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skyrimkinkmemeANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017
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Crossover-time, with Merlin
Date: 2013-04-13 08:19 pm (UTC)He knows the dragon language, guys. Possibly more of it than anyone else but a dragon. He can also summon dragons; possibly anyone at all (Alduin? Paarthurnax? Akatosh the god?). Plus, there's the whole 'cannot disobey a Dragonlord thing.'
I want Merlin in Skyrim. He may or may not be the Dragonborn. He may be a random Breton that the DB meets one day.
Just incorporate the Merlin concept of Dragonlords into the tale of the Dragonborn, however you want.
Bonus points:
-Greybeards have no idea what to make of him
-Instead of fighting dragons, he talks them down/dismisses them
-Dragonborn, /technically/ has to obey all of Merlin's commands
- the Great Dragon (Kilgharrah) shows up
I think Kilgharrah and Paarthurnax having a tea party is a totally different prompt, yes?
Re: Crossover-time, with Merlin
Date: 2013-04-14 10:54 am (UTC)Re: Crossover-time, with Merlin
Date: 2013-04-14 10:56 am (UTC)Re: Crossover-time, with Merlin
Date: 2013-04-14 09:08 pm (UTC)Dragonborn, Dragonlord, what's the difference? 1/5
Date: 2013-07-25 10:34 pm (UTC)(OP, here. Can’t get this out of my head. Also, I don’t speak Ancient Greek, so Skyrim Dragon language, it is! Let’s pretend they’re different dialects or something. The greatest thanks to thuum.org for all the dov tinvaak)
Merlin groans at the sunlight filtering through his eyelids. Blearily, he notices trees, so therefore, he must be in a forest. That is strange. Merlin doesn’t remember Arthur ordering a hunt. No horsetracks to give him any clue, no trace of anything else. He sighs. The king is going to think he’s at the tavern again.
But now he has to find out where he is. Turning to the sky, a visible thin trail of smoke marks a fire nearby. Bandits, probably, according to his experiences. He’s had enough of them to dread the thought. But it could be someone else, so Merlin lets his hope take the better of him.
Then, of course, it starts to rain.
Merlin is soaking wet and only partially covered in mud. Well, he’s had worse. The fire went out only a short distance back, but the shelter is immediately visible. It’s not a fancy castle by any means, but it means that he can probably get out of the rain. He stops short when he sees that no one’s left. Two men, one built a bear and judging by his drinking, more like Gwaine than he wishes to think about right now, and the other in robes. With a staff? No one else seems to be around, definitely not bandits, then…
“What’s a boy like you doing out here? You’re a long way from High Rock.” The bigger, Gwaine-like person calls out to Merlin, having spotted him. “All wet in the rain. C’mere, there’s plenty of room.” He gestures to the shelter.
The other one mumbles and Merlin can make out, “Dammit, Darne, I’m a wizard, not your bodyguard.”
The boy can feel his heart pound. Wizard equals magic. Wizard and witches usually try to kill him. And Arthur because he offends them with his very existence. When they’re not swearing themselves to him. This is trouble, but it looks like—Darne?—the other doesn’t mind.
Darne chuckles and says, “What do I pay you for, again?” The wizard is indignant and is quietly berating his employer when the large man adds, “Besides, he doesn’t look like he could swing a sword.”
Merlin doesn’t. Arthur’s told him so. So it’s lucky that he has other ways to protect himself.
The sorcerer spits back, “He doesn’t have to. Nords! Always with the swords! He could poison you in your sleep, smother you, or try with a knife like that last whelp you had to help.”
“Well, since you’re cooking, I doubt he’ll poison me.” Darne says. Merlin shivers, and hopes they think it’s the cold and rain rather than him protesting. There have been too many poisoning attempts on Arthur’s life for him to remember a specific event. “Are ye?”
