lol! I really enjoyed this line.

I was surprised in the game when there actually was a conspiracy. I figured it would be haul some innocent person in just to make Syl happy.

I like how Wrothken goes about being the inquisitor. Very... direct to say the least.

I doubt it.

Good chapter! I remember this was one of the quests I enjoyed quite a bit in SI.

I finally got some free time to catch up on everyone - Yeah! Wrothken is back !! Great Write !!

King Coin~ I was surprised too! I thought she was just going crazy with paranoia. I was shocked to see that she actually had a reason for it!

mALX~ Thanks ♥ Its always hard to switch back to Wrothken but its so worth it once I'm back in his head





As he followed Herdir through the streets of Crucible, Wrothken couldn't help noticing the giggles from various people. Though he didn't miss a step and kept his head high, his rosy cheeks betrayed his nonchalance.

It didn't help that Herdir seemed to notice. "What'd you do, streak through the streets?"

"None of your business," Wrothken muttered.

Ma'Zaddha's house was easy enough to find, as the Khajiit carved his name in the door. Wrothken knocked a few times and when there was no response, Herdir kicked the door in.

The door wasn't the only thing with Ma'Zaddha's name carved in it. The walls, pictures, bowls, cups, furniture, even the food all had his name carved in.

"What? What do you want?" Ma'zaddha demanded, rising from a cozy chair in the living room. "Why are you looking at my things?" Ma'Zaddha squinted at Wrothken. "Aren't you the guy with the deformed hoo?"

"It's not deformed!" Wrothken snapped.

Herdir laughed. "You'll have to explain that to me later on," he said to Wrothken. To Ma'Zhaddha, he said, "We are here on official business."

"Right," Wrothken said, still fuming. "I'm acting as Syl's Grand Inquisitor. An anonymous source tells me you know of a conspiracy involving the assassination of Syl."

Ma'Zaddha scoffed, his ears flattening against his head. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

Wrothken stared at him. Of course he wouldn't just confess. However, he remembered the look in Anya's eyes and the fear in her voice while she was confessing. As much as he didn't want to call anyone out, he didn't have much of a choice. "Are you sure you don’t know anything?"

"Yes, yes," Ma'Zaddha said dismissively. His ears perked back up. "Though since you're nosing around, perhaps you can find out who's been taking my stuff. They think I'm stealing, but I just want it back."

Wrothken stared in his eyes. "You're lying," he said.

"In that case," Herdir said gleefully, shoving past Wrothken. Like with Anya, he shot a surge of lightning at Ma'Zaddha. He hissed and doubled over, panting hard when he got up.

"You may continue to do your worst, Inquisitor," he spat. "But unless you have some evidence of this preposterous conspiracy, you'll get nothing from me."

Herdir walked up to him. Their noses almost touched. He narrowed his eyes as he stared down Ma'Zaddha. "He's right,” he said after a few moments. “I've seen ones like this and, sadly, I don't have the tools needed to break him. Come on."

Wrothken glared at Ma'Zaddha before leaving. He knew something, alright. In fact, Wrothken was willing to bet that he was behind it all.




Even though Wrothken didn't want to, Herdir insisted that they go to Bernice's Taphouse to grab some food and figure out how they were going to continue the case.

Wrothken slumped down at the bar as Herdir looked around, trying to appear inconspicuous as he listened in on conversations.

"Oh, there you are, dearie," Bernice said to Wrothken. "I was hoping to talk to you this morning, but you disappeared." When a reddish tinge spread across his face, she added, "I know, honey, I can't blame you for sneaking out. I warned you about her, remember?” She sighed, rubbing his shoulder. “Oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to rub it in, but the thing is, Rheyna... well, she's never... you know... made whoopie with a man. Trust me, I'd know. I know most business that goes on around here."

"Doesn’t matter,” Wrothken said. "Still doesn't change that the whole town thinks I've got some sort of deformity lurking in my pants."

"I know, I know. Just give it time, and it'll blow over." She looked up and saw Herdir, leaning back in a chair, obviously trying to overhear a couple conversing. "Who is that man you came in with? Something sure seems a little off about him. He’s got the face of a lunatic!"

Wrothken nearly buried his face in his palm at the sight. If Herdir leaned back any further, he was going to fall. "He's supposed to be helping me with… with something."

