HOME | DD

Description
... between monkshood and wolfsbane?

Fan art for TES V: Skyrim.

According to my roleplay, my Altmer OC Aedmar was invited by Savos Aren, who, unlikely though it is, happens to be a friend of his, to the Winterhold College as a guest star lecturer, and since all the schools of magic are already taken by all those wonderful NPCs, I thought, why not make my darling snarky Dovahkiin teach Alchemy? And since I've given him one of those adorable crooked noses, the rest just fell into place...

When he is not battling dragons and just running around Skyrim being fabulous, Aedmar passes his time making the Apprentices' life miserable, to an extent that they start mistakenly believing (hah!) that he is in league with Ancano and plots the downfall of the College. Maybe eventually they'll start blaming him for Aren's death...

Quite naturally, he is particularly fond of victimizing Brelyna, seeing as her skills in magic do not match up with her glorious ancestry. But no, he was not in love with her mother when he was younger. And he washes his hair.

EDIT: Fixed the mixed-up HTML tags.

EDIT EDIT: Found an oldish story of mine that could go quite well with this picture:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tolfdir greets them with a smile - his usual good-natured, amiable smile, it seems... And yet, yet even now, when they do not yet know what lies in store for them, they can already sense that there is something odd about his expression, something strained, unnatural... the very kind of something that can make your heart contract with foreboding...

'Well now, my friends,' he declares brightly, 'It seems that there's a visitor to the College whom you'd all be very happy to meet. He is a well-respected sorcerer from Alinor, and an old friend of our Arch-Mage, here to give a few lectures to you young ones. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful...'

'I think I will take over from here, Master Tolfdir'.

He steps from the shadows, tall and thin like the blade of a longsword, with silvery-white hair flowing down his shoulders. The first thing that strikes them about him is his eyes, one sharp and keen, glistening a venomously vivid green from beneath his overhanging brow, and the other milky white, blank, unseeing... and yet tearing right into the very depths of their souls. Tolfdir withdraws, rather sheepishly, and the new arrival begins to speak - and in his voice, there is all the venom of his sighted eye and all the icy cold of his blind one...

'When I agreed to grace you three... Apprentices, ' he pronounces the word with insult-like deliberation, 'With the boon of my knowledge, I could have chosen any subject, due to my undeniable expertise in every magical field. But since you seem to be already receiving education in most schools, through the admirable efforts of your superiors - which will most likely turn out to be wasted - I decided to instruct you in... Alchemy'.

Onmund lets out an involuntary snicker. 'Alchemy? Really? That's not even a real school of magic!'

The Altmer sorcerer's face remains mask-like, but the fingers of his right hand make an ever so slight upward movement. Onmund cries out and rubs his forearm, stung by a lightning burst. The Altmer regards him in silence, his sighted eye narrowing. At length, he gives a curt nod of satisfaction.

'I do not know of the other scholars' disciplinary demands, but in my presence you are not to speak unless spoken to. Any misbehaviour shall be treated accordingly. I promised Arch-Mage Aren to keep you in one piece, so I will not punish you as strictly as I used to punish my other students... young officers of the Thalmor'.

They exchange stunned looks, which the Altmer pretends to ignore.

'Now, to return to the matter at hand. Contrary to what you may foolishly believe, Alchemy forms a vital part of any self-respecting wizard's education. A simple potion can turn a dangerous beast of the wilderness into a limp, helpless ball of fur, vulnerable even to the weakest of spells - and a simple potion can temporarily enhance your abilities, sharpen your perception, shield you from harm, and, most importantly, increase your capacity for magic. Now, you there, Dunmer,' he turns to Brelyna, who shrinks her head into her shoulders. 'I have been told that you are a Telvanni. Care to live up to the glory of the ancestors that your kind likes to brag about so much?'

The tip of Brelyna's nose grows chalky white; her lips move, but no sound is heard. He sneers, jerking his head slightly to get a silky fringe of hair out of his eyes... out of his eye.

