Cloud Rest (Mod Authors & Artists)

[wizardmirth]

Hello! I wanted to make a page for mod authors to share their writings and art. This can be either to promote an existing mod, promote an upcoming mod, ask for feedback if it's intended for a mod, or ask for someone to add your work to a mod.

 

You can post art for any game that has modding support. While this may be writing leaned, visual art is of course more than welcome.

 

I will probably edit this top post as I go along but that's it for now. Please feel free to post any questions comments or content here! :D (I will index links to any work here.)

[wizardmirth]

Hey there, I am promoting my last updated Oblivion mod with a part 1 of a little short – only about 1300 words so far. This book can be unlocked in the mod when you complete the “Untaxing the Poor” thief's quest. Or you can see the latest revision of the story here before I add it to the next update for the mod: Black Horse Mailbox

 

(tip: make your browser narrower to read it more like a book page)

 

 

 

Grim Eve, Book 1

~ an Aramorrian fantasy ~

by Harpichello

 

Zerlas stalked the streets of town, finding its cobbled stones empty for the seventh night in a row. He spat out the bitter taste this always left in his mouth and cursed his luck again as it still lingered.

 

Verily, all good luck had seemed to vanish with the living world, when the death of the farmer Percal and his wife Elnora had frightened the townsfolk into early retirement each night. The old couple had been found cleanly beheaded in the square last week, each head taken in a single bloody cut.

 

In the town's estimation, Death had returned to reap their souls. In Zerlas' more educated mind, it was simple and more probable that necromancers from the wild forest nearby were to blame for this--a gang of clever misfits that had used the power of legend to cloud the minds of the simple country folk. Zerlas had come here a few months prior from the big city, to start a new life of pretense and abandon old troubles, and he had heard stories of such necromancers before. And even the pilgrim clerics and traveling merchants seemed to be held dumb by the superstition that abounded here.

 

And so every night for a week since the murders, Zerlas slipped into the leaf-littered streets and alleyways, en-robed in cloak, hood, and scarf, hungering for a good mugging--his most prized service and favored fare. It wasn't even that he needed the gold so much as the taste of the fruit his secret art could bear, so that he could feed on it like Death himself. Though instead of needing souls, Zerlas needed only to catch a single person unawares and take through fear what the victim would not normally give.

 

"I am the Death of Thievery," Zerlas thought, dispassionate. "And the real Death, true or not, is my rival now."

 

Flung fast from this ill-thoughtfulness, Zerlas spied a figure ambling out of the cold post-harvest mist. Tall and lean, it walked slowly towards him like an angel sent out of a dream.

 

"If you are a necromancer then I will kill you," Zerlas thought, "but if you are some poor, hapless wanderer with gold enough to eat then better still." A grin spread across his face, stabbing his cheeks with warmth and ache. Either way he would taste gold or his own blood tonight, he reasoned.

 

Zerlas crouched low against the wall of the alley and waited. To his amazement, a dozen or more coins clinked ahead and Zerlas could see a large pouch swinging at the traveler's side. The only other sound aside from the distant footsteps were the beats of Zerlas' heart thrumming somewhere high up inside his skull, like a small wild animal scrabbling against its sudden constraints.

 

The figure appeared to be an old farmer dressed in overalls, perhaps a late-night tavern-feaster who had missed an earlier opportunity to retreat back to his home, or perhaps one that had simply refused to believe the superstition.

 

Peeling the dagger from his belt, Zerlas bounded at his mark.

 

"Give up the pouch, old man!" he said in his guttural bark, lifting the scarf a little further aloft his nose with his free hand. He didn't expect anyone this old to put up a fight, but the old one did not react in any way that Zerlas had ever seen before.

 

The old man kept walking towards him as if Zerlas was not there, into the point of his knife. Unable to kill for his take because fear was his weapon, Zerlas turned the blade in, striking out at the man's stomach with the pommel of his dagger. His hand flew through the form of the old farmer as if he were made of air.