"With what? He looks like he's spying and if there's anything I can't stand, it's an obvious busybody. He could at least be discreet about it."

"We're....” He gasped as something Bernice had said dawned on how she could help. “Hey, Bernice, earlier you said you know everyone's business around here."

It was her turn to blush. "Well, sure, it comes with the territory..."

"Okay, look," Wrothken leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. "I need your help. Sheogorath has me helping Syl out and she wants me to find out who's been conspiring against her, and if I don't find out who, I'm as good as dead. Can you help me?"

"Hmmm..." She tapped her lip. "You know what, I don't know anything, not for certain. But I hear that Ma'zaddha has been seen talking to Syl's Guard Captain, Nelrene. I haven't seen them in person. Not wise for me to be outside late at night; too easy to catch another cold. At first I thought they were just smitten, but the other day I heard him talking about Anya Perrick real threatening-like. Could be nothing, but it seems a little fishy to me. If the rumors are true, you should keep an eye out for them."

Wrothken felt a surge of relief. He might be able to catch Ma'Zaddha after all. "Thank you, thank you," he said.

"Remember, you didn't hear that from me," she said with a wink. "And something else you didn't hear from me, leave your friend at home. He doesn't seem to be very good at eavesdropping and you don't want to get caught. Besides, he makes my veins wiggle."

"No problem," Wrothken said. "Thanks again, Bernice."

She smiled kindly. "Anything for you, dearie. Just get that man out of my taphouse!"

"Will do," Wrothken said. He lifted Herdir by the arm. "Come on, I have the information we need."

"What? How? You were..." Herdir looked at Bernice, who wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh... I get it. You tortured that old lady without me! How could you?" He pouted.

Wrothken sighed. "I didn't torture anyone. Just meet me at the castle later, okay?"

"Fine, fine. I have some.... business to take care of. I’ve got this new thing I wanna try out called the Pear of Anguish. You stick it up—“

Wrothken held his hand up and shook his head. “Don’t care.”

Herdir shrugged. “Prude,” he said as he turned to leave.

With urgency, he dashed up the stairs and through the doors to the palace grounds. Relieved to be away from Herdir, Wrothken set out to find a good listening point.



Several hours passed before the meeting happened. Wrothken was concerned that his milky skin would be too visible even in the shadows, so he crouched on the ground, curled into a ball, facing away from where Bernice said they would be. It was only after most of his body fell asleep that he heard footsteps.

"Have you made any progress?" Wrothken heard the syrupy voice of a Mazken. "Will Anya assist us?"

"No, that blasted Inquisitor got to her," Ma'Zaddha said. "We'll need to find someone else."

"See that you do so immediately. This is the one task which you were assigned. If you cannot complete it, you will be removed. Are we clear?"

"I will, I will! I want to see Syl dead just as much as you do. She cannot be allowed to survive, after what she's done. It's despicable."

"Good. I shall expect a progress report soon. And keep your head down; the Inquisitor must not become involved."

With that, he heard footsteps leaving the area. It took great effort to ignore the prickly feeling in his numbed legs and even more effort to walk, but he made his way to Ma'Zaddha.

"What? What is it now, huh?"

"I need to talk to you about the conspiracy."

He snorted. "I thought I told you, I don't know anything. You can't prove a thing!"

"Bull. I heard you just a second ago."

Ma'Zaddha's ears quickly perked up and his eyes widened fearfully. "What? I... I... It's for the good of Crucible! You must see that!" He grabbed Wrothken's shoulders. "Please, spare me! I'll do anything!"

"But why?" Wrothken asked. "Why do you want Syl dead?"

"You don't know, do you? She's kept it a secret even from you! She and Thadon..." His ears folded angrily and his nose crinkled up in disgust. "They've been meeting in secret. They've been doing things together. Consorting. You understand me?" Wrothken remembered Thadon's allusion to it. "It cannot be permitted! She must be stopped!"

He had all kinds of questions for that. He didn't understand the big deal. If anything, it could unite the cities. Wasn't that a good thing? He'd have to get the answers later. "Who else is involved?"

"I don't know, besides Nelrene. She's taking orders from someone, but won't tell me who. If I find out, will you promise to spare me?"

As much as he knew what Syl wanted, he just couldn't sentence the man to death. "Yes, of course. Just get me the names."

