ghowriter

she's from Toril (Faerun) game world.... i find it hard to play her because I am incapable of making her appear as she should which negates the roleplay... as for the belonging, i'll say this, after killing the dragon by the western tower and returning to balgruf and he made her thane she wanted to scream... he called her a criminal then askes her to get the dragonstone then asks for her protection then makes her thane... this doesnt say much for skyrim if someone they consider a crminial can achieve elevated status... then there is lydia and her "it's a position of honor" crap... i gave her the axe of whiterun and left her in the castle -- let her be thane

it is what it is... i dont do the marriage in skyrim because not one npc i met in game is worthy of my sioned...

Sioned (custom race not specifying), she was transported to skyrim by magic means and dumped uncerimoniously... found by imperials taken to helgen to execution for appearing to ne daedra... she was against the imperials and would have sided with ulfric had he not called her a criminal... she refuses to help either side in the civil war and hopes both bigoted sides destroy each other... she destroyed the dark brotherhood after being abducted and taken to the shak and told to murder one of the three (she killed the assassin instead leaving the resd tied up to die or live if they were smart enough to escape); she hasn't yet confronted alduin but will likey destroy the fiend... she's about to confron the thieves guild and i have not decided which way she will go...

First time I saw this I thought the game was recording all the NPC I pickpocket gold from. Had the Whiterun captain guy send thugs out to me for the measly 60 gold I nicked from his pocket. How rude. I pickpocketed him again and left his contract with the thugs behind. Be funny if he could react to that, lol.

I am willing to pay someone to do some texture edits for me as I am unable to do it myself without destroying the look of the character. I want to give my custom race an appearance similar to the attached images and will pay to get it done. I do not want the argonian textures so please dont tell me to just use those. The spots on the argonians may supposed to be scales but look nothing like scales. Shoot me a message if you're interested. The attached images are not copyrighted as they were made by Microsoft's AI copilot. Of the three, I like the last one best (unless this forum changes the order, lol).

I cannot guess what could cause this but I had a mod doing something odd on me so I loaded my entire LO into SSEEdit and was able to work out which mod was doing the anomalous thing. Maybe something similar can work for you. Mine was giving me a perk and I didnt know which mod was doing it or why. Good luck.

why then is the GetIsRace on the conditions? and why does my specific custom race always fail this? Just as an example, my custom race has a perk and i had a condition on the perk to make sure the player was actually playing the race and I used GetIsRace MyRace == 1 which then turns pink which indicates an issue already. I am told pink lettering is not good. Now this condition was on the perk itself so the game failed this and didnt apply the perk to MyRace at the beginning even though I had selected MyRace and created the character. This was the reason I was in the console check the player.getrace in the first place. Also, no matter where I place the condition, it always turns pink. Some might tell me to check my spelling of my race but this wouldnt help since the race is selected from a list. My only thought here is that I am missing something needed for race compatibility that remains hidden from my, obviously, limited understanding of modding Skyrim SE. To get around this quirk I now use GetPCIsRace MyRace == 1 which never turns pink and since my race is not available for NPCs it does the job well enough. It's not like anyone would ever want to play the race I converted anyway. While I would like to fix GetIsrace, it is not a priority for me. I have to learn how to make quests which I've been avoiding like a plague but must be done to spread the race's abilities out over leveling. (If there is someone who wouldnt mind creating the quest for me, I would be very, very, VEERRRRRY interested.) EDIT: I just re-read your post Ishara, specifically, the mention of condition functions... i need a cuff on the back of my head for missing that one...

oh... so it's a compared value... that explains it entirely... and the could not parse this line would be a syntax error in Basic. Silly console should just return missing parameter, would have been self explanatory thank you so very much I have to disagree. I have no mod issues whatsoever; the info you helped with is for my personal custom race mod. As for SKSE, I have no mods that require it so don't need it but this is by design. I check a mod requirements and if I see SKSE i close the page and move on. I tried three times to use SKSE because I wanted to try RaceMenu, SkyUI and MCM helper(?) and could only ever get RaceMenu to show up though no text was in the menu so it was a wasted effort. And I spent too much time making sure it was eliminated from my files so I will not install it again. Personal choice.