Re: Crossover-time, with Merlin
Date: 2013-07-26 02:51 am (UTC)(Can’t get this out of my head. Also, I don’t speak Ancient Greek, so Skyrim Dragon language, it is! Let’s pretend they’re different dialects or something. The greatest thanks to thuum (dot) org for all the dov tinvaak and the handy translator, which I use copiously)
Merlin groans at the sunlight filtering through his eyelids. Blearily, he notices trees, so therefore, he must be in a forest. That is strange. Merlin doesn’t remember Arthur ordering a hunt. No horsetracks to give him any clue, no trace of anything else. He sighs. The king is going to think he’s at the tavern again.
But now he has to find out where he is. Turning to the sky, a visible thin trail of smoke marks a fire nearby. Bandits, probably, according to his experiences. He’s had enough of them to dread the thought. But it could be someone else, so Merlin lets his hope take the better of him.
Then, of course, it starts to rain.
Merlin is soaking wet and only partially covered in mud. Well, he’s had worse. The fire went out only a short distance back, but the shelter is immediately visible. It’s not a fancy castle by any means, but it means that he can probably get out of the rain. He stops short when he sees that no one’s left. Two men, one built a bear and judging by his drinking, more like Gwaine than he wishes to think about right now, and the other in robes. With a staff? No one else seems to be around, definitely not bandits, then…
“What’s a boy like you doing out here? You’re a long way from High Rock.” The bigger, Gwaine-like person calls out to Merlin, having spotted him. “All wet in the rain. C’mere, there’s plenty of room.” He gestures to the shelter.
The other one mumbles and Merlin can make out, “Dammit, Darne, I’m a wizard, not your bodyguard.”
The boy can feel his heart pound. Wizard equals magic. Wizard and witches usually try to kill him. And Arthur because he offends them with his very existence. When they’re not swearing themselves to him. This is trouble, but it looks like—Darne?—the other doesn’t mind.
Darne chuckles and says, “What do I pay you for, again?” The wizard is indignant and is quietly berating his employer when the large man adds, “Besides, he doesn’t look like he could swing a sword.”
Merlin doesn’t. Arthur’s told him so. So it’s lucky that he has other ways to protect himself.
The sorcerer spits back, “He doesn’t have to. Nords! Always with the swords! He could poison you in your sleep, smother you, or try with a knife like that last whelp you had to help.”
“Well, since you’re cooking, I doubt he’ll poison me.” Darne says. Merlin shivers, and hopes they think it’s the cold and rain rather than him protesting. There have been too many poisoning attempts on Arthur’s life for him to remember a specific event. “Are ye?”
D'oh, Title: Dragonborn, meet Dragonlord 2a/5
Date: 2013-07-26 02:53 am (UTC)The Nord?—such a strange title, but it must be like the Celts and the Romans, a people—puffs up his chest and raises his bottle. “I’m Darne Blade-eye, and this here,” he points to the brown-haired sorcerer, “is Marcurio.”
He makes an annoyed sound that Merlin is often tempted to make around Arthur. Was that how he’d be if magic weren’t persecuted? No matter, the boy has to ask, “What kind of name is Blade-eye?” Of course it was equally ridiculous as Pendragon, but it has to make some kind of sense.
Marcurio groans. This is evidently a story he’s heard before. Merlin feels like he’s just asked for a rendition of Gwaine’s bawdy tales.
Darne perks right up with a grin. “Me granpap was a marksman and he liked his knifes. Now, don’t get me wrong, he could swing an axe with the best of them, but he was famous for his knifework. When he was just a boy, no bigger than you, actually—“ Merlin might be scrawny, but he feels a little belittled, but it isn’t any worse than Arthur’s insults, but it somehow hurt more. “—he picked the wrong fight, and it ended when his knife went directly through the Orc’s eye.”
“I see,” Merlin says conversationally. “And you, Marcurio?”
The sorcerer huffs, stirring a small stewpot, “Marcurio is a perfectly good Imperial name. What kind of name is Merlin?”
“It’s a bird,” the boy replies weakly. He tries to bring this up as delicately as he can. “Are you really a wizard?”
Marcurio grows less defensive and more sure of himself. There’s a definite sparkle in his eye. “Yes, I am, in fact. Do you have an interest in the Arcane Arts?” More than anyone else can guess, he thinks.
