tavern by those concerned by the plague of Iliac vampires, but unwilling to act. Sebastian departed to hunt down the rumors, and with any luck join the ranks of whatever may still call itself Dawnguard, with his parents' blessing, as well as that of his sister, though in her case she took the idea of "blessing" quite literally. She gifted him with a gold ring set with a flawless amethyst -- once their grandmother's -- enchanted with the ability to ward off the cold. She called it "Suriah's Blessing", and said it would keep him warm no matter the chill.
Though Sebastian managed to find the remote fort in the summer of his twentieth year, all was not as he had hoped. Comprising the "Dawnguard", such as it was, were less than a handful of stalwart men determined to see it rebuilt; hardly the "scourge of the vampire plague" he had heard depicted in the taverns and ale halls of Evermor. Still, to return home would mean signing up with whatever local lord would pay the most for the loyalty of his blade, and even the barest training in vampire slaying was better than a life of subservience to a faceless lord.
So it was that he remained for two years, training and studying under the watchful eye of Isran, when the letter from his sister arrived. Half of it was written in the sharply scratched characters of the dragons. Those parts he could make out seemed full of excitement and high spirits, and mentioned something about a journey she intended to take. It would be another six months before he managed to get his hands on a book with enough of the dragon tongue to help him decipher the rest of her letter, and a full two weeks more before the translation was complete. By the time he realized she was sending word of her journey into Skyrim to recover the forgotten "Word Walls" of the ancient Nords, it was too late to stop her. Worse, it was too late to respond to dictate a location where they might meet.
His training "incomplete" in the eyes of Isran, Sebastian left in a rush to reach Whiterun before Suriah, as her letter indicated it was the first stop in her quest to find the "Word Walls", but as with so much in his life, the reality he faced never reflected the hopes he held.
*All ages current as of the events at Helgen in the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.
Name: Suriah Favrielle Tussaud
Hair: Midnight Auburn
Build: Petite, slender
Description: Suriah [sir-EYE-ah] is not uncommonly petite for a Breton, but within the borders of Skyrim she seems like a child beside the stature of the hardy Nords. She wears her fine auburn hair partially braided to keep the ends out of her eyes, but leaves it otherwise unattended for simplicity sake. Despite coming from an upper-middle class family, Suriah has no eye for fashion or the finer things in life, preferring instead to don the robes of scholars and mages for "simplicity and comfort". By all accounts, Suriah is very pretty, though a true "beauty" she is not. Nor would it matter if she were, as she seems to show no separation between the sexes in her dealings, except as means of identification, though she readily identifies aesthetic appeal when referencing those she has met.
It is her greatest goal in life to read every book in Tamriel, and happily travels the world in order to find those volumes she has yet to read, even if it takes her into the heart of draugr-infested tombs, or Orcish Strongholds.
She has an eye and ear for languages, and claims to have learned the dragon tongue when she was "just a girl", though at just what age she was at the time even she seems not to know.
Her purpose in Skyrim is to seek out the fabled "Word Walls" guarding the tombs that dot the Nordic landscape to see the ancient passages herself, and transcribe them for her own expansion of the book "Dragon Language: Myth No More" by Hela Thrice-Verse, intending to focus more on the ancient Nords and their proficiency with the dragon tongue, rather than the dragon priests and their draugr servants.
If asked for the name of any whom she admires, she is equally likely to note the literary figure of Gryf Mallon (whom she tends to resemble in a number of ways), and her ancestor, the pirate captain Gaston Tussaud, whose bloody end she happily recounts for any soul unable to escape the hypnotic magnetism of her voice.
Skills and Talents: Uncommonly precise memory, exemplary archaic and arcane knowledge, Conjuration and Illusion, Enchanting and Alchemy, Persuasion.
Traits: Talkative to a fault, inquisitive, dangerously fearless, logical, analytical, well-versed in the history of Tamriel, unstoppable, transient, confident to the point of obtuse.
Suriah blinked once, and then again, squinting at the woman as though she were attempting to play some obscure and archaic joke on her. Apparently Suriah took too long to reciprocate the greeting, because the woman asked her directly for her name, or possibly title, Suriah really wasn't sure, so she responded in the same format the woman had established. "I'm Archmage."
It was the woman's turn to blink, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Alright, but what's your name?"
Suriah returned the furrowed brow, and added a little posturing by bracing her hands on her hips. "I don't see why I should give you my name when you haven't given yours. That seems rather unfair."
The Cordelia looked more confused than ever. "I told you my name. It's Cordelia."
"Is it?" Suriah's arms dropped to her sides, and then immediately sprang up so that one folded beneath the other to support a thoughtful chin-pinching. "Is it. How very odd. How very, very odd. Why on earth would anyone call you that?"
The Cordelia -- or rather, she supposed, just Cordelia --, showed definite signs of agitation. Suriah waved her hands between them. "I mean no disrespect, Cor-- Cordelia. Cordelia. Coordeeeleeyaah." She worked the name over and over. Why did it taste so familiar?
*All ages reflect current age as of the events at Helgen at the beginning of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.
This is not your average fan fiction.
Over the next several many months, and potentially years, the story will be revealed, chapter by chapter until you, the readers, know as much about Skyrim, the Elder Scrolls, and the characters as I do. Given no less attention than the manuscripts and short stories I intend to publish, this is more than a fan fiction to me.
While the events of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, and the DLC content Dragonborn act as a backdrop and framework for the action to follow, the real story is in the lives and individual experiences of the characters living in that world, in that era. Alduin may threaten all of Creation, but is his threat greater than that of Cordelia never experiencing love out of fear? Is it more terrifying than Soren's harrowing escape from Riften? Not if I'm doing my job right.
But I get ahead of myself. The wait on chapters is long, but what I can offer you first is a glimpse, a taste of what is to come in the form of an ever expanding cast, and their individual profiles peppered with some delicious hints to feed your love of speculation and gossip. So, without any further adieu, I give you the cast. (Original Characters only.)
Suriah - http://skyrimforums.org/blog/cordelia.22395/