Hey, Ten. Sorry it took me a while to reply. Trying to edit this on mobile was a pain so I had to wait until the weekend so I can edit it on my PC. Anyways, green texts will represent my edits, and I will also my thoughts and inputs in brackets.
*--Trynhild Earth-Turner, Ackerman of Bleakrock Outpost--*
The young, red-haired, gruff woman was, to put it lightly, pissed. Trynhild looked as Nord as they come; she was naturally large-bodied and heavy-faced. Normally, she’d have her usual pride at this she was almost the archetypical Atmoran (of course, no modern race of man could hope to reach their fabled height) (This line feels a bit redundant in my opinion) and embraced what most men and elves would find a brutish, and somewhat savage appearance.
Unfortunately, (remove comma) she was on a pathetically small island, chock-full of Nords that who also admired these aspects. Not to mention that she was also just a simple farmer; something that’d never give her entrance to Sovngarde.
The Hall of Valor was home for fighters, for war-drummers, for skalds, (replace comma with semi-colon) for those who did something worth a damn. Yet her mother, Aera, insisted that Trynhild (make sure the character's name stays consistent.) settle down and ‘quench her fire’; that pursuing violence would do her no good. She managed to convince her and her father Denskar--mostly the latter--(Pro tip: Use the 'strikethrough' function instead of a double dash if you want to make that long 'Em' dash) to at least let her apprentice under the local blacksmith, Maesa.
It had been a great decision. Honestly, she could use some time at the anvil and forge. Hammering metal was, as it turned out, a fantastic way to quell her rage. As for today though however, she’d decided to let her fury take hold of her.
She’d been having many problems lately with a fisher-lad, (remove comma) named Otroggar. He seemed to think Trynhild was his prize, something he deserved. Naturally Obviously, Trynhild disagreed with much disgust, and after another round slew of his filthy comments, she felt that he what Otroggar deserved to was a knuckle sandwich to the face be brutalized. But, the locals--her mother, especially--disagreed. The locals who were at the scene were appalled when they saw this, especially Trynhild's mother who also happened to be there.
As a result , the locals She was sent Trynhild out to “collect some firewood”, which was a polite way of them telling her to, translated to “go to the wilds and stay ‘till sundown”. Trynhild begrudgingly did as she was told, and was already fuming over the thought of her future punishments.
“Damn you, Otroggar, you teat-sucking n’wah.” she thought muttered. (it was worthy of note that Trynhild was quite imaginative with crass language, and the recent arrival of Dark Elf settlers had further expanded her vocabulary brought many new insults).
She imagined her axe splitting the bastard’s skull instead of a hunk chunk of wood, which did at least somewhat helped her work faster. After a while, But she then sighed, Trynhild sighed, looking down at the amount of wood she had chopped, and then up towards the sky sun’s position. She had chopped enough wood for the hearth-fires, and there was some time to waste. And she was near the sea, Also, the sea was near; a place which always seemed to soothe her. Still fuming, she still realized it was probably best to not return just yet; punching Otroggar again would be unwise.
She walked towards the rocky beach, lost in her angry thoughts. Still, the sounds of the surf were, as always, calming. And she took small comfort in the fact that, even though Bleakrock Island truly was a pale comparison to mainland Skyrim, she at least knew the land well. She cast her view over the familiar black stones leading to the icy water...
...and then, to her shock, she saw the corpse of a man sprawled out on the beach (added italics for further emphasis on the line).
*--Valheim Wave-Sight, Coldharbour Escapee--*
The Worm Cult was nothing, if not persistent.
Valheim deflected magical blasts with his ward spell own ward spells as the arrows of from his comrades behind him flew past him in retaliation. The bastard necromancers had invaded Silgrad, striking directly at their holy temple of Jhunal. Valheim was not a traditional Imperial preacher; their ‘Julianos’, while still a God of Logic, was far too rigid, too structured. But he was devoted to his Seminary--he was not the head priest for nothing--and these heathens cared not for any Divine. The Wise Owl’s scriptures and formulae had been taken by the other priests to be safeguarded, but he’d rather not lose the temple itself. Not to mention his own life.
He drew his warhammer, seeing the cobbled streets of Solitude flowing with the blood of the people of Silgrad. The Worm’s skull was split, but his Jaqspur arrow had struck one of the Bard students. A dull thud informed him that the friendly Redguard--far too young for this--had not been saved by his armor. He couldn’t spare a moment to mourn her though; the Dominion forces were falling back. Tapping back into his magic, he launched blasts of fire at the retreating cultists. Many of them fell, screaming and ablaze.
He ran through the forest--where the Rift pines mingled with the Stonefalls fungi--praying to Jhunal and his Divine kin that Euland would survive. His friend, his lover, was already fading. The man was a constant in his life; Valheim was certain he couldn’t carry on without him. But the world around him faded into another, where the Dremora torturer advanced with a wicked knife. His mind was returned to Coldharbour; for it was now time for the Daedra’s physical torment. But the thought of the Worm ambush, where he saw Euland die before losing his own life… It still lingered in his mind.
Just as the unholy blade sliced his eyes open, however, reality shifted again. He did not wholly remember the strange man, or the conversation they had. But he knew that his mind and body were now, at least, securely real at the moment--already they were reforming into Nirn. He felt the chilly stones he laid upon, and vaguely knew of the panicked woman bringing soldiers to “get him to the village”. But his essence, his actual self, was still a prisoner of Molag Bal. And until he freed his soul, he was still damned to eternal torment. But, though his thoughts were still murky, he knew he wouldn’t lose himself without a fight.