"Okay, okay. I'll get the names, and then you'll see. It will be worth it, I promise you! Meet me in my house tomorrow at midnight. I'll have information for you. Just please spare me."

They shook on it and Ma'Zaddha ran quickly to his house. Wrothken decided to head back to the Taphouse and get some rest. He passed Rheyna and Cutter on his way to his room. Rheyna quickly looked away, but Cutter seemed rather pleased as they entered the room across the hall. It seems Thadon and Syl aren't the only ones consorting, he thought glumly. He laid awake, waiting to hear a shriek and sobs of deformity, but none came. Just the other night he pictured himself with pride while Atrea was left with Bacchus. This night he envied her. At least she wasn’t sleeping alone.


This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 07:51 AM

"Um... I'm the..." He sighed. "Grand Inquisitor."

Oh, poor Wrothken!! This is not his kind of place at all.

"Fine, fine. I have some.... business to take care of. I’ve got this new thing I wanna try out called the Pear of Anguish. You stick it up—“

I’m with Wrothken on this one!!

I love how you’ve intertwined Wrothken’s personal story with his quest. The humor and Wrothken’s enjoyable personality balance what could be a very depressing series of events.

Another good chapter!

Wrothken's doing a pretty good job chasing down this conspiracy despite his unenthusiastic attitude

I liked Herdir poor attempt at eavesdropping.

I'm not sure if it is Wrothken's personality or his anti-personality - but he makes me laugh every chapter he is in with it !! Great Write !!

Grits~ Thanks I'm glad he's able to balance the story out

King Coin~ Herdir didn't seem to be the subtle type so it was pretty easy to picture him literally sticking his ear in people's conversation

mALX~ Thank you





The next night Wrothken headed to Ma'Zhadda's house. He hoped Ma'Zhadda would be true to his word and the conspiracy would be foiled and he could be done with his task. However, the ever growing cynic inside him told him not to expect any simplicity.

He knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked harder and when there was still no answer, his insides began to churn. He looked around, wondering if he should get a Mazken to help. After some thought, he decided against it. He didn't want to alert them about the conspiracy, especially since one of their own may be involved.

He tried the back door, but it was locked. He rattled the doorknob as hard as he could, ramming his body against it until the door gave way, its lock and handle hanging limply out of the wood.

"Ma'Zhadda?" He called out as he crossed the threshold. As soon as he propped the door back against the frame, he was overwhelmed by the stench of blood. "Oh no," he whispered.

He ran down the stairs and saw Ma'Zhadda lying in a pool of his own blood. There was a single stab wound in his chest.

Wrothken knelt by the dead Khajiit, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He promised his life would be spared if he got the names. Guilt washed over him. Even though he wasn't the one who had stabbed him, he felt like might as well have. If only he didn't coerce him into naming the head conspirator. If only he hadn't agreed to be Sheogorath's champion. If only he hadn't entered the damn door in the first place!

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. The saying popped in his head as he pressed his hands on his face. There was nothing he could do now except bring the conspirator to justice. He closed Ma'Zhadda's eyelids and headed to the door.

"Maybe that creep Herdir can figure out where to go from here," he said to himself. He was heading back up the stairs when he noticed a crinkled note half under a bowl on a table by the door.




"You may not be alive to see it," Wrothken said. "But I'll be damn sure you didn't die for nothing."

He glanced around. It wasn't in plain sight. He'd have to do some searching.

The living room was bare of anything else related to the consipracy and Wrothken was thankful to leave it. He kept expecting Ma’Zhadda’s corpse to rise up behind him.

He followed the stairs to a locked door. Wrothken didn't feel the need to be discreet on the interior door, so he used his mace to bash the doorknob in. If anyone ever noticed, he could always blame it on the killer.

He checked the bed and the chest, but there was nothing. The only thing left was the cabinet, and of course it was locked. He didn't recall seeing a key in the bedroom which meant it was located on Ma'Zhadda. There was no way he was going to fumble around Ma'Zhadda's pockets, especially since it risked himself getting stained with his blood. That would be fun to explain to the Mazken.

He raised his mace high above his head and swung it as hard as he could, cracking the stone doors. He beat it until it smashed. He cleared the chunks and smiled when he saw the sword. It had a curved handle and the edges of the blade were heavily serrated. He hoped a similar one wasn't what killed Ma'Zhadda. Sword and note in hand, Wrothken headed back to the castle to confront Nelrene.



