Unlabelled Skyrim - Time to show you guys my secret stash...

1/19/2018 11:11:00 pm
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Skyrim - Time to show you guys my secret stash...

Time to show you guys my secret stash...

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 06:42 AM PST

Did you... Did you just shoot my head?

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 05:29 AM PST

When Gandalf tells me not to break stuff

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 06:16 AM PST

Feels good

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 02:13 PM PST

Saw this on r/gaming and it made me laugh

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 01:51 PM PST

Okay to kill your mammoth pet? OK ��

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 11:19 PM PST

Anybody know what happened to the mods of this sub

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 02:15 AM PST

Who knew Machete was in Skyrim?

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 04:36 AM PST

So... about this game's marriage

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 08:02 AM PST

I just asked for Lydia's hand, but then I walked by Ysolda and she threw me that bait "It's a fine day with you around." So I gotta have to put on my Mara game and try hooking up with Ysolda.

Put bluntly, I was going out with my soon-to-be bride, and in front of her, asked another girl to get married.

The most hilarious thing is, right afterwards, I came back to Lydia and asked her to marry me again. She was OK with it.

This just shows how rudiment the game mechanic is, but it still causes a good laugh.

submitted by /u/pc_build_01
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It’s 2017 and King Jon Un has unleashed a new elite race of soldiers on America and its allies

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 01:15 PM PST

I made some Soul Gems

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 10:07 PM PST

Poll: What is your Favourite Questline?

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 03:35 AM PST

So I named my Khajit build Mr. Whiskers

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 07:14 PM PST

TIL belethor can be replaced.

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 04:03 PM PST

So I was playing Skyrim today and belethor was killed in a vampire attack. Later on having forgot that he died I went back into his shop. And guess who it took over? Ysolda. Thats right. Our very own little manmoth tusk dildoing Ysolda.

submitted by /u/ADubiousGenius
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An Orc wanted to fight to the death for glory. I'm not sure if this counts.

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 11:26 PM PST

[civil war spoiler] Something you might have overlooked in Korvanjund

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 01:55 PM PST

Well this is awkward

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 09:30 PM PST

NAROG • 2 • What it is to be Orsimer

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 04:41 AM PST

1 • 2 •

Narog gra-Gortwog - her family name self given; taken from the famed hero of her people. Whether she was found, or ripped from the tit of her mother by the bandits who haphazardly raised her, she cannot be certain, but throughout her life she had been subjected to their cruelty. If not for the presence of Drega, the old, no-nonsense Orsimer who once served as the gang's blacksmith; now her trusted travel companion, she is certain that she would have been killed in infancy. Sheltered, with minimal exposure to the Orsimer lifestyle and culture, her only insight into the lives of her people has been through both Drega's anecdotes, and the pieces of literature scattered around the ruins she once called home. This is the documentation of her struggle: a naive Orc's aspiration to become a 'true' Orsimer, and her transition into a life befitting one.

Chapter Two • What it is to be Orsimer

Last Seed, 18th, 4E 201 | Morning

The handwriting heralds a concise profile - its form controlled; the strokes applied with intention and the ink blotted carefully. Some time had passed between the adrenaline fueled encounter of the previous entry and the time of this entries writing. The author sits perched upon a rock; aching, but rested, having spent the night under the canopy of a great fir tree.

Thinking it best we avoid detection until clear of bandit territory, Drega has advised that we travel covertly for now. We take the road less traveled at every opportunity, and what we gain in the exploration of untouched ground, and the viewing of scenic vistas, we pay for with risk of death.

The winding path amidst these trees has proved an arduous trek. The inclination is steep, and there is little margin for error - the roaring of the waterfalls below an ever present reminder of the importance of surefootedness. At some point in our journey, the woodland gave way to a small clearing, and within it, an armed Nord who met us with a gesture of silent resolve: his clenched gauntlet raised, followed by an approving nod. As we made our approach, the unmistakable stench of the long-since-dead crept upon us. At his feet lay the remains of armoured Draugr. Dark abominations.

The Nord was a Vigilant of Stendarr, sworn into servitude to his patron God of Mercy, and tasked with the duty of slaying those that prey on mortals. "They are profane creatures with no hope of redemption. They lure innocents to their deaths and corrupt the souls of all they touch." He spoke of the Daedra, but his description drew a likeness to the bandits from before. He marked upon my map the hall of his order, and suggested that we heed his warning.