Hey, Ten. Sorry it took me a while to reply. Trying to edit this on mobile was a pain so I had to wait until the weekend so I can edit it on my PC. Anyways, green texts will represent my edits, and I will also my thoughts and inputs in brackets.
*--Trynhild Earth-Turner, Ackerman of Bleakrock Outpost--*
The young, red-haired, gruff woman was, to put it lightly, pissed. Trynhild looked as Nord as they come; she was naturally large-bodied and heavy-faced. Normally, she’d have her usual pride at this she was almost the archetypical Atmoran (of course, no modern race of man could hope to reach their fabled height) (This line feels a bit redundant in my opinion) and embraced what most men and elves would find a brutish, and somewhat savage appearance.
Unfortunately, (remove comma) she was on a pathetically small island, chock-full of Nords that who also admired these aspects. Not to mention that she was also just a simple farmer; something that’d never give her entrance to Sovngarde.
The Hall of Valor was home for fighters, for war-drummers, for skalds, (replace comma with semi-colon) for those who did something worth a damn. Yet her mother, Aera, insisted that Trynhild (make sure the character's name stays consistent.) settle down and ‘quench her fire’; that pursuing violence would do her no good. She managed to convince her and her father Denskar--mostly the latter--(Pro tip: Use the 'strikethrough' function instead of a double dash if you want to make that long 'Em' dash) to at least let her apprentice under the local blacksmith, Maesa.
It had been a great decision. Honestly, she could use some time at the anvil and forge. Hammering metal was, as it turned out, a fantastic way to quell her rage. As for today though however, she’d decided to let her fury take hold of her.
She’d been having many problems lately with a fisher-lad, (remove comma) named Otroggar. He seemed to think Trynhild was his prize, something he deserved. Naturally Obviously, Trynhild disagreed with much disgust, and after another round slew of his filthy comments, she felt that he what Otroggar deserved to was a knuckle sandwich to the face be brutalized. But, the locals--her mother, especially--disagreed. The locals who were at the scene were appalled when they saw this, especially Trynhild's mother who also happened to be there.
As a result , the locals She was sent Trynhild out to “collect some firewood”, which was a polite way of them telling her to, translated to “go to the wilds and stay ‘till sundown”. Trynhild begrudgingly did as she was told, and was already fuming over the thought of her future punishments.
“Damn you, Otroggar, you teat-sucking n’wah.” she thought muttered. (it was worthy of note that Trynhild was quite imaginative with crass language, and the recent arrival of Dark Elf settlers had further expanded her vocabulary brought many new insults).
She imagined her axe splitting the bastard’s skull instead of a hunk chunk of wood, which did at least somewhat helped her work faster. After a while, But she then sighed, Trynhild sighed, looking down at the amount of wood she had chopped, and then up towards the sky sun’s position. She had chopped enough wood for the hearth-fires, and there was some time to waste. And she was near the sea, Also, the sea was near; a place which always seemed to soothe her. Still fuming, she still realized it was probably best to not return just yet; punching Otroggar again would be unwise.
She walked towards the rocky beach, lost in her angry thoughts. Still, the sounds of the surf were, as always, calming. And she took small comfort in the fact that, even though Bleakrock Island truly was a pale comparison to mainland Skyrim, she at least knew the land well. She cast her view over the familiar black stones leading to the icy water...
...and then, to her shock, she saw the corpse of a man sprawled out on the beach (added italics for further emphasis on the line).
*--Valheim Wave-Sight, Coldharbour Escapee--*
The Worm Cult was nothing, if not persistent.
Valheim deflected magical blasts with his ward spell own ward spells as the arrows of from his comrades behind him flew past him in retaliation. The bastard necromancers had invaded Silgrad, striking directly at their holy temple of Jhunal. Valheim was not a traditional Imperial preacher; their ‘Julianos’, while still a God of Logic, was far too rigid, too structured. But he was devoted to his Seminary--he was not the head priest for nothing--and these heathens cared not for any Divine. The Wise Owl’s scriptures and formulae had been taken by the other priests to be safeguarded, but he’d rather not lose the temple itself. Not to mention his own life.
He drew his warhammer, seeing the cobbled streets of Solitude flowing with the blood of the people of Silgrad. The Worm’s skull was split, but his Jaqspur arrow had struck one of the Bard students. A dull thud informed him that the friendly Redguard--far too young for this--had not been saved by his armor. He couldn’t spare a moment to mourn her though; the Dominion forces were falling back. Tapping back into his magic, he launched blasts of fire at the retreating cultists. Many of them fell, screaming and ablaze.
He ran through the forest--where the Rift pines mingled with the Stonefalls fungi--praying to Jhunal and his Divine kin that Euland would survive. His friend, his lover, was already fading. The man was a constant in his life; Valheim was certain he couldn’t carry on without him. But the world around him faded into another, where the Dremora torturer advanced with a wicked knife. His mind was returned to Coldharbour; for it was now time for the Daedra’s physical torment. But the thought of the Worm ambush, where he saw Euland die before losing his own life… It still lingered in his mind.
Just as the unholy blade sliced his eyes open, however, reality shifted again. He did not wholly remember the strange man, or the conversation they had. But he knew that his mind and body were now, at least, securely real at the moment--already they were reforming into Nirn. He felt the chilly stones he laid upon, and vaguely knew of the panicked woman bringing soldiers to “get him to the village”. But his essence, his actual self, was still a prisoner of Molag Bal. And until he freed his soul, he was still damned to eternal torment. But, though his thoughts were still murky, he knew he wouldn’t lose himself without a fight.
