skyrimkinkmeme | Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

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All I'm saying is we take the plot of some good olde Jane Austen, throw it into the world of Skyrim and some adventure romance begins.
Because if Skyrim aint a place where Pride and Prejudice can happen I don't know where is.
Do whatever you want, all I'm saying is Skyrim needs a Mr. Darcy.

Lets get some classic literature up in here.

Ulfric Stormcloak as Mr. Darcy.

ohgod....

THIS!

Omg what I can't even.

yes yes yes yes yes

Galmar as Bingley...

Brynjolf as Mr. Wickham!

See now you've said that all I can see is Tulius as Lizzy and I don't think that crack is what OP is going for haha

Anyone ever seen that hark a vagrant comic about the Bronte sisters? Ulfric strikes me more as a Mr. Rochester, personally...

Regardless, this prompt is love. SECONDED FOREVER.

And a Mr. Knightly. Please? PLEASE?

Of course!!!
-OP

There are tons of characters who could be a Mr. Darcy type. Most of the Jarls, Harkon along with any of the other snooty vampire dudes in his court, Ondolemar along with any other snooty Thalmor dudes, Savos Aren, Neloth, etc.

Don't know if anyone is still following this thread but... it is so happening. I'm on it, guys.

PS. Ulfric.

Angry People Are Not Always Wise

Tags: char:F!OC, char:Ulfric_Stormcloak, char: F!DB, char:Galmar_Stone-Fist, char:Suvaris_Atheron, char:Estormo, race:Dunmer, race:Nord, kink:forbidden_affection, relationship:het

Summary: They were in the middle before they even knew they’d begun. Ulfric Stormcloak and the Gray Quarter play Pride and Prejudice.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young and attractive girl of Morrowind can hope for little more than to marry an eligible member of a Great House if she has want of a comfortable future in her homeland. However, this is perhaps not always the fondest wish of such girl's parents; those who’d witnessed the dwindling and desperation of these now divided factions, and hoped for nothing more than their daughter to escape such expectations.

It was for precisely that reason which Azrilea Nevoren had found herself carted across the border to Eastmarch in Skyrim. Azrilea had been born and raised in Morrowwind. Her family native to the city of Balmora where they lived perhaps as well to do as the average Dunmer could be. Azrilea was an only child and if the lavished attentions of her parents throughout childhood might have labelled her an indulged adult, then so be it. Balmora had been her home and a pleasant lifestyle her comfort for just gone twenty years and she’d absolutely no desire to leave it behind.

Whilst some young girls dreamed of travel and delighted in the thought of discovering new locations, Azrilea never truly had. If there was any greater pleasure than the warmth of home with the pages of a thrilling book then Azrilea knew it not and had no desire to learn of it. And yet, in the prime of her young life, she’d been thrust into the frigid airs of Skyrim to endure the slowest, most dull cart ride to arrive in the city of Windhelm.

Upon entering the frozen city walls, Azrilea was quite surprised to find that the very person she was seeking, was waiting directly ahead of her. Perhaps, though, she was more surprised by the company she kept.

“You come here where you’re not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks.”

“But we haven’t taken a side because it’s not our fight.”

It had been some years since Azrilea had seen her maternal aunt, Suvaris, but it was she and her two brothers, Faryl and Aval, whom Azrilea was to be staying with during her visit. Suvaris had yet to acknowledge her presence on the stone steps, however, for her aunt was all but boxed into conversation with two tall and grotesquely proportioned white men.

“Hey, maybe the reason these greyskins don’t help in the war is because they’re Imperial spies!”

“Imperial spies? You can’t be serious!”

“Maybe,” said the one with material draped over his head, “we’ll pay you a visit tonight, little spy. We got ways of finding out what you really are.”

Suvaris did little more than to heavily sigh and had turned on her heel in an evident attempt to leave when she noticed Azrilea standing there. Unfortunately, so did her badly clothed acquaintances. One wore barely more than a shred of tunic despite the falling snow.