"Walk always in the light, or I will drag you to it."

I do know not what will come of it, but perhaps our meeting was an act of fate guiding us towards our destined path, but I cannot be certain. I feel... conflicted, on the matter. Malacath is Daedra, but he was revered by our people long before he was transformed into such. The Daedric prince Boethiah is reviled by our kind, and to dispatch those in his servitude could, I pray, serve as some form of atonement for the crimes of my past. If such crimes can be atoned for.

Their bodies ached. The terrain was rough and un-accommodating, and the constant winds and bends of the mountain path brought upon them an unstomachable nausea, but they had little choice but to press on. They broke fast in the early dawn, and continued on their journey.

We stumbled upon an old Nordic barrow in our descent; a relic of the past, consumed by the legitimate pressures of time. Flora grew between each and every stone. It was then that I understood what the Vigilant was doing there, for from the decrepit ruins swirled a sickening stench, accompanied by an ominous chill which brushed the hairs of my neck as we passed. Drega felt it, too.

Upon reaching flat ground, we met a crossroad, and a sign. Whiterun, or Ivarstead. The road to Ivarstead is long, and the cold winds of the mountains would've had us dead by nightfall. Deeming ourselves ill equipped to deal with such conditions, we had little choice but to make way for Whiterun. At least it removes us from bandit territory. Something about it felt deceitful. Not days ago would be be considered terrors in the lives of the hold's inhabitants, and today we seek refuge amidst them. Windhelm would not take kindly to us, and in Riften we risk re-assimilation with scum.

Last Seed, 18th, 4E 201 | Evening

It was not long before the road gave way to another Nordic ruin; an old watchtower, now inhabited by outlaws. It was all that stood between us and the safety of Whiterun's walls. I insisted that Drega remain hidden while I scaled the opposing hill in order to gain a vantage point. There was no avoiding the tower. The terrain would not allow it. In attempt to bypass it, we waded through the nearby river, but before we knew it, arrows rained upon us.

Under a hail of deadly steel, we fought tooth and nail against the currents; scrambling for our lives onto the opposing riverbank. My armour was heavy, burdened by the weight of sweat and water, and no sooner than I found my footing, did I become aware of the blood, and then, of the pain.

From my arm there protruded the shaft of an arrow, its head lodged deep beneath the skin. I had not the time to assess its severity, but as I clutched the gushing wound, Drega's hand pushed me ever onwards, her relentless force and sheer will to survive made tangible through touch; the tips of her fingers injecting into me a tempered fortitude, and the thrill of battle expressed by her roars reminding me of what it is to be Orsimer. To revel in the vertigo of the brink of death.

Bandits lay waiting for us on the shore, and we met them with a tempered frenzy. One of them was our kind, and the pain which shot through my arm as my axe gashed open his chest was unbearable. We traded blows with gauntlet clad fists; struggling for air as the shallow water submerged us with each stumble. I held him with what strength I had left within me, constricting my arms tightly around his body - the weight of my own pressing the blade of my axe deeper into his chest. The cracks of splintered bone and the suffocated cries of water-filled lungs amalgamated into a sickening choir of hysteria. As the light fled his eyes, he whispered words of a 'good death'. Malacath bearing witness, I had survived, and he had not.

I collapsed into the arms of Drega, and in the distance, as I clutched to her waist as a child would her mother's, I saw on the horizon the glow of great fires emanating from within the halls of Whiterun, and then, all faded to nothingness.

Last Seed, 19th, 4E 201 | Early afternoon

I woke to the harsh aromas of ale and medicinal herbs.The scents were sharp, and invasive, and the slightest of sounds caused a relentless pounding, like the swirling ring of a bell within my ears. Blurred figures filled my vision; their voices spoke in hushed tones. I felt beneath me the softness of a mattress, and across my forehead, the damp warmth of cloth. No sooner had my eyes begun to open did the excruciating pain return. I was drenched in sweat, and without clothes. The pain attacked in waves, overpowering me completely - nauseating and disorienting. Through tightly grit teeth I panted for breath; engaged in a battle against uncontrollable shivers. The arrow was buried deep, and down my arm ran the warm stickiness of blood. For mere moments could I fight the heaviness of my eyes, and caught a glimpse of iron tongs grasping the arrow shaft - the hands which held it edging backwards at an unbearably slow pace. A sharp, acidic pain fizzed from the wound as a bottled liquid was poured over it. Air batted against the gaping wound, and the splash of water, followed by the dull thud of the iron tongs being set aside, lulled me into darkness. As my consciousness faded, a pregnant silence fell upon the room.