Wrothken was barely able to keep his cool when he saw Nelrene standing by Syl's empty throne. "A word, please," he said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, Inquisitor?” She asked calmly. “How may I serve?"

Knowing that she was definitely a part of the conspiracy made her words feel mocking. That sort of thing was something he expected from a Golden Saint! "Don't give me that!" He snapped.. "I know you were involved. Thanks to this stupid plot of yours, Ma’Zhadda is dead! As far as I know, he wasn’t ‘consorting’ with anyone!"

"Shame," she said indifferently. "However, I'd like to remind you that you have no proof." She raised her head high. "You cannot hold me accountable for anything."

"Oh?" He held up her sword and the note. Her eyes filled with anger as she read it.

"So what are you going to do? I'm not even the one you want." She folded her arms. "Muurine is behind it. You'll need solid proof to pin it on her."

Wrothken dangled the note in front of her face. "I think this and your admission is proof enough."

He could nearly feel the anger emanating from her. Seeing as how she had no problem planning the murder of the Duchess, she would likely have no problem gutting a mere temporary inquisitor so he left without another comment.

He hastily walked back to Crucible, hoping he would be done going back and forth and back and forth again. Not to worry, he thought. After this, it’s time for a little me time. Forget Sheogorath. He can wait a little bit longer.

Hirrus remained at the top of the stairs. He glanced at Wrothken and let out a loud, overly-dramatic, wistful sigh. "Nope!" Wrothken said, passing him by.

"Muurine..." He said, looking around the city. Judging by the name it was likely an elf. He peeked in shops and on the streets when he remembered Bernice and her vast wealth of knowledge. He dashed to the taphouse.

Bernice smiled to him as he took a seat at the bar. "Oh, hello dearie! I've barely seen you all day! Have you had any luck with..." She looked around and leaned in. "Ma'Zhadda?"

Though they were far from friends, the mention of his name stung. "I’ll tell you later," he said. "On the subject, do you know a Muurine?"

She chuckled. "Oh boy," she said. "Sure, I know her. Rather kooky Altmer if you ask me. You know, I heard she's got her uncle living with her?" She said as if that were scandalous.

"So?"

"Seems normal enough except the man died five years ago! And she always smells ripe. Anyway, what about her?"

"Oh, nothing." When she pouted he added, "I'll fill you in later, I promise. I'm just in a bit of a rush."

"Oh, alright. And when you get back you better come and eat something proper! You're looking a bit thin and I don't trust other people's cooking. Sheogorath only knows how they keep their kitchens!"



After asking around a bit more to find her house, Wrothken stood on her porch, mentally preparing himself. He had the sword in one hand and the note in his pocket. Just in case she tried anything, he wore his full set of armor. He knocked on the door.

An elderly looking Altmer answered the door. She looked down at him with a disgusted look. "What do you want?"

"I'm here about the conspiracy."

She smiled dryly and clapped her hands together. "I see you've done quite a bit of work to track me down. Yes, I orchestrated it," she said proudly. "Syl deserves to die a painful death for turning on all of us, and consorting with our enemies."

"I don’t understand,” Wrothken said shaking his head. “What is so wrong with Syl and Thadon 'consorting,' as you all say?"

"My poor boy," she said, patting his head. "You don't get it. You can't. You're not one of us. Haven't you got what you need? Shouldn't you be running off to tattle like a good little servant?." She held her hands out in front of herself.

He was surprised. He didn't need to offer his proof or put up a fight. "Fine, off we go then."



Syl was waiting for him in her throne, Anya and Kithlan seated at each side. "What news do you have to report, Inquisitor?" She demanded. "Have you found who is responsible?"

"Yes," he said, stepping aside to make Muurine more visible.

"Is that so?" She said, stroking her chin with a smile. "Bring her to the torture chamber at once."

Wrothken took a deep breath, hoping she wouldn't make him watch a long, drawn out death. That would be too much.

As the three entered, Herdir looked positively giddy. "Well, well! Looks like we have a visitor!" He clapped Wrothken on the shoulder. "Good job, lad! We'll have to do this again sometime!"

Wrothken squirmed inside, but nodded just to get away from him.

Muurine was led into a cage in the center of the room. She didn't make any effort to escape or even resist. Wrothken knew he shouldn't feel sorry for her after what she did to Ma'Zhadda, but he couldn't help it.

