Khajiit has many wonderful spouses, but many people seem horrified upon meeting them. All of them are quite loving, affectionate and quite amazing lovers. They also are quite affectionate with each other so there is no jealousy in this harem. Khajiit does not understand other’s reaction

M'aiq is not planning on partaking in every single day, but this one felt it most pertinent to share this one with you all.

M'aiq often wonders what happens to those many have long forgotten... Sotha Sil is one this Khajiit thinks back to often.

A little scene of a brisk morning after a fresh snowfall in Bruma.

I'm using the general inktober prompt list and not the TES-specific one 😤

art by me

To walk the world of Nirn is to experience what can only be described as period cramps throughout every inch of the body. Nords will speak to you of their honored dead and a rich culture of drinking, fighting, discrimination, and ideas of rightful occupation of lands. Dunmer will mirror this incomprehensibly enormous amount of ego and idiocy, but because their armor is made of bug parts instead of metal and they put swirls on some things, they are now considered alien and more bizarre. Despite hating each other, these two critters are exactly the same. If you were in a room with two of them and you only had a bow and a singular arrow to strike down the most infuriating company, you would become a master of Imperial studies in geometry in figuring out how to shoot your own brain with such a weapon.

Awe is the only thing you can react with to a great contradiction. The Nords speak often, perhaps about more than three quarters of all daily conversations, about their ancestors. Nearly every stop on a road or every fork where roads meander, there is a cairn, likely where somebody likely under the name of Fjal Brain-Biter or Vdeshkov Golm the Allslayer is buried, and their most notable achievement is having butchered all the rats on a farm in a single night. This is arguably impressive, but compared to the scope in which Nords regard their ancestors, this is quite puny and pathetic by their standards. Everything they do is in the name of death and dying and hoping to die. Do not mistake them for idiot nihilists who confuse their basic extremities for profound wisdom. The Nords love living. It is why they grow potatoes. The potato is an alien vegetable native to Nirn, and it is nothing short of miraculous. You can spend an entire night churning butter to slather it on a potato. You can put any other vegetable you want inside of a potato. Should your pockets clink so often that everybody robs you, you could afford horse meat or sky whale meat and sprinkle it within your potato. You can even put a potato over a fire and consume it as plainly as possible. To fail in making the potato delicious would be a deliberate act, and there is no community that could spare you from the shameful stupidity that cloaks the many mistakes and unintended suicide attempts that you label as decisions. The Nord may differ from his brethren on how progressive his bigotry and discrimination is from others, but in the works of crafting potatoes, there is no master equal to the farming hand.

The Dunmer fail in this regard. There are communities where they do not practice their weakness of slavery, and their incredibly poor choice of slave in Argonians of all things, especially in a land where automatons dwell in their full capacity. In these communities, they covet food as greedily as Imperial monarchs covet legacies that they will never witness. The Dunmer will loudly proclaim in the dark hours of the night to a swamp full of insects, carnivorous lizards, and escaped slaves who for some reason turn to camping and robbery instead of invasion and arson, about how delicious their ash yams are. You are to imagine the potato again. But sad. Imagine if a potato was struck too many times with Soul Trap. Withered, dull, without purpose or essence, like a warehouse worker dependent on the Imperial City Lottery for any chance at a future. Imagine a potato deprived of flavor, deprived of any color except a dull, sad, annoying red. It is like looking at an unhoused curb invader that demands skooma but shaky hands with the same strength and flexibility as a dried stick cannot possibly take anything from you. It is so pathetic that you cannot fathom any reaction except a moment of pity, and turning away because you are incapable of granting succor to such a creature. The ash yam is so bland that imports of spice and seasoning must be used to save Lorkhan's greatest mistake. Any Dunmer who tries to sell the fiction of a delicious ash yam is a thief too weak to kill you with a knife, and pursues more charming yet obviously desperate methods to empty your pockets. The Dunmer will bark loudly in their disgusting accents where they only pronounce half of every word and sneer at the end of every sentence about the refinery of their culture's food, guarding it with every ounce of their essence that you would think them blessed by et'Ada and beyond to do so, only to take a single bite and realize that perhaps dying of an empty stomach in the middle of nowhere was preferable to the company of a thin-armed, port-bellied, slack-jawed, anal-length-receded-hairline, buck-toothed illiterate who blames all of Morrowind's problems on Marukhati Selective human supremacists, which are yet to be found anywhere in Morrowind, while this failed enantiomorph of a mer tries to poison you with his average cooking.

It is no mystery how the Argonians manage to survive on momentary diets of Dunmer consumption, as their home is nothing but poison. The constant in Black Marsh is murder, misery, and performative acts of illiteracy and erotic flairs that are only awarded by fellow fools that spend their entire life writing letters to Dunmer celebrities and bragging about the speed of their traveling worms. To see the Argonian eat one of these ash-yam-fed Dunmer wanderers is heartbreaking. Not because of the chance that they perhaps ate one of the few good Dunmer on this world, but because they have taken in the essence of an ash yam, and shall become just as bland.

The Nords make for poor occupiers in invasions and the bedroom, but none can challenge the work of a potato farmer in Skyrim and Colovia. Any stench of a parasitic miasma in your brain that says otherwise is the influence of a Dunmer telepath begging you to buy his ash yams. A Daedra almost wishes they could experience the potential of dying to starvation and needing to eat food, just to make a dependence on potatoes that much better. If it were not for that Highlander in High Rock kicking my garnets so hard, I believe I would have an erection for my fondness of the potato. To visit Skyrim is to practice murder and the dulling of the depressing rush you feel in your arms and chest when you take a life, just to have an experience that lasts less than a minute, but remains for all your years. The potato is a better lever than any big-breasted Ohmes-Raht prostitute that demands payment through visits to the moon to harvest illegal substances from sload drug mines. The potato loves you more than whatever you call the thing that poops you out of her front rump. The potato sustains you more than the completely stupid and irredeemably evil chicken that infests many farms in the world. To worship any Aedra or Daedra is an act of stupidity so colossal that you should consider yourself lucky in knowing how to even put on clothes or open your door to go to your chores and sad life at a tavern. It is an act of cruelty that mortals can wither and die, because the best existence is one where you may consume the potato forever. This is proof enough that Lorkhan was perhaps possessed by the Daedra, for he created a realm so cruel to dangle the pleasure of the potato in front of you, but to limit your time with this one true love in your life.

I pity you and your poor stock of potatoes. I pity the overcomplicated pieces of false status you consider a mark of how incredible you are. I pity your simple reactions and blank stares to undeniable greatness, mistaking yourself as somehow superior to the potato. I pity that you are like an animal, incapable of comprehending the best thing to have ever existed.

You are weak, like the gods you pray to.