'Summon me a Dremora Lord, girl'.

She swallows. 'I... I can't...'
The Altmer's eye flashes a bright, dangerous green; Brelyna starts and adds hurriedly, 'S-serjo...
A spell like that... it requires too much magical energy. I'm not strong enough to cast it...'

He slowly lifts his bony hand to his mouth, as if to conceal a yawn, and then repeats, 'Summon a Dremora Lord'.

J'Zargo, who has so far been quietly scrutinizing the new lecturer with his sly, cat-like eyes, shifts excitedly in his seat, clearly having guessed something that neither Brelyna nor Onmund can understand. The Altmer folds his arms on his chest, both his eyes fixed on Brelyna; beginning to sweat slightly as the combined stare of white and green seems to start melting the skin off her face, she draws a long breath and mouths, 'I'll never be able to do it, serjo... I don't see how...'

J'Zargo's hand shoots into the air; he begins to bounce up and down, desperate to attract the Altmer's attention. But the cold green and white eyes remain deadlocked with the pair of widened, fearful red, which are slowly welling up with tears.

'Summon. A. Dremora. Lord,' the Altmer breathes, leaning forward towards Brelyna. 'Do you find pleasure in being pathetic, girl?'

'J'Zargo knows! J'Zargo knows!' the Khajiit meows triumphantly, no longer able to contain himself. 'With a potion that increases magicka, Brelyna will be able to summon a Dremora Lord! Oh, and J'Zargo will, too! J'Zargo...' he chokes on his last words, as the Altmer, without so much as looking in his direction, sets his whiskers on fire. Luckily, it is a small flame, easily put out with a few puffs.

'Just as I thought,' the Altmer sighs, drawing away from Brelyna, 'Completely and utterly worthless. Savos warned me that I would have much to work with, but this... A dim-witted Nord, a Khajiit know-it-all, and worst of all, a Telvanni that starts to whimper when asked the simplest question. This is going to be the most trying month in my life'.

A whole month - with that... with that... Brelyna chokes on a frustrated sob.

Description
... between monkshood and wolfsbane?

Fan art for TES V: Skyrim.

According to my roleplay, my Altmer OC Aedmar was invited by Savos Aren, who, unlikely though it is, happens to be a friend of his, to the Winterhold College as a guest star lecturer, and since all the schools of magic are already taken by all those wonderful NPCs, I thought, why not make my darling snarky Dovahkiin teach Alchemy? And since I've given him one of those adorable crooked noses, the rest just fell into place...

When he is not battling dragons and just running around Skyrim being fabulous, Aedmar passes his time making the Apprentices' life miserable, to an extent that they start mistakenly believing (hah!) that he is in league with Ancano and plots the downfall of the College. Maybe eventually they'll start blaming him for Aren's death...

Quite naturally, he is particularly fond of victimizing Brelyna, seeing as her skills in magic do not match up with her glorious ancestry. But no, he was not in love with her mother when he was younger. And he washes his hair.

EDIT: Fixed the mixed-up HTML tags.

EDIT EDIT: Found an oldish story of mine that could go quite well with this picture:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tolfdir greets them with a smile - his usual good-natured, amiable smile, it seems... And yet, yet even now, when they do not yet know what lies in store for them, they can already sense that there is something odd about his expression, something strained, unnatural... the very kind of something that can make your heart contract with foreboding...

'Well now, my friends,' he declares brightly, 'It seems that there's a visitor to the College whom you'd all be very happy to meet. He is a well-respected sorcerer from Alinor, and an old friend of our Arch-Mage, here to give a few lectures to you young ones. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful...'

'I think I will take over from here, Master Tolfdir'.

He steps from the shadows, tall and thin like the blade of a longsword, with silvery-white hair flowing down his shoulders. The first thing that strikes them about him is his eyes, one sharp and keen, glistening a venomously vivid green from beneath his overhanging brow, and the other milky white, blank, unseeing... and yet tearing right into the very depths of their souls. Tolfdir withdraws, rather sheepishly, and the new arrival begins to speak - and in his voice, there is all the venom of his sighted eye and all the icy cold of his blind one...

