Discussion in 'Your Bijou Blogette' started by Loq, Dec 16, 2018.
Ok now I need that to be an actual thing in some story
Makes a blind dragonborn for shiggles
Realises 30 seconds in how much of the game depends on (and is scripted for) the pc being sighted
anyway carinor is the exhausted middle-aged wood elf we all need in our lives
he's skyrim-born and sort of... selectively follows the green pact, as most non-tribal bosmer do; strictly a meat-eater, but doesn't follow the Meat Mandate (esp once he's thrust into Fucking Dragon Shenanigans), won't intentionally harvest plants, etc
generally navigates through a combination of scent, sound, and memory where applicable, plus greensense (it is time to steal from eso once again, idk if all Spinners are supposed to have it but Fuck It Mine Now) and a healthy appreciation for the Clairvoyance and Detect Life (and, later, Dead, because fuck all these draugr) spells
before being abruptly dragged into Plot, he had a nice little home somewhere in falkreath hold, vibin with the spriggans and occasionally selling leatherwork in town (yes I am setting him up in Lakeview ASAP)
he probably will deal with the main plot, out of Holy Obligation (with much grumbling along the way, fucking shit yffre is this the price he has to pay for not being able to serve valenwood? because he'll move south, he will, honest), but there will be much tomfoolery along the way
i'm love him already
he would be horrified about rilli, i feel
Carinor: What, exactly, The Fuck, my daughter
Rilli: ain't your daughter genius, also fuck you
I had a blind dragonborn play through, my excuse was she worshiped Azura and Nocturnal and they granted her small boons to help her navigate without sight. Nocturnal especially, once she joined the Thieves Guild, gave her a sort of shadow sense where as long she and what she's 'looking' at are in shadow she has awareness of it. It was a fun challenge.
Balgruuf: "so, you saw this dragon with your own eyes?"
Carinor, with a modded non-helgen intro and barely functioning eyes: "well, no, but unless you'd rather deal with a daedric cult, because I'm pretty sure that's the only other thing that could blast apart an entire town in moments and go screaming through the sky after...."
Irileth: "Take cover, and make every arrow count!"
Carinor, exhausted: "ma'am I know I'm a bosmer but how the fuck do you expect me to shoot anything"
Courier: "not sure who this letter is from, just said he was a friend of yours"
Cari: "well if he were a friend he'd know I can't fucking read but aight"
(and his seeing eye lydia, for when he inevitably has to climb a snowy-ass shitty mountain with no helpful moss to tell him where the edges of the rocks are)
"daedra (and daedra-adjascent beings) are safer casual fucks than most mortals bc mortal gender is inherently confusing and/or alien to them" and other things to realise abt your characters in the rave
Me, inevitably every time I have too much to do that day to sit around in the rave: what if I make a relyn sub and drop them in to ruin shelobah's elegant disposition
>sneak sneak sneak
>angry troll noises
>troll falls out of the fucking sky and dies on impact
Peak fucking skyrim
skyrim is such a beautiful game.
I want...... a nap
(I want a day to destress and Do Nothing but that is not in the cards, alas)
Living three blocks from the fire company means lots of rubbernecking opportunities.... and also lots of waking up mid-nap bc someone just rolled out sirens blazing
(what is Happening that needs ems and three firetrucks, I must know)
Apathenby mood: completely forgetting that gender might be relevant to how a character looks and should probably be mentioned to the artist
Grabby hands at skyrim
I have plenty of engaging things I could do
But none of them are skyrim
Why must my computer fail me just as I slide back into fixation hell
"--and raze this city of maleficarum and abominations to the ground!" Acanthus would almost take offense at that-- Kirkwall is his cesspit, thank you very much-- but Onyx, dearest darling Onyx gets there first with a beautiful right hook and a spectacularly clear response of "you motherfucker!" in her best battlefield roar. Acanthus smiles and leaves his twin (and Aveline, poor dear, she should know better by now than to get between a battering ram and its target) to it. Beatings have always been more her department; his, well. He crouches by the black-robed bastard who started this particular dogfight, palms a very special blade he's been carrying for five years now, and grins. "Bit much, isn't it?" he says, gesturing at Vael with his free hand; when Anders follows it with crow-wary eyes, Acanthus slips the blade in through the quilted layers of his robes. Once, the layered linen might have been enough to stop even a longbow; now, after eight long years of apostasy in Kirkwall, the coat is held together by little more than gut and spite, and Acanthus has had a moment like this planned for ages. His knife kisses flesh, a subtle difference in the resistance, and with it goes the magebane. It'll take a moment to really hit, and Acanthus has to work at a pretense of ease. "Me, I figure this sort of thing needs talked out, but then he's always been a bit of a hothead, hasn't he?"
"If you're going to kill me, just get it over with," Anders says leadenly-- not a spark of blue to be seen, whether it's the magebane at work or his little parasite agrees that he really does deserve to die for what he's done. Either way, it works out well for Acanthus, though it really would be much more fun if he fought. He keeps his grin on and meets the mage's eyes.
"Nah. I do mean it, I want a nice, long chat with you, brother." He twists the knife a little on its way out, just to be extra safe; Anders swallows thickly, and Acanthus wishes he had time to figure out whether it's the words, the pain, or the poison at work. "You know, now that everything's on fire, again, and helpless people are dying, again, but this time it's because of my darling sister and not in spite of her. Perfect time for a heart-to-heart with my brother-in-law. We're all murderers here, aren't we?"
"Acanthus," Onyx snaps, and oh, Maker damn them both, Aveline's gone and defused the situation with Vael. (Or, at least, there's no brutalized corpse in gleaming ceramic armor on the ground. Maybe Nyxie vaporized him by sheer force of rage.) Acanthus holds up his hands placatingly, free of all weapons, then claps Anders on the shoulder. If the mage startles, well, it's been a trying evening for everyone, hasn't it?
"What? Just checking on your man, here, wouldn't want him running off and leaving you with the mess."
"I would never--" Acanthus cocks an eyebrow, grin still firmly in place, and Anders wordlessly shoves himself to his feet. 2-0. Or should the explosion count as a point? It was a hell of an opener, at least.
"Just keeping an eye on you, healer." That earns a wince. Good. "Don't forget, you owe me a chat." Fenris tips his head, frowning thoughtfully, and Acanthus spreads his hands as he hops back to his own feet. "Now, if you lunatics really are going to try to save your precious Circle friends, you might want to get down to the Gallows before old Merry. Just saying. Me, I've got a few people to pull out of burning wreckage."
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