Syl approached her smugly. "You've confessed to attempting to kill me, I understand. The penalty for this treachery is death, and is to be carried out immediately. Do you have any final words?"

"Nothing to you," Muurine spat. "But you," she looked at Wrothken. "Know this, little one: You've chosen a side." She closed her eyes. "You'll get what's coming to you eventually."

Her words sent a chill inside Wrothken. What exactly did she mean by that?

Syl pressed a button and lightning flew from the walls on either side of the cage and jolted Muurine until she fell dead. Herdir checked her pulse and gave Syl a thumbs up.

Wrothken looked away. All this death for something that could have been put to an end with a simple jail cell... The realization that he was grateful to not have witnessed a long, drawn out punishment made him sick. Well it's not called the plane of madness for nothing, Wrothken thought.

Syl didn't notice Wrothken's displeasure. She seemed almost as joyous as Herdir. "You see now what happens when those who oppose me fail, which they always do," she said, poking the tip of his nose. "I am pleased with your work, Inquisitor." She motioned for him to follow her to the throne room. "As a token of my appreciation, I shall spare your life, and make you a Courtier of Dementia. In addition, accept this Bow." She took it down from the wall. It was the same color as Nelrene's sword with an ornate gold decoration on the handle. As she put it in his hands, she said, "May your enemies fear you and never know from where or with what enchantment you shall strike."

"Thank you, Lady Syl," he wasn't sure what to do with it, but he'd figure it out later. First, he had to tell her about Ma'Zhadda. "I didn't do it alone, though."

"Oh, yes I know. Herdir finds his work to be his own reward."

"No, no, not him," he said. "His name was Ma'Zhadda. He was the one who pointed me to Muurine. Unfortunately it cost him his life."

"Oh.” She seemed disinterested, but Wrothken maintained eye contact with her until she got the message. “Well, since he did provide you with her name, I suppose it fitting that his remains are taken care of properly."

"Thank you, Lady Syl."

It didn't quite make up for his death, but it was the best he could do. He left the palace and without looking back, he set off on his own personal journey to relax and make sure his head was still on straight.


This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 07:54 AM

When I played I was sorry Ma'Zhadda died as well.

Man do I wish this was an option in game!

I like the role you've made for Bernice. She's kind of adopted Wrothken.

I really liked the bow when I got it in game. It was one of the coolest weapons in the game. I hope Wrothken learns to put it to use.

Good chapter

Chapter 22
I just love the image of Wrothken tip-toeing in steel boots!

There was no party, no feast, and no topless women.
Three strikes, and your out! I loved how you described the palace of Dementia as Syl's lair. It brings an immediate sense of foreboding to the place.

Herdir is delightful in his sadism. He probably is the happiest man in Dementia! With Syl in charge, he has plenty of opportunity to indulge himself.

Chapter 23
Wrothken couldn't help wondering if he had taken it further and sprayed his belongings like a wild animal.
Now that would be a nice touch!

Seems like everyone's consorting except for Wrothken.


Chapter 24
I can feel sympathy for Wrothken as he wrestles with his feelings of responsibility for Ma'Zhadda's death. If he had not turned up the screws on Ma'Z, the khajiit might still be alive. Of course he would be dead for not finding a conspirator... At least in the end he was able to protect Ma'Zhadda's honor, and see to it he was remembered as a hero, rather than as being one of the conspirators.



nits:
made whoopie with a man.
Whoopie is not the best term you could use here. I can see where Bernice might be uptight about sex, many are, and not want to be blunt about it. But I suggest having her say something like been with a man instead.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 10 2011, 11:17 PM

I loved the whole passage where Wrothken kneels beside the body blaming himself, then resolves to see the situation to its end. It made me feel bad for him and cheer for him at the same time.

He followed the stairs to a locked door. Wrothken didn't feel like dealing with a lock pick, so he used his mace to bash the doorknob in. If anyone ever noticed, he could always blame it on the killer.

This Nord moment made me smile. He is so upset over what happened to Ma'Zhadda, he has no patience for the lock.

Hirrus remained at the top of the stairs. He glanced at Wrothken and let out a loud, overly-dramatic, wistful sigh. "Nope!" Wrothken said, passing him by.

And of course that was hilarious.