“Marcurio,” Darne admonishes him. “Don’t hamper on about magic now. He’s soaking wet. And the rain isn’t letting up. Sit by the fire, get some food in him. We can talk more about how a Breton, age—how old are you?”
Um… Merlin has to think about it, but replies, “About seventeen winters. Give or take.”
Darne raises an eyebrow, probably thinking he was an orphan or some such. “Seventeen, or so, found his way into Skyrim. It is a long way from High Rock.”
“I’m not from High Rock.” Darne shrugs, like he doesn’t particularly care. “It’s a little village,” he continues. “You probably haven’t heard of it.”
“I’ve got time,” the Nord says. “The stew’s still cooking.” Marcurio lets out an exasperated, ‘what do you expect me to do, work miracles?’ that Merlin understands. And Darne rolls his eyes prattishly (and Merlin’s only seen Arthur manage that before this), saying, “So tell me about your home. Mine was a little out of the way place in Falkreath.”
Merlin doesn’t know where in the Kingdoms Falkreath is, but he finds himself wanting to tell the man about himself, anyway. He’s charismatic, and not in the obnoxious way that the king is, or even in the slightly skeevy way that Gwaine is. It’s closer to Lancelot, the noble and truthful knight.
The moment that Merlin opens his mouth, Marcurio yells, “Darne! Dragon! You’ll die this day, dragon!”
Quicker than he knows a regular man can move, Darne unsheathes his sword, which glistens with something undeniably magical. Merlin turns his head to the dragon, and dodges the fire. When he looks back, Darne is—spouting fire back at it? Breathing fire, just like a dragon, and the sorcerer is throwing small bolts of lightning from his staff.
Darne staggers back. Only now does Merlin realize that the dragon speaks. It isn’t much, but it means that the dragon has a bit of intelligence. He thought that Aithusa and Kilgharrah were the last ones left. He can’t just stand by and let him be killed. Feebly, he tries, “Marcurio, Darne, don’t.” Only the sorcerer, looking at Merlin like he’s grown three heads, turns his way.
Merlin decides that it comes to this, he yells, “Nid, Helt! Gir wah zey! drehni krii ek. Helt veyn hi los!” He doesn’t know how his brain translates his plea, but it’s a Dragonlord thing. They have to stop. He can’t let a dragon die when he can help it
Both the dragon and Darne stop. Marcurio yells, “What by the Eight Divines is this!?”
Re: D'oh, Title: Dragonborn, meet Dragonlord 2b/5
Date: 2013-07-26 06:32 pm (UTC)Angrily, Darne roars, “Wo los hi!” He seems to try to move, but he can’t. “Fos zurun lah los daar? Vahr lost hi drehlaan daar wah zey?” That’s strange, only a dragon needs to listen to Merlin.
“Who am I? Who are you?” Merlin retorts back, “I haven’t done anything to you!” A few doubts creep into Merlin’s mind, that maybe, he has.
“You cast some kind of spell and now the dragon’s going to—“ Darne blinks. The dragon stands there, stilled. The huge eyes dart to Merlin, as if asking a question. Then decides, if Darne can speak, so can she.
” Hi los Dovlaas-drog? Dovahkul? Zu'u lor sos tiidnavir dir tir. Ol dilon ol mu dovah voth nid maldov.” A chill runs down Merlin’s spine at being called that. “Nuz, ruz, Hi los Emrys. Hi los lingrah strah nol bodein.”
“Dragonkind life lord? Dragon son? And what’s this about families and hatchlings?” Darne asks suspiciously, his ire clearly evident, but he unable to a thing about it. “And who, or what, the hell is Emrys.”
Yes, he was a long way from home. Merlin addresses the dragon. Dragoness? What was the correct form for a female dragon? He can deal with Darne later, preferably in a way that doesn’t have him hanging. “I’ve been getting that a lot. You may go, but first, I have to ask?”
“Geh?”
“What’s your name?” Merlin wants to know and remember all the dragons he meets. It feels right.