I am trying to test my custom race in the game. I am told that the console command "player.getrace" should return my player's race but no, it instead returns "Could not parse this line." My search of this forum and Google and Bing turned up nothing. I am not using any mod organizer and will not even consider it. I am not using SKSE and, again, will not even consider it. I also tried to check if my character has a specific perk, my race's racial perk, but that returns no information. The console even tells me my per ID is not in the form of perk. I checked everything and then double checked and (1) my race is on the list of races and I can select her and configure her; (2) when she enters helgen keep with Ralof and after he removes her bindings she has all the abilities the perk applies to the race including a stagnant magic effect on her skin and (3) the game still will not parse the player.getrace or give the form id for the perk... the entire point of checking this perk info in game is to try to ascertain the perk owner so I can adjust certain perk entry points accordingly or to verify that they are being applied accordingly. SSEEdit tells me my perk form is 0100184E but when I enter player.hasperk 0100184E in the console I get told that the script couldnt compile which has me thinking my fresh install has an issue (my CK cannot compile any new script and ALWAYS gives an error when checking existing scripts --- sone nonsense about a missing script that cannot be missing since I just reinstalled everything in order to remove SKSE. I had Steam verify game files just in case and it verified successfully. This issue has been ongoing since I reinstaleld Skyrim SE and I really need to fix it, please. I won't, however, install any mod organizer os SKSE so if that's your final answer, then don't bother. I will simply uninstall and shelve Skyrim as unplayable.

things like this make the skyrim game make so sense, lol why on Nirn would they base spell effects on real time? makes no sens to me at all...

like they said (if there are updated version of the mods you're using)

Gather 'round, my dear listeners, for tonight I weave a tale of valor the like Skyrim has only known in legend! Tonight I tell the tale of Sir Reginald and his stalwart party. Their mission was decreed by the long dead Jarl Fancypants who may not have been the best Jarl but was always the best dressed. Jarl Fancypants had decreed a bounty on a nasty giant who had taken to fling mammoth dung over the walls of our fair city. Piles of the foul smelling stuff would rain down upon the citizens who forced Jarl Fancypants to sign the warrant at the point of fifty spears. Yes, dear friends, this giant was no ordinary giant. He was a legend amongst his normally peaceful brethren. His name? No one knows but legend holds that he was called "The Muck Tosser!" Answering the call for heroes was none other than Skyrim's own Sir Reginald Haffwitz, knight of some unimportant hold (no relations to any of the Winterhold Haffwitz nor the Haffwitz of Riften nor any of the other Haffwitz of Skyrim) and his wife Lady Gwendolyn the Bard, a finely shaped woman (well endowed was an understatement for the fine lady). Accompanying the duo was Throgg, the knight's attendant, a barbarian orsimer who had a secret crush on the lady bard and last was Eldrid the rogue, the shortest Nord in all Skyrim's history, who at 4' 3" was really, really short. And so, under the moonless sky, they crept toward the giant camp. The air was thick with anticipation—and something else. A scent so vile, it could curdle milk at fifty paces. The giant's lair loomed ahead, a mountain of discarded cabbage leaves and half-eaten mammoth legs. The smell was foul to our intrepid Knight and his wife. It reminded the orc of home. Poor Eldrid couldn't smell it because he was, well, really very short and the smell was just above his head. Sir Reginald: "Steady, comrades! We approach the lair of this giant. Remember, we're not just here for the bounty; we're here for the sake of all Skyrim!" Lady Gwendolyn: "Fear not, I've penned a ballad for this occasion," she said as she winked at the orc, "and it's called 'Ode to the Odor'!" Throgg: Feeling a surge of courage from the bard's wink, "Enough yammering, bard! Let's skewer this giant and be done with it. I suddenly want to visit you later." Eldrid: "I tell you, I ain't smelling nothing! What's it smell like?" As if on a cue from the diminutive rogue the camp silence was suddenly disrupted by a thunderous noise. It shook the trees causing birds to take to the air. It shook the ground causing pebbles to flip around. It shook the very air causing a breeze on an otherwise still night. Ah, my dear listeners, lean in closer, for the tale takes a twist more twisted than a skeever's tail. As our Fellowship stood there another smell soon overpowered the previous stench. Our intrepid quartet breathed in the malodorous odor and soon, their eyes watering, their nostrils quivering, and their dignity hanging by a thread, they each made a seemingly random inappropriate quip. Sir Reginald, ever the gallant knight, raised his sword and declared, "Fear not, we shall face this noxious nemesis head-on! For honor! For Skyrim! And for the sweet scent of victory!" Lady Gwendolyn, her eyes streaming from the stench, strummed her lute and sang: *"Oh, Muck Tosser, Muck Tosser, your bowels churn with wrath, Your farts could topple towers, your burps could clear a path. But we stand firm and undeterred, For we've faced worse smells at the local cheese curd."* Throgg, muscles bulging and stomach rumbling, bellowed, "This reminds me of ma's troll soup! And it makes me hungry for some bardic pie!" And Eldrid, short little Eldrid, bless his delicate soul, whispered angrily, "I ain't smelling anything! But I'm feeling something...something wet and warm on my head!" But before they could advance, the giant unleashed his ultimate weapon: the **Supersonic SBD** (Silent But Deadly). The air gasped, birds fell from the sky, and the very fabric of reality quivered. And our stalwart heroes dropped like flies, except for Eldrid, who was still too short to be affected by the blast. He looked up and saw the giant looming over him, grinning wickedly. He realized too late that the wet and warm thing on his head was not the giant's dung, but his tongue. And with that, the giant swallowed him whole, ending his short and smelly life. And that, my dear listeners, is the tale of Sir Reginald and his stalwart party. A tale of courage, romance, humor, and tragedy. A tale that will live on in the annals of Skyrim's history. A tale that will make you think twice before you venture into the wilds of this land. And a tale that will make you appreciate the fresh air of your homes. Thank you for listening, and may the Divines bless you all.

