Just out of curiosity, if I were to make a Khajiit, not that I am, but I've always wondered about a name I once gave my Skyrim character. I gave her the name, Zakyra.
If someone were to submit a CS with that name for a Khajiit, what would be your responses? I mean, would it even be acceptable?
@Regitnui When I first saw your name, I thought it was Rigatoni đ
@gcold What's the game plan now for our characters? Are we still waiting for more posts to come along, for example, a post to show the group being divided up for the next round of missions?
I present:
âPa, why is our name different than other people?â The tiny voice of Lili broke the silence over their morning breakfast. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a swath of dark red hair over his forearms. Seated at his right hand sat Liliana, his youngest daughter, while Sevine sat adjacent to him on the left side.
âWhy is it you ask, my dear?â He reclined back into the chair while his hands tore a loaf of bread in half.
âI just noticed. We donât have a last name like the others in the village. Why is it so funny? What does it mean? Varg-tâuk.â She uttered their surname as her face pulled into a twist, as if she drank sour milk. At her expression, both Sevine and Agnar couldnât help but laugh.
âIt is a very old name. There are not many people in our country with a name like ours, that is true. But it is a proud name. When Ysgrammor settled our beautiful land, our ancestors came with him. My mind has forgotten much of the story, but I will tell you what I know.â A tender twinkle appeared in his eyes as he crossed an ankle over his knee.
âWhen our forefathers landed in Skyrim, we came as a clan. Then, we were a bountiful and prosperous family. There were five brothers, though I remember the name of one, that is our grandfather that fathered my kin. His name was Torrik the Crooked, and he was a man of impressive height and girth. Tale tells that he could down two barrels of ale without succumbing to drunkennessâŠâ
âOur ancestors sailed across the Sea of Ghosts, and landed here in Skyrim. As tale has been told, the Varg-tâuk clan were fierce people, most of my kin is gone now, save for us, so I can only tell you what my grandfather told me. We were not yet named Varg-tâuk until Torrik the Crooked. In his day, he fought many a warrior, and drew many a circle. As such, he accumulated many scars, but his name comes from not his behaviour, but from his crooked nose. In one particular fight, his opponent, whose name is now long forgotten, smashed his nose with the pommel of his sword. The bone shattered into many pieces, and the healers of the day did their best to restore the bones to their original place. Alas, they could not, and so, Torrikâs face was left with a massive, crooked nose. The damage was so great, that his crooked nose gave his entire face a crooked disposition. But that is not why we are called Varg-tâuk.
You see, Torrik lived to the lengthy age of seven and fifty. He died a well-respected man, though where he is buried, I can say not. When he was but nine and forty, Torrik left his wife, Helga, to hunt before the clutches of winter swept across the land. It was here that he earned his name. For whatever reason, he had a poor diet, or so my grandfather told me, and as such, he lost many of his teeth. Only his molars remained. You can imagine the wretched sight he must have been when he smiled.
Now, Torrik was an exceptional hunter. He often carried a sword for fighting, and a bow for hunting. On this particular expedition into the wilderness, Torrik chose to leave behind his sword. An action that would nearly cost him his life. He hunted for days on end, most of the elk had migrated to their breeding grounds, making tracking especially difficult. That yearâs harvest yielded little, and if he did not bring back meat, Helga and him would face starvation.â Agnar said.
âPa, why did not he ask his neighbors for help, if he were to go hungry?â Liliana asked, she rose from her chair, and climbed into her fatherâs lap.
âThat is a good question, my little flower. You see, in the early days of Skyrim, people were few, and Torrik was a prideful man. From the words of my grandfather, Torrik enjoyed his solitude, and so he chose to live far away from his kinsmen. He would not have accepted charity from his fellow neighbors, such is why he went hunting.
Now then, he spent nearly a week following the tracks of the elk, until he came upon an elk with a broken leg. The elk was too weak to continue on with the herd, and so he slaughtered the creature. When he made camp for the night, he gutted and skinned the elk. He quartered the animal so that he could carry it back on his steed. As such, he left it to dry. Torrik failed to anticipate that there would be wolves in the area, for most of the wolves had followed the herd.
As he lay under the furs in his tent, Torrik was roused from his sleep by the sound of his horse braying. He rushed from his tent to find a wolf lunging at his steed. With a great and mighty bellow, he grabbed a burning log and swung it at the wolf. He struck the wolf, saving his horse from an untimely death, when the wolf turned on him.
Man and beast came together, fangs were bared and fists were swung. Each blow he landed upon the wolf, the wolf sank his fangs into his flesh. Blood soaked the ground, and Torrik began to grow weak. He could barely stand upon his own two feet, death seemed inevitable now. As he lingered on his knees, the wolf circled around him, waiting for the right time to attack.