King Coin~ That would be a great option for those who aren't good at lockpicking

SubRosa~ Seems like everyone's consorting except for Wrothken. True for the poor Nord. Though maybe things will change for him once he's returned to the land of the sane.

Also I used "whoopie" because it sound right for her with the voice I have in my head.

Grits~ Wouldn't it be nice to be able to take your anger out on the furniture whenever the game pissed you off?




The next morning Wrothken set out to pick up some supplies for his trip. His only stop was at Things Found where he picked up a bedroll and a few torches. Bernice packed him some food. While it looked strange, she swore up and down that it would be the best tasting food in the Isles. The moment he exited the city gates he felt as if a weight had been lifted from him.

He didn't venture far for fear of getting lost. The spot he selected was just a few miles away from New Sheoth, across the path from some old ruins. Having no desire for fighting other than possibly some hunting, he stayed away from it.

For the first time in ages, he was able to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the Shivering Isles. The caps of the mushroom-like tree he settled under were a vivid turquoise and the flowers around him blossomed every shade the rainbow could offer. The leaves of other trees were all the rich colors of autumn and the sky above was cloudless blue, speckled with gold stars. Perfect.

He stretched out on the ground and stared up to the sky. This place was so beautiful yet so dangerous. Who knew that by entering a door he'd be thrust into a world of sex, drugs, and violence? So much violence... People were so eager to group up and plan your demise for something as trivial as who you shared your bed with! No wonder Syl was so paranoid.

He sighed. What he would give to go back and stop himself from entering the door. Maybe someone else would have come around and helped Sheogorath. Someone with a higher tolerance for this. Meanwhile he would be back in his house....

His house! He jolted up. All this time he hadn't realized that now Atrea was the sole occupant of their house! Great, he thought. He had no way of finding out if she had sold it or worse, turned it into a marital home for her and Bacchus. He huffed. At least he'd still have Kirsty... or had his job been replaced too?

Kirsty was tough, no question, but there were times she needed an extra hand to keep the drunks in order, especially after arena fights where they were angry over losing bets. If she had hired someone else, would he be able to work there again? If he had no house and no job, would he be stuck in the Isles forever? He shuddered just thinking about it. He'd sooner stoop to begging. Besides, the Fighter's Guild was always recruiting. Yyaevonnte had always been asking him to give that a shot. He sighed, relaxing again.

Thinking of Kvatch, no matter how dismal things seemed, made him feel a little homesick. He missed the culture, the food...the sanity. How easy it was to take it for granted. He looked up at the sky. He wished he could just slip out of the Isles and pretend this was all a bad dream, but he knew better than to try and hide from a Daedric Prince. Especially ones that would wear his organs as jewelry.

Champion of Sheogorath... He recalled how proud he had felt and how he would be sure to revel in it. Now he wasn't too sure he wanted it. Being the champion of a god had to have some sort of perk, but he had yet to see it. If anything, it was slowly draining his sanity.

A new realization entered his mind. Maybe that was the point. The champion of a lunatic couldn't very well be sane. It wouldn't make sense. Beside, Sheogorath sure seemed to enjoy tormenting him. He wondered if the Khajiit and Dunmer who he had seen outside the door had been attempted champions who just couldn't handle it anymore. Oh what to do, what to do? There had to be a way to come out with his wits still about him.

He tried to think of other times where he needed a way to keep his cool. When family drove him insane, he had his friends or Atrea. When Atrea began to work his nerves, he had Kirsty. So now that Sheogorath and his band of crazies were driving him he had... "Bernice!"

She may be a gossip and the biggest hypochondriac he'd ever seen, but she seemed somewhat sane...usually. If he took it slow and leaned on her when he was losing it, maybe he could come out alright. After all, Sheogorath never said he had to keep everything a secret!


His back was stiff, unused to sleeping on the hard ground, but as Wrothken stretched out he felt refreshed nonetheless. He was greeted by a sky full of golden stars peeking through patches of grey clouds. For a brief second, he nearly forgot where he was. It was too peaceful to be the Isles. Better not jinx myself, he thought.

He opened the basket Bernice packed for him and pulled out what looked like a giant frog leg. Balliwog, she called it. He could tell by its scent that it had been smoked and lightly spiced with citrus and some garlic. It smelled good, but he had a natural aversion to green meat. Still, he couldn’t waste it knowing Bernice had made it especially for him. He licked his lips and took a small bite.