The Wild Smite Spell: A Capricious Concoction In the shadowed alcoves of the Arcane Academy, where scrolls whisper forgotten secrets and novice mages mix potions with trembling hands, lies the tome The Wild Smite Spell: a brew of meteorological mischief and electrifying absurdity. Handle it as you would a mead-steeped Nord: with equal parts caution and curiosity. I. The Incantation The Words: "By the tempest's caprice, I invoke The Wild Smite!" The Gesture: The caster must flings their arms wide as if embracing the very storm they're about to unleash. II. The Unpredictable Effects The Weather Whimsy: the spell may create any of these effects or may not. Rain Dance: The skies darken, and raindrops patter down. The bandit grumbles, slipping on mud, while the dragon flaps its wings in annoyance. "Really?" it roars. "I just had my scales polished." Snow Squall: Flurries whirl, frosting beards and fur alike. The necromancer curses, her skeletal minions shivering. "I didn't sign up for this," she mutters. "I'm a lich, not a snowman." Hail Havoc: Ice pellets descend, denting helmets and dentures. The thief ducks, pockets bulging with stolen gems. "Well," he grins, "free ice for my mead." The Caster's Quandary: the spell may or may not create one of these effects. Fizzle Folly: The spell fizzles. The caster's eyebrows raise. "Did I forget the incantation?" they mutter. "Did this scroll just yawn?" Bolt Backfire: Lightning zigzags from the caster's fingertips—straight into their own chest. They stagger, hair smoking, and giggle uncontrollably. "Note to self," they wheeze, "avoid self-inflicted smiting." II. The Use Warning Fizzling: The scroll's tiny print reveals the truth: This spell has a 50% chance of fizzling leaving the caster looking like a soggy bard at a tavern brawl. Lightning Roulette: Even smaller print readable only with magnification or an enlargement spell: 200% chance to smite self. The Unwritten Rule: Never cast it during a dragon attack. Dragons have no sense of humor and tend to interpret absurdity as an invitation to barbecue. IV. The Legacy And so, dear adventurer, wield the Wild Smite Spell with mirth and meteorology. For in its chaos, we find both calamity and comedy—a reminder that Skyrim's weave is as intricate as a Khajiit's fur but with less fleas. May your laughter echo through the halls of Sovngarde, and may your boots remain dry, even in a hailstorm. --- *Disclaimer: The author accepts no responsibility for accidental giggling fits, sudden levity, or unexpected chicken impersonations.* .