"You must conserve your energy," spoke an unfamiliar voice.

"No! She must struggle, and fight. It is the only way." Retorted another; the voice a snarl of recognisable ferocity. A calloused hand brushed my cheek. The touch was delicate, as though handling a flower with decaying petals. "She must."

Last Seed, 19th, 4E 201 | Evening

When I next came to, I experienced a peculiar elation. It was like waking in a dream. Allowing my eyes to remain at rest, I tuned in to my remaining senses. The rhythmic tap of the stirring of a pot; the peaceful crackle of firewood. The sounds were soothing; and in the silence of the room, quite pronounced. The air smelled of spiced mead and the boiling of well seasoned meats, causing my belly to emit a neglected growl. When had I last eaten? For how long have I slept? Where am I? Like the clouds in a Sun's Height sky, the thoughts floated gently from one side of my mind's eye to the other.

A pulsating ache rippled through my arm; the furs of the bed irritating the wound as I rose for the first time since my collapse. My eyelids were heavy, and it was with hesitation that they were slowly lifted.

I lay in the bed of what appeared to be a small farmhouse. Drega stood by the open fire, tending to a pot of stew. She did not acknowledge that I had woke, yet I sensed that she knew. I felt my arm for where the arrow had been: the wound had been dressed, and the cloths wrapped tightly around it were damp with the stickiness of a healing salve.

"Do not touch the wound. It may fester, and you will die."

She did not turn to face me, but there was distress in her voice. Entranced in her rhythmic stirring, she continued. "The arrow hit the bone." A pause ensued - the silence manifesting in both her voice, and the cease of her stirring. I realise now that her fixation was her way coping - her way of distracting herself - as when it stopped, she broke. "If the marrow enters your blood..." in that moment she lashed out, bringing her fists down upon the hanging bar; the clashing chimes of the pots which hung from it ringing loudly throughout the hut. She stood in silence, save her wavered breaths.

"I will fight, and I will live."

Whether satisfied with my defiance, I cannot be certain, but the old Orsimer said nothing, simply returning to the stirring of her pot. I knew not what to say, but I wanted to be close, and I believe she did, too.

At the foot of the bed lay a set of folded clothes, and my axe lay propped against the frame. Carefully, I removed myself from the bed's warm furs, and slipped into the fresh garments. I picked up my axe with my uninjured hand; the familiarity of its weight soothing my unease as I traversed the room. The floors of the hut creaked with each step I took; the bare soles of my feet relieved when they tread upon hide-covered floors of the kitchen area.

I sat by her feet, basking in the warmth of the fire. My boots were already here; their fastenings undone, so as to allow their fur linings to dry off. In the comfortable silence, I returned to focusing on my senses. My fingertips caressed the blade of my axe, taking note of its smooth texture before reaching its edge. It was encrusted with the dried blood of the Orsimer whom I'd killed by the river. The memory was a blur of trance-like frenzy. I re-imagined the scene; the war drum that was my beating heart. The crack of bone. His dying words.

A good death.

submitted by /u/luodieshang
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hmmm

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 05:12 PM PST

Wakey wakey, eggs and prophecy

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 12:14 PM PST

There is something so satisfying about the sneak dsgger slitting throat animation

Posted: 18 Jan 2018 10:18 PM PST

My first playthrough was a two handed barbarian slaughterfest. I had no time or patience for sneaking or the thieves/dark brotherhood quests.

This time, i'm a goddamn khajit nightingale assassin with double daggers with my Sneak and One Handed stats maxed.

I fucking love the feeling of metal gear solid style sneaking up on people and sometimes getting the throat slit animation for a one hit kill. To make it even more satisfying, I made my elven daggers enchanted with soul snatching encantations, so when I assassinate people, i both get the amazing satisfaction of the kill and absorbing their soul.

Yeah, I've got problems.

submitted by /u/CruzAderjc
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This is going to be my first Skyrim experience!

Posted: 19 Jan 2018 03:09 AM PST

So never played before but as a game dev student I've heard it's a masterpiece I should try (never got into an RPG) but I should branch out a bit been in the industry, anyway how excited should I be going into this game for the first time ? Worth the hype ? (Will be on Xbox one)

submitted by /u/lightlysaltedStev
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