There is a strong pause, deafening in its silence. Well, not quite silence; Marcurio doesn’t understand this a bit and his angry grumbling is not helping. Finally, she answers, “If I once had one, I have forgotten. The rest of our fron have forgotten more. Most do not have greind. Beasts.”
She flies away with a whoosh. Absentmindedly, Merlin thinks he’s going to have a hard time explaining this.
“Anyone want to translate for those who don’t speak Dragon?” Marcurio lashes out. “Darne? Merlin, if that’s even your name?”
Suddenly finding himself able to move again, Darne says, “I’d like to know, too. If it isn’t a huge trouble, Dovahkul.” He brandishes his sword, but lets it down. “Marcurio, we’re going to listen to the mageling, and if doesn’t explain everything, then you can throw a fireball at him.”
Merlin takes a deep breath.
Re: D'oh, Title: Dragonborn, meet Dragonlord 2b/5
Date: 2013-08-01 08:12 am (UTC)Dragonborn, meet Dragonlord 3a/5
Date: 2013-08-02 07:11 am (UTC)Impatiently, Darne taps his foot, his brown moustache visibly twitching in irritation. “You can start with why they called you Dragonson. Then the fancy magic of yours. I didn’t see you cast a spell.”
“He didn’t Shout, either,” the wizard conjectures. “Just said something in Dragon.” Darne purses his lips, like he wants to correct the sorcerer, but leaves it be.
“I told you to stop,” Merlin says. “And you did; but why you? Her, I knew she would, but you?” He mutters under his breath, “only a dragon…”
“What? Only a dragon, what?” This surprises both the wizards, since Darne keeps a sizeable amount of distance from Merlin. “I have keen ears.”
They aren’t in a position to demand much of him, but he isn’t, either. Given the opening, Merlin says, “Only a dragon needs must listen to a Dragonlord’s word, and that dragon likewise obeys his orders.” It sounds only a bit like a recitation. That should be explanation enough; this kingdom has dragons and no ban on magic, so the wizard should know. That he wasn’t outed as Emrys by him, a relief. Merlin knows that the signs were plainly obvious, but he’s been dumbfounded before being reminded before. Granted, that was mostly herbs. When he sees the men blink, confused, Merlin looks like a fish with his mouth open.
“Gods! You have dragons!” Merlin gestures to the sky. “How do you not have Dragonlords? How do you keep the land undamaged? Do you send armies?” Saying that last, the young warlock feels a chill run down his spine, remembering every account he’s heard and read of the Purge. Remembering his father, who could never know the woman and boy he left in Ealdor.
Slowly Darne drawls, disbelievingly, “You’re telling me—“ he purses his lips. “There’s a people called… dragon lords.”
Merlin sighs and nods.
“You’re one of these, I suppose,” Marcurio tries to downplay the importance of this fact. “As well as an Emrys, which sounds like a wax figurine; or some haughty ladies’ perfume.”
“I repeat,” Darne emphasizes. He squints at the skinny boy. “A dragon lord who can—control them? Dragons? All dragons?”
Merlin nods. Wyverns are generally chancy at best, being dragons’ smaller, weaker cousins. But that meant—
Marcurio scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You run up and down cliffs and mountains with the heaviest armor you can find. You can kill with a single word! You absorb dragon’s souls after you kill them! This bothers you? THIS, out of all things?”
“Yes,” Darne growls. “I don’t like people telling me what to do, or how to do it! No one’s supposed to do that! By Akatosh, no one!”
Merlin takes a few steps back and thinks how easy it would be to knock them back, but they’d probably get up before he could run away. The idea of taking someone’s soul—especially someone like a dragon—makes his stomach revolt. “Akatosh?”
Darne seems to ignore him now, turning to his hired hand. “The Greybeards have to have something to say about this. We’re going to High Hrothgar. Marcurio, I need to trade some things with you.”
“I am an apprentice wizard, not a pack mule!” The sorcerer sighs, defeated. “Very well, make it quick.”
“Going? Wait!” Merlin lunges at the nearest man, and…
Suddenly, Merlin is very cold; a strong breeze nearly knocks him over.