'When I agreed to grace you three... Apprentices, ' he pronounces the word with insult-like deliberation, 'With the boon of my knowledge, I could have chosen any subject, due to my undeniable expertise in every magical field. But since you seem to be already receiving education in most schools, through the admirable efforts of your superiors - which will most likely turn out to be wasted - I decided to instruct you in... Alchemy'.

Onmund lets out an involuntary snicker. 'Alchemy? Really? That's not even a real school of magic!'

The Altmer sorcerer's face remains mask-like, but the fingers of his right hand make an ever so slight upward movement. Onmund cries out and rubs his forearm, stung by a lightning burst. The Altmer regards him in silence, his sighted eye narrowing. At length, he gives a curt nod of satisfaction.

'I do not know of the other scholars' disciplinary demands, but in my presence you are not to speak unless spoken to. Any misbehaviour shall be treated accordingly. I promised Arch-Mage Aren to keep you in one piece, so I will not punish you as strictly as I used to punish my other students... young officers of the Thalmor'.

They exchange stunned looks, which the Altmer pretends to ignore.

'Now, to return to the matter at hand. Contrary to what you may foolishly believe, Alchemy forms a vital part of any self-respecting wizard's education. A simple potion can turn a dangerous beast of the wilderness into a limp, helpless ball of fur, vulnerable even to the weakest of spells - and a simple potion can temporarily enhance your abilities, sharpen your perception, shield you from harm, and, most importantly, increase your capacity for magic. Now, you there, Dunmer,' he turns to Brelyna, who shrinks her head into her shoulders. 'I have been told that you are a Telvanni. Care to live up to the glory of the ancestors that your kind likes to brag about so much?'

The tip of Brelyna's nose grows chalky white; her lips move, but no sound is heard. He sneers, jerking his head slightly to get a silky fringe of hair out of his eyes... out of his eye.

'Summon me a Dremora Lord, girl'.

She swallows. 'I... I can't...'
The Altmer's eye flashes a bright, dangerous green; Brelyna starts and adds hurriedly, 'S-serjo...
A spell like that... it requires too much magical energy. I'm not strong enough to cast it...'

He slowly lifts his bony hand to his mouth, as if to conceal a yawn, and then repeats, 'Summon a Dremora Lord'.

J'Zargo, who has so far been quietly scrutinizing the new lecturer with his sly, cat-like eyes, shifts excitedly in his seat, clearly having guessed something that neither Brelyna nor Onmund can understand. The Altmer folds his arms on his chest, both his eyes fixed on Brelyna; beginning to sweat slightly as the combined stare of white and green seems to start melting the skin off her face, she draws a long breath and mouths, 'I'll never be able to do it, serjo... I don't see how...'

J'Zargo's hand shoots into the air; he begins to bounce up and down, desperate to attract the Altmer's attention. But the cold green and white eyes remain deadlocked with the pair of widened, fearful red, which are slowly welling up with tears.

'Summon. A. Dremora. Lord,' the Altmer breathes, leaning forward towards Brelyna. 'Do you find pleasure in being pathetic, girl?'

'J'Zargo knows! J'Zargo knows!' the Khajiit meows triumphantly, no longer able to contain himself. 'With a potion that increases magicka, Brelyna will be able to summon a Dremora Lord! Oh, and J'Zargo will, too! J'Zargo...' he chokes on his last words, as the Altmer, without so much as looking in his direction, sets his whiskers on fire. Luckily, it is a small flame, easily put out with a few puffs.

'Just as I thought,' the Altmer sighs, drawing away from Brelyna, 'Completely and utterly worthless. Savos warned me that I would have much to work with, but this... A dim-witted Nord, a Khajiit know-it-all, and worst of all, a Telvanni that starts to whimper when asked the simplest question. This is going to be the most trying month in my life'.

A whole month - with that... with that... Brelyna chokes on a frustrated sob.