 

"What's this," Zerlas thought, taken by the chilling revelation of passing through what his eyes told him was solid. The old man followed through without the slightest sign of hindrance, moving past Zerlas in a cold sheaf of wind like a hundred winter nights.

 

* * *

 

Like one-hundred winter nights...

 

Zerlas had just managed to swallow the frost fall long enough to get himself home somewhere amidst the sudden winter chill felt surging through his chest.

 

After that there had been cobbled streets, spent dizzy with the "rogue" – a term he had developed with friends in his younger years chasing drinks and wenches. It had meant that they had gone running from a quite unexpected encounter, both demolished and uneven from the monstrous event, however foul it had been. Zerlas knew that he was not a perfect man, and then knowing so, once retched beside a barrel at some hapless soul's place along the way.

 

"I'm still feel ill," Zerlas thought after wiping his mouth. "And so I must still be alive."

 

And then later, much to his succeeded efforts, there had been the inn – the secret design of his plan. There he had gained modest employ as a guardian of the establishment, only to prey upon the Cultists of Death--

 

--They had come here, not many years ago, proud and loud and full of the rough country. And yet they had not known how they had sold their own worth for the sad glitter of some clueless reprise. They had not known enough and were not worthy of his investigation. And yet they cry their thoughts like the worse perversions of country harmonies in all the farmland towns and barrows - far from the tighter grip of the king's capitol.

 

"Excuse me, sir Zerlas, but why is your back quite to the door?" Briala the songstress and barmaiden asked him with a furious confusion.

 

"Huh?" Zerlas scanned around, music and talk mute to his ears only, elven but to the nub, those sore thumbs in dreary corners.

 

"I think we're done here," Zerlas swayed as he swaggered further in and slapped his favorite local bard hindquarter so briskly that she shrieked and twittered.

 

Before he knew it, Briala served him in a tankard of the ale's finest, dressing him in it's cold and foamy contents.

<p>

"Zerlas, what in the Nine Hells is wrong with you?!" she demanded.

 

"You know, I don't know," Zerlas answered, looking strangely at himself and this mess. He was not ashamed for he knew that it was not him, nor drink - he had not touched a drop this night until he was now wearing some of it dripping from off the dark curls of his hair - and peeled back his wet hood.

 

Blarney, the round-bellied innkeeper laughed uproariously through the sudden silence from behind the bar, his ripples quivering about. The few latenighter-goers scrounging for drink could only look on in silent disbelief and confusion. And then Blarney suddenly quieted realizing something.

 

"That tankard has been paid for already, yes?"

 

Zerlas winced and side-mouthed silent curses, fumbling for a lesser coin from his inside pouch - tied to his belt and tucked in his pants in cutpurse-defiant manner. Normally this would have been a skillful maneuver, fluid and magical, but loss of coin could often ruin his grace and make him like another miserable and bumbling tax-payer. He fumbled with the coin and then forced it into Briala's hand, her jaw hung low.

 

This was not the Zerlas they had come to know these past few months when the corn was still being planted. Verily, this was not the Zerlas that he had known himself! He had never been one to invest much thought into odd things, but here he was, dragging his wet and cold self towards the far bar where Blarney met him with a towel, handing it to him with much of his usual indifference.

 

"What's all the fuss, lad?" Blarney asked hushed.

 

The innkeeper consoled a concerned customer at a table down the way with a smile and nod. He then leveled an arm on the bar, leaning toward Zerlas in close confidence.

 

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

 

 

[wizardmirth]

Are there no mod authors who have something to share?

[daros1990]

 

A drawing inspired by skyrim characters ; I wanted to apply for skywind project, but it seems that they have full team for this position.

[wizardmirth]

This is great! I could have gotten into drawing at an early age but wanted to learn the guitar instead.

 

And if skywind is full of artists then they must have gotten all the [concept] art done already even though it's still not released....

 

https://tesrenewal.com/skywind-faq

Edited December 23, 2018 by wizardmirth