**Title: "Love, Trolls, and a Nord Named Bjorn"** --- In the frost-kissed land of Skyrim, where dragons roared and mead flowed like a river of questionable decisions, there lived a hero named **Bjorn the Baffling**. Now, Bjorn wasn't your typical hero. He had the chiseled jaw of a Dwemer statue and the intelligence of a mudcrab. His battle cry? "For Thalos!"—which was a bit awkward, considering Thalos had been outlawed by the Thalmor. But Bjorn wasn't one to let logic get in the way of a good chant. One day, a nobleman named Lord Fancypants summoned Bjorn to his opulent manor. Lord Fancypants had a problem: his collection of rare relics lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. Specifically, he needed the Amulet of Excessive Elegance, rumored to be hidden in the crypt of Barrow McFancypants (no relation to Lord Fancypants, of course). And so, Bjorn set forth, his trusty sword Shinyslicer strapped to his side. The crypt was dank, dark, and smelled like a skeever's breath. Bjorn's torch flickered, revealing ancient runes that said, "Beware of draugr, and also gluten." Down, down he descended, past cobwebs and the occasional disgruntled ghost. Finally, he reached the last chamber—a cavernous space with a single, flickering torch. And there, sitting on a pile of bones, was the most unexpected sight: a female cave troll named Gertrude. Gertrude was no ordinary troll. She wore a flower crown and had a penchant for poetry. Her tusks were filed to a dainty point, and her eyes sparkled like moonlit mud puddles. When she saw Bjorn, she gasped, revealing a missing tooth. **Gertrude: "Oh, my stars and sweetrolls! A handsome Nord! Are you here to slay me or sweep me off my moss-covered feet?" **Bjorn: "Uh, greetings, fair Gertrude. I am Bjorn the Baffling, seeker of relics and occasional wearer of mismatched socks. I seek the Amulet of Excessive Elegance. Have you seen it?" **Gertrude: "Ah, the Amulet! It lies atop that pile of skulls. But first, answer me this riddle: Why did the chicken cross the road?" **Bjorn: "To get to the other side?" **Gertrude: "No, silly Nord! It was to escape the Thalmor tax collectors. They're ruthless, you know." Bjorn climbed the skull pile, retrieved the amulet, and presented it to Gertrude. She gasped, her eyes wide with admiration—or maybe it was indigestion after munching on the giant frost spider earlier that morning. **Gertrude: "Oh, Bjorn! This amulet is more exquisite than a sweetroll dipped in honey! But before you take it, there's something you must know." **Bjorn: "Speak, fair Gertrude. My heart flutters like a startled mudcrab." **Gertrude: "I am cursed, Bjorn, cursed to fall in love with any who enters this crypt. It's terribly inconvenient. But you, with your rugged beard and questionable life choices, have stolen my heart." **Bjorn: "Wait, you're not going to eat me?" **Gertrude: "Eat you? Oh, Bjorn, I'd rather nibble on a sprig of thistle. Let us be together! We'll roam the tundra, recite bad poetry, and share our deepest fears. Mine is spiders. Yours?" **Bjorn: "I fear commitment and accidentally stepping on goat droppings." And so, beneath the flickering torch, Bjorn and Gertrude pledged their love. They left the crypt hand in claw, Bjorn wearing the Amulet of Excessive Elegance and Gertrude humming a trollish love ballad. And Skyrim? Well, it never saw a romance quite like theirs. For in a land of dragons and destiny, sometimes love blooms in the unlikeliest of places—even atop a pile of skulls. And they lived awkwardly ever after. --- *Disclaimer: No trolls were harmed in the making of this. The Thalmor, however, remain deeply offended.*