“What have we here then? More of you lot trying to sneak their way in?”

“She is not sneaking,” her aunt began.

And yet, she apparently decided better than to continue arguing for she had no sooner latched upon Azrilea's arm and begun tugging her in another direction. They took a very sharp and sudden left turn, although the men still called after them. Azrilea could not make out the entirety of their loudly slurred words but did not miss the spitting hiss of greyskins punctuating their exclamations. Her aunt remained walking with her head down, as though raising it might tempt them to follow.

“Who are they?”

“Who are they?” her aunt repeated tersely. “Nords. That’s what they are. And it’s nothing new. They don’t trust us – they don’t trust anyone but themselves.”

Azrilea hadn’t the chance to say anything in response, because her aunt took less than a moment of pause before continuing in the same vein.

“It isn’t just the Dark Elves they hate, either – they’ve made a target of the Argonians as well. Won’t even let them in the city. They don’t need reason to bully you. You’ll be best off staying in the Grey Quarter at all times. It’s dangerous anywhere else.”

Suvaris moved faster then, as if to prove the necessity.

“What is a Grey Quarter?”

Her aunt stopped quite abruptly. Azrilea, who’d been struggling to keep pace, barely stopped herself before a flight of stairs. Her travel pack swung from her shoulders at the sudden change in momentum. They’d come to stare down the steps of a rubble path. It was shrouded almost entirely in darkness, with torchlight scarce and dwindling. The same could be said for the laneways well beyond it. Wherever there wasn’t snow upon the endless stone, there was grit instead.

“This is the Grey Quarter,” said her aunt. “The place the Nords have shoved us so they can forget we exist. They always remember again when it’s time to raise taxes.”

Suvaris was moving again when she said, “Your mother shouldn’t have sent you here. There’s no place worse for our kind.” then paused, “You’d have been far better off in Morrowind.”

Aside from being a confrontational statement to make upon one’s nieces first night, Azrilea was further rankled by her own mother’s deceit. She – who’d grown up in Skyrim with Suvaris and her brothers – had said not a word of anything less than harmless neutrality. That went without considering, too, the letters from her aunt in years past, which had so evidently declared the land still full of opportunity. The weight of this mutual obtuseness would have been of no importance to Azrilea, had it not been for the bitter reality it had now brought.

Their journey continued silently. And if upon first impression the Grey Qyarter was gritty and dark, then further assessment of its establishments only proved worse. After descending quite some time, as though taking themselves to the bowels of the city, they’d arrived outside a tall stone building draped with tattered banners rendered sodden in the snowfall. Outside of which stood a man who looked vaguely familiar in much the same way her aunt had.

“Aval. Azrilea has arrived.”

“Yes. I can see that.” said her uncle shortly. “And she’s made it past the Nords. Will wonders never cease.”

“Well, there was an incident with Rolff and Angrenor,” her aunt admitted.

His answering grunt made it rather clear that he expected nothing less.

“Oh good. They’ll be on our backsides even more than before,” he declared bitterly. “I’ll be at home if anyone needs me.”

“Take Azrilea’s belongings if you’re going.”

Without another word he did just that, departing with the pack slung over his shoulder. If her aunt thought anything of his silence, she showed it not, and led Azrilea inside swiftly. Their destination proved a derelict establishment that, for all else, appeared prodigiously well swept. The food seemed well enough, even if more of the unsightly banners hung about.

“Azrilea,”

This was uttered by a tall and dark haired man who bore a great resemblance to the woman in question.

“You have arrived. Your journey?”

“Slow and tedious,” she complained. “The horse barely kept a pace.”

“The Nords value strength over speed in their steeds,” Faryl responded, as though trying to have her forgive them. “It serves them better in the climate, and on the farms.”

“But it is such a pain for deliverers,” said a smooth voice. “Such unforgiving delays in... time sensitive situations.”