When the wolf lunged at him, Torrik knew he had to give every last breath to fight off this beast before he left Helga without a husband. The wolf leaped, fangs bared in a fearsome snarl as it aimed for his throat. Kyne blessed Torrik that day. His hands flew to the throat of the wolf, where his massive hands closed around its windpipe. There, the wolfâs snapping jaw inches from his face, grew still as he strangled the very life out of the wolf. In minutes, the creature that had tried to kill him, lay limp at his feet. Torrik decided that he would not let the wolf go to waste, and in the morning, he carried home the elk he felled, and the wolf. When he returned home to Helga, they had enough meat to last them through the winter, and new pelts to sell. However, when he sat down to skin the wolf, he decided that he would wear the wolfâs teeth.â
âAs a necklace?â Lili asked, her fair brows furrowed at her fatherâs words.
âNay, he wore the wolfâs teeth as his own teeth. That is how we became Varg-tâuk. It means wolf tooth in Ancient Nord. When Torrik smiled, his teeth were the fangs of the very wolf that tried to kill him.â Agnar said with a chuckle, he ruffled her hair as he lifted Lili from his lap. âNow, help your sister with her chores, and if you finish early, I will take you to the village to-day.â
I'll be home later today, if the prompt is still going, I'd like to get a stab at Sevine's ancestry.
IDEA: Varg-t'uk is an ancient Nord surname. Translated it means, Wolf-Tooth. However many generations ago, one of Sevine's forefathers fought a wolf and stole its teeth after killing the beast with his bare hands. After skinning the wolf that tried to kill him in his sleep, he removes the teeth, and wears them as dentures of the sort đ€
The winds of a blizzard howled around the ancient structure. House Raven-Stone, one of the only houses in the Gray Quarter occupied by a Nord family. As fate would have it, Leif was left with no living family. His mother, Sanja passed from consumption, and his father, Jorrlak, soon after. He was an only child, leaving him to inherit all property and belongings that were once his parents. The house was silent, save for the winds. He sank into the chair behind a wooden desk his father once sat at, it was strange, to be the only one left alive. A part of him couldnât shake the veil of regret for being away so long, while the other half⊠well, he didnât feel much of anything. Just a numbness that he couldnât quite escape.
After his fatherâs passing, Leif busied himself with cleaning the house, giving away items he had no use for, while taking inventory of the household contents. Days ago, as he rifled through his fatherâs chest did he stumble upon a peculiar item. This item? A worn leather journal wrapped in cotton, and buried at the bottom of the chest. When he opened the journal, careful not to damage the pages, Leif stared in awe at the faded ink scrawled across the first page. He closed the journal shut, and placed it on the desk. He intended to open the journal when he found the time, but weeks had passed since he first discovered the journal resting at the bottom of the chest.
Each night he eyed the journal before climbing in bed, he wanted to open it up and read the contents. He had his own ideas as to what the journal might be about, perhaps it was something his father wrote? Though the faded ink, tinged brown with age suggested that it came from an older time.
âIâll never know unless I open that blasted thing.â He chastised himself as one hand removed the cotton wrapping. He peeled back the cover, his eyes sweeping over the ink.
[3E 433
25th of Midyear ~ The day of reckoning has come.
Word has reached us here in Windhelm that the skies in Cyrodiil are awash with crimson clouds, daedra have attacked the city of Kvatch. I fear that this is the end of days. There is but one path I must take. I must bury the stone.
1st of Sunâs Height ~ I have left home. Brunhilda cried when I kissed her goodbye, and even the little ones clung to me. It pains my heart to leave them behind, but Brunhilda is a strong woman. That is why I married her. She will look after the children in my stead, whether or not I come back alive.
I head south from Windhelm. I carry nothing with me save for this accursed stone.
5th of Sunâs Height ~ I made it to Whiterun. I encountered several people on the road who spoke of the disaster in Cyrodiil. They speak of evil creatures that lurk in the night. Daedra. Awful beings from Oblivion. They say that the sky in some places, as in Kvatch has a tear in the sky, this seems to be the source where the Daedra come. Kyne keep us safe.
Tonight I checked my belongings. Even that damned stone. For generations, my family has kept this artifact out of the hands of those who would do the world ill. No one knows why I left. Not even Brunhilda. Oh how I miss her horker meat pies. I have eaten nothing but dried meat and any apples that I could forage. I gave up this life of the road long ago. It has been over eleven years since I traipsied across Skyrim in search of adventure. Til I took an arrow to the knee, that is.
I have the stone on my body at all times. I hate to look at it, not because of fear, but of what it represents. When my fatherâs father was just a boy, his father had trouble with a group of cultists that worshipped Nocturnal, the mistress of the Night. The keeper of the Shadows. At the time, my grandfather, Elof, lived close to Riften with his folks. From what I recall, these cultists kidnapped children, and oftentimes small children in which they offered as a sacrifice to the lady of the Night. The hour grows late, I must sleep for my eyes grow heavy.
7th of Sunâs Height ~ I reached Riverwood yestereve. When I woke this morning, the sky was a sad mixture of dark grey clouds. There is a heavy chill in the air as rain pours from the heavens. I cannot journey in this weather. I shall wait for the storm to clear.