That explains it. I dont have that version. I dont want to be forced to play online.

will it show in game a as 2 hours or 4 minutes though?

lol, i never read met that character in Skyrim; i seldom get past the greybeards before starting over

thank you so much; this helps a lot

Ah, my dear friend, gather 'round the flickering fire, for I shall regale you with the scandalous tale of “The Lusty Argonian Maid: Volume XII.” A saga so steamy, it could melt a Frost Troll’s heart—or at least defrost its toes. In the frost-kissed land of Tamriel, where dragons soared and sweetrolls were the currency of choice, there lived an Argonian maiden named Lifts-Her-Tail. She was no ordinary lizardfolk; her scales shimmered like moonlit water, and her tail had more curves than a Dwemer blueprint. Now, Lifts-Her-Tail had a secret—a passion that burned hotter than a forge in Blackreach. She yearned for adventure, romance, and a partner who could appreciate her unique talents. And so, she embarked on a quest to find the legendary Volume XII of the infamous series. Act I: The Forbidden Library In the dimly lit archives of the Arcane University, Lifts-Her-Tail discovered a dusty tome. Its cover bore the title: “The Lusty Argonian Maid: Volume XII.” She blew off the cobwebs, and the book practically purred in her hands. Act II: The Sultry Scholar Within its pages, Lifts-Her-Tail read of a dashing scholar named Professor Quillius, whose inkwell wasn’t the only thing he dipped. His spectacles fogged as he deciphered ancient runes, but his heart raced when he glimpsed Lifts-Her-Tail across the library stacks. Professor Quillius: “My dear Argonian, your scales are like polished emeralds, and your tail—oh, your tail! It coils like a forbidden scroll. Shall we conjugate some irregular verbs together?” Lifts-Her-Tail: “Oh, Professor, I’ve been longing for a direct object. But beware! My participles dangle dangerously.” Act III: The Enchanted Bathhouse Their love blossomed like a Nirnroot at dawn. They rendezvoused in secret—behind the alchemy lab, under the moonlit waterfall, and once, in an enchanted bathhouse where the steam swirled like desire. Professor Quillius: “Lifts-Her-Tail, let us conjugate wildly! Our love shall be the greatest allegory since Pelinal Whitestrake and his enchanted helmet.” Lifts-Her-Tail: “Oh, Professor, your metaphors are as tangled as a skeever’s nest. But yes, let us conjugate until our subjects agree.” Act IV: The Forbidden Ritual But their passion had consequences. In a hidden glade, they performed the forbidden ritual—the Argonian Knot. It involved mud, moon sugar, and a sprig of lavender. The earth trembled, and the Hist trees whispered ancient secrets. Hist Tree: “Lifts-Her-Tail, you shall bear a child—a half-scholar, half-lusty Argonian. His name? Quillius-Tail.” And so, dear friend, the scandalous tale of “The Lusty Argonian Maid: Volume XII” ends. But fear not! For in the next volume, Quillius-Tail embarks on a quest to find the lost Amulet of Excessive Elegance while juggling three love interests and a basket of sweetrolls. Remember, my friend, in the world of Tamriel, love knows no bounds—whether you’re a Dragonborn, a Daedric Prince, or an Argonian with a penchant for conjugation. Disclaimer: The events and characters in this tale are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual Argonians, scholars, or enchanted bathhouses is purely coincidental. The Hist trees, however, are real, and they’re judging us all.