The woman who had spoken was something unique among the patrons; an Altmer. Additionally to standing taller than others around her, she also seemed better outfitted. She appraised Azrilea with a look of mild curiosity before deciding to introduce herself.

“Niranye. A pleasure to meet you.” she said silkily. “I have a stall in the markets. I buy all sorts of goods and I give good prices on all my merchandise. If you’ve ever got anything interesting to sell, do make sure to visit.”

“She’ll be nowhere near the Stone Quarter,” her aunt snapped. “You know how dangerous it is for us up there with the Nords!”

Niranye hardly seemed to share her opinion. “If you are content to dwell in these slums for life then so be it, Suvaris,” she said imperiously. “That does not mean your niece wants the same.”

“It’s not that easy, Niranye,” spoke another man. “You know how they tax us. We scrap together what we can under their tyranny and they still treat us with distaste.”

“If this is about my prices again, Revyn,” her tone became stronger.

“I just don’t understand how you can do it. You always manage to sell things so cheaply.”

“I’ve told you, it’s just a matter of finding the right suppliers.”

The man, Revyn, looked pleading. “Just, let me meet them next time they’re around.” he begged. “You introduce me and I’ll do the rest.”

Niranye was unable to grant him response for conversation was, at that moment, suddenly halted. The establishment had been entered by a tall and broad-shouldered woman in elaborately carved armour. Azrilea was quite certain, once her mask was removed and blonde hair fell across her shoulders, that this woman was a Nord. If this woman’s presence was unexpected or affronting to those inside, however, it did not show. Instead there was polite greeting from behind the counter and she, whom they called Hjordia, approached in easy stride.

“Have you spoken to the guards?”

This was the question first posed in the direction of the newest arrived patron. It served to have her desert her drink, with an exhausted sort of expression crossing her face.

“I’ve tried. I thought, maybe... but, maybe now’s not the time.” she said uncertainly. “I’ve heard the army lost Fort Kastav to the Imperial Legion.”

A statement as such meant little to Azrilea, but apparently quite a bit more to others in the room. This resulted in a small stir of good spirits. Hjordia looked far from as pleased, if the averting of her eyes were any indication.

Nonetheless, others were certainly cheered.

“They’d have nothing left but Eastmarch.” commented one such person. “The Legion will storm the city.”

“If they can take Fort Amol,” said Hjordia, “then there’s no doubt.”

“I cannot say I’d be disappointed to see Imperial colours in the city.” spoke Revyn stiffly.

“But at the price of battle?” asked her aunt. “They’ll sack the city. And don’t think the Stormcloaks won’t give us up first.”

“I’m sure the citizens will be well protected.” the blonde intoned meekly.

“The Nord citizens, you mean!” growled the man who swept the floors. His broom, he had begun to wave about in protest. “They’ll leave the Grey Quarter to rot.”

“You can bet there’ll be nothing left.”

The topic spurned all manner of individual arguments within the cornerclub. There were raised voices in discussion over defending their properties themselves, whilst others saw fit to drown their concerns in freshly poured goblets. The Nord woman quite delicately removed herself from the epicentre of the outburst and consequently seemed to find herself drawn into discussion with Revyn. Conversation at Azrilea’s own end of the establishment was meanwhile dominated by her aunt who continued with great purpose in enlightening her niece of just how unsafe Windhelm was.

Azrilea sought distraction from the increasingly tedious line of discussion through observing the crowd. Niranye, who seemed to dislike her opinion going to waste, was involved in quite a back and forth with the broom-wielding employee and his irate employer. Another man sat well across the room, lacking any apparent interest in the conversations happening around him.

The Nord remained speaking with the store owner, Revyn, who, for his part, looked nothing less than skittish. Azrilea had only just come to wonder if their conversation was not of a pleasant nature, when the woman placed a hand, no doubt meant to be comforting, against his shoulder and nodded in earnest through her response as though trying to convey a serious understanding.

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