Elofâs father, his name escapes me at this hour, gathered with his friends. He spoke unto them, pleading for them to join his cause, to help rid their small settlement of the cultists. These men, who had suffered just as much pain as he, agreed without hesitation. Elof told me the tale when I was a wee lad of just five years, so the details are a bit hazy.
They didnât attack right away, after all, they had no clue where the cultists gathered. So they waited. The men kept close watch over the children in the village, while setting traps for no-good-doers. Traps were set with chickens, calves, foals, and lambs. Most evaded the trap, and made off with the young creatures. That is until a heavy rain swept through the area. One of them men rushed to Elofâs house, they had found impressions of a pair of boots all around his house in the fresh mud. They were eager to discover their location and set off at once. Elof told me that his father and the men were gone for days on end. His mother began to fear the worst and had begun to make her peace with Kyne. That was until his father came barreling through the door of their house.
He was covered head-to-toe in mud and gore. In his arms he cradled a curious object, the one I carry with me now. Elofâs father relayed the tale of what happened in his disappearance.
His father and the men tracked the prints back to a cave. They staked out the area and waited in the shadows for one of the cultists to emerge. It wasnât until late in the evening that he saw, not a man, but a shadow. It seemed to know that they were watching, for it did not leave the entrance. Instead, it retreated into the depths. He said that the men with his father did not hold back on their anger, and charged forth into the darkness of the cave. They were but simple farmers, what more could he expect?
In the darkness, they felt their way along until they came to a chamber illuminated by torchlight. There they found a group of the daedra worshippers waiting for them in front of a curious door.
But this story will wait, the hour is late.
9th of Sunâs Height ~ The rain has stopped.
14th of Sunâs Height ~ I made it to Solitude. I am glad to have a bed to under my aching bones. The best years are gone from me. Brunhilda says that I am to be 54 this year. I feel much older than that. My joints creak and pop each time I stand, my back cannot handle the countless hours spent in the saddle. Walking is worse though it helps relieve the stiffness in my back.
Now then, I was about to reach the climax of the story.
Elofâs father and the men were met head on with a throng of swirling black mist. At first, they were scared, but the anger of losing their loved ones and livestock quickly overcame them, and so they charged headlong into the fray. It was soon discovered that the black mists were men, the work of some evil magic. With the knowledge that the mists were human, his father and his friends cut each one of them down. When none were left standing, the men searched the bodies in hopes of discovering an answer to who they were. It was then that they uncovered a stone, the one I carry now.
At first they were puzzled at what it was, until his father suggested it might be a key to the door. This door, stood floor to ceiling and was made of black stone, perhaps ebony. There were interlocking stone rings, and in the center, a hole in the shape of the stone. His father took it upon himself to open the door, and placed the stone inside. A heavy grating noise filled the chamber as the rings rotated into place. Then, the door dropped into the floor and revealed what lay beyond.
My food has arrived, the barmaid is most kind. She reminds me of my daughter, Svanna.
15th of Sunâs Height ~ Tomorrow I shall set out for the northern most tip of Haafingar. But today I rest. My legs are too sore for me to walk.
I shall write while I can.
Beyond the door lay a central chamber where the statue of Nocturne rose. At her feet were offerings, a mound of bones, while a handmade cloak of feathers adorned her shoulders. In the center of this chamber was a circle with a language he did not know. They searched the chambers and found no remnants of their children, so they took the bones at the altar and carried them home. There were tiny skulls, most likely of the children that were taken.
That is how Elofâs father came to hold the stone. None wanted to handle this god-forsaken thing, and now I understand why. My grandfather grew to keep the stone safe, and when his father passed, he took the name Raven-Stone. When my father never returned from his voyage at sea, I was charged with the task of keeping the stone safe. I often feel that this stone has greater power than just a key, sometimes when I peer into the eyes, I feel as if I am whisked away to an entirely different world. A shadowy veil covers my field of vision, and I hear mysterious whispering. Sometimes I cannot pull myself away, and when I do, I can still hear those whispers in my head. They speak in a language I cannot understand.
The stone is unlike anything Iâve ever seen. It is the shape of a raven, or a crow. The color is the deepest shade of black, like a shadow. It is as big as my hand, so I must carry it with two hands. It weighs as much as a barrel of potatoes, which is quite heavy for something so small.
21st of Sunâs Height ~ It is finished. I destroyed the stone, in a sense. I threw it into a lake in a cave no one will ever find.
I head home to Brunhilda now.
May the Gods Keep Us.
Leif closed the journal and sat back, his eyes locked on the faded leather. Is this⊠could it be⊠this is how he became the Raven-Stone? There were more pages to read, but this⊠this was all he could handle for today.
Also, when is the deadline for this prompt? I'm working on both Leif's and Sevine's but there is a likelihood I'm going to be out of town this Thursday, either til Sunday, or even longer. So I want to make sure I get it done before then.
Dervish,
Spoopy Scary,
Cyadical,
ButtsnBalls,
Damycles