Listen well, my friends, for this tale unfolds in the shadowed crypts of Skyrim—a place where the dead slumber, and the living tread lightly, lest they awaken wrathful spirits or, in this case, wrathful winds. Our heroine, **Elysia Frostblade**, was as dainty as a snowflake pirouetting in a blizzard. Her Nord blood sang of mead halls and epic sagas, but her delicate constitution yearned for adventure beyond the meager offerings of mead and mammoth cheese. By her side marched **Grukka the Gassy**, a half-orc, half-high-elf hybrid—a concoction so improbable that even the gods raised their eyebrows. Together, they ventured into the ancient barrow known as **Draugr's Delight**. Its entrance yawned like a tombstone's grin, and the air clung to secrets older than the Dwemer's schematics. The walls whispered forgotten spells, and the cobwebs clung to the ceiling like reluctant memories. **Elysia** adjusted her fur-lined hood, her breath visible in the chill. "Grukka," she murmured, "we must tread silently. The draugr slumber, and their snores could wake the very dead." **Grukka**, her tusks gleaming in the torchlight, grunted. "Silent as a shadow, lass. But beware—I had a hearty breakfast of horker stew and moon sugar. My innards churn like a Dwemer steam engine." And so, they crept deeper into the crypt, their boots brushing dust from the stone floor. The walls bore runes, each etching a warning or a recipe for pickled skeever tails. **Elysia** read one aloud: "Beware the wrath of the ancient dead, for their vengeance is—" But before she could finish, **Grukka** clenched her fists and let loose a sound that would echo through the ages. It began as a low rumble, like distant thunder. The torches flickered, and the cobwebs quivered. The draugr shifted in their sarcophagi, dreaming of Nordic feasts and mead-soaked revelry. And then it happened—the **Fart of Ages**. It started as a mournful moan, rising through the octaves like a bard tuning a lute. The very stones trembled, and the draugr sat up, their hollow eyes wide with disbelief. One ancient warrior dropped his sword, which clattered like a drunken bard falling off a tavern stool. **Elysia** clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes watering. "By Kyne's frozen braids, **Grukka**, what have you—" **Grukka** grinned, her tusks parting like a castle gate. "Fear not, lass! This is my secret weapon—the **Orcish Windstorm**! It clears dungeons faster than a Thalmor purge." The draugr staggered, clutching their spectral noses. Their millennia-old dignity crumbled like stale bread. One whispered, "Is this the end? Are we to be defeated by... flatulence?" But **Elysia**, ever resourceful, seized the moment. "Draugr!" she cried, her voice echoing. "We come not to desecrate your tombs but to seek the lost Scroll of Breezy Breeches! Aid us, and we shall spare you further auditory assault!" The draugr exchanged glances, then nodded solemnly. They pointed down a dark corridor, where spider webs clung like regret. And so, our heroes pressed on, guided by the lingering scent of **Grukka's** legacy. And that, my friends, is how **Elysia Frostblade** and **Grukka the Gassy** retrieved the Scroll of Breezy Breeches, saved Skyrim from an eternity of draugr flatulence, and earned a place in bardic ballads across the land. So remember, when you venture into ancient crypts, beware not only the undead but also the half-orcs with a penchant for pungency. For their farts, like their hearts, are both mighty and mysterious.

Ah, the Fits of Laughter spell—a whimsical creation that dances on the precipice of hilarity and peril! Allow me to weave its incantation into the annals of Skyrim’s arcane lore: The Arcane Scroll of “Fits of Laughter” I. Origins In the dusty chambers of the College of Winterhold, where frostbite spiders weave their frosty webs and novice mages accidentally turn their brooms into cheese wheels, a forgotten tome was unearthed. Its title? Laughter Unleashed: A Practical Guide to Pranks and Perils. II. The Spellcraft A. Ingredients Illusionary Feather: Plucked from the wings of a daydreaming griffon. Ticklewort Herb: Found only in moonlit glades where giggling sprites frolic. B. Incantation "Feather light, mirthful might, Whispered chuckles in the night. Tickle the bone, unleash the glee, Fits of laughter, set them free!" III. The Casting A. Gesture The caster extends their hand, fingers splayed like a mischievous jester. B. Verbal Component “Tee-hee-hee!” IV. The Effects Upon casting, the following cascade of hilarity ensues: Target Selection: The spell homes in on the nearest unsuspecting soul—be it bandit, dragon, or overly serious guard. Illusionary Feather Manifests: An ethereal feather materializes, its downy plumes shimmering with mischief. Tickle the Funny Bone: The feather dances toward the target’s ribcage, tracing invisible circles. The victim’s stern expression wavers. The Laughter Unleashed: The target erupts into fits of laughter. It begins as a polite chuckle, then escalates to snorts, guffaws, and full-blown belly laughs. Tears stream down their face, and their knees buckle. The Contagion: Nearby creatures—wolves, mudcrabs, even the occasional Dwemer automaton—join in. The very air vibrates with mirth. V. The Cautionary Note A. Mortal Risks Four out of five wizards have indeed met their demise: Some choked on their own laughter. Others were trampled by mammoths during their convulsions. A few vanished into alternate dimensions, where they now serve as court jesters to Daedric Princes. B. Safe Distance Stand back at least 20 yards. The contagion spreads faster than a bard’s tale of lost love. VI. The Legacy And so, dear adventurer, wield the Fits of Laughter spell with care. For in its echoes, we find both folly and freedom—a reminder that even in Skyrim’s darkest dungeons, a snicker can pierce the shadows. May your foes laugh until their armor rattles, and may your own chuckles echo across the Throat of the World. Disclaimer: The author assumes no responsibility for accidental giggling fits, sudden levity, or unexpected chicken impersonations.

Ah, “The Flatulent Nord”—a truly unique and aromatic addition to the world of Skyrim! In the frosty land of Tamriel, where dragons soar and ancient ruins await, there now exists a legendary Nord whose presence is both feared and… well, smelled. Let us delve into the tale of this extraordinary character: The Ballad of “The Flatulent Nord” In the heart of Skyrim’s frozen tundra, where mead flows like a mighty river and warriors clash under the watchful gaze of Sovngarde, there arose a hero—or perhaps an anti-hero—whose deeds were not sung by bards. His name? Gromar the Gassy. Chapter I: Origins Gromar hailed from the small village of Stinkhelm, nestled between the pines and the hot springs. From a young age, he exhibited an unusual talent: the ability to produce noxious fumes that could fell a mammoth at fifty paces. His parents, both blacksmiths, tried to keep his condition a secret, but the villagers soon caught wind of it (pun intended). Chapter II: The Unwanted Hero As Gromar grew, so did his flatulence. His mere presence at the local tavern could clear the room faster than a dragon attack. The bards sang songs of his exploits, albeit with their noses pinched shut. His battle cries were less “Fus Ro Dah” and more “Pffft Ro Pah.” Chapter III: The Quest One fateful day, Gromar received a summons from the Jarl of Whiterun. A foul stench had enveloped the city, and crops withered in its wake. The Jarl suspected a Daedric plot or perhaps a necromancer’s curse. But no—it was Gromar, on a diet of cabbage and moon sugar. Chapter IV: The Epic Battle Armed with his rusty iron sword and a belly full of beans, Gromar set forth. His enemies fell not by blade or spell, but by the sheer force of his emissions. Draugr crumbled, bandits surrendered, and even the mighty Alduin paused mid-roar. Chapter V: The Legacy And so, “The Flatulent Nord” became a legend. His deeds echoed through the halls of High Hrothgar, where the Greybeards debated whether his Thu’um was truly Dragonborn or just indigestion. The bards composed a new song: "Oh, Gromar the Gassy, our hero so bold, His rear end a weapon, his tale to be told. From Riften to Solitude, his fame did expand, A symphony of butt trumpets across all the land." Epilogue And thus, dear adventurer, if you encounter a foul odor on your travels—a scent that combines mudcrab dung, troll sweat, and a hint of despair—know that “The Flatulent Nord” is near. Approach with caution, for his gas knows no bounds. May your journey through Skyrim be filled with laughter, adventure, and the occasional nose plug.

So i created a custom passive spell and everything works in the game except the duration. The spell duration is supposed to be two in-game hours but the game engine applied it and the active effect shows 2 hours left but it's been active well over two in-game hours. Would someone please explain how the spell duration works? Seems it runs on real hours instead of game hours and this is uncool. Thanks to all.

Besides, I only installed racemenu to try to recreate the face in my first post which I determined is impossible (for me) due to (my) lack of artistic talent.

didnt see this... i only said i wasnt asking for help fixing the issue because reinstalling everything already fixed it... sorry for the confusion there