It wasn’t bad. It had a light, fishy taste with a texture like baked chicken. Once he got used to it, it was actually very good, possibly a favorite. He washed it down with a bottle of Alocasia juice. It was sweet, but not overly so. He had to admit, the Shivering Isles had some decent food. Small pleasures.

Tucked into his basket, he found a folded piece of paper. He opened it and it was the list of ore needed to create the armor in Cutter’s shop. The thought of Cutter gave him a strange feeling, but he wanted that armor bad. According to the list he would need sixteen pieces for a full set.

Spirits of ancients souls are trapped in the Ore. Find it in ancient ruins. Grummites are also especially attracted to it. Cutter had said. So if he wanted it, he just needed to find a place with a lot of grummites.

He packed his things and headed into the swamps of Dementia. As he walked, the stars dimmed, until the sky was just a slab of gray. It was nice and peaceful, so unlike the main city. He wondered if he would be better off in a secluded house away from it all. Would he live in peace? Or would it only isolate him more?

Before long, he came to some ruins half in a lake. He saw a chest floating along and when he opened it, he was pleased to see a piece of madness ore and a handful of gold. He didn’t see a door, but he felt confident that a cave or a fortress nearby would have more.

The path started looking a little familiar. At first he thought that he had been going around in circles, but when he pulled out his map, he saw that it was the path to Knotty Bramble, the place where he had found Bernice’s cure.

Come to think of it, Wrothken hadn’t done much exploring there. He just got the aqua-whatever-it-was and left. It was filled with grummites, so it had to be worth a shot. He approached the tree’s entrance and was greeted by a grummite. It drew out its dagger and Wrothken drew his mace, already prepared for what was to come. As soon as he killed it, another showed up behind him just in time.

It screeched at the sight of its dead comrade and it too attacked. When it fell, Wrothken searched the area and he smiled as he came across a piece of the ore. It’s a sign, he thought happily.

He went through the doors, this time unafraid as he knew what to expect. The scent of moss and soil were starting to become familiar to him, as were the giant mushrooms and glowing pods that shared the space with the grummites. Even their stench didn’t surprise him as much as it did before.

Two grummites stood before him and after searching their corpses, he was surprised to find that they both had been carrying gold on them. He pocketed it, wondering whether they had it because it was shiny and pretty or if they were advanced enough to have created a barter system of sorts.

He went down the tunnel and recalled that it led to a nesting area. He wanted to avoid it at first because it didn’t seem right to go and kill the mother who only wanted to protect their eggs from an intruder and second because it was common knowledge that a mother protecting its young was the fiercest creature alive, no matter what species. However, it was the only route available.

Before long, Wrothken came across one of the mossy stumps he saw back at Dunroot Burrow. He grunted at the sheer memory of the place and all he had endured here. If memory, not the drugs, served, sometimes things were inside, buried under the moss. Sure enough, he found a couple ceramic bottles. He looked around. The only inhabitants were grummites. Were they making potions? He hoped not. He put them back in the trunk. He had considered selling them, but he didn’t want to be responsible for some nut drinking them without checking to see their contents. Even if they did check, Wrothken couldn’t be sure that they would be in the right state of mind to care.

He entered the nesting section of the cave. Strange statues of carved grummite heads were erected all over the place. A full grummite statue at least fifteen feet high stood in the middle of the water holding a handful of glowing pods, resembling eggs. Wrothken started up at them in awe. “Who carved these?” He wondered aloud. He remembered seeing similar statues in Xedilian. The grummites had been bowing and convulsing in front of them. Were they supposed to be gods? Wrothken tilted his head.

He looked around before scooping up two pieces of madness ore in front of the closest statue. Luckily, no grummites were around to see. He followed the path leading him into the water, where the floating egg sacs lay. No grummites were around. He left out a sigh of relief and followed the path to a new tunnel.

Just before he crossed the passageway, he came across a beat up chest. It was unlocked and to his surprise a matrix was inside. He lifted the black box and studied it, hoping to tell what piece it was for, but the blue streaks held no clues. He would have to ask Cutter. A dull throb ached in his stomach at the thought of her. He knew her elation at sleeping with Rheyna wasn’t meant to hurt him and, really, he had no reason to be hurt. They weren’t dating after all, but he couldn’t help it. The one person he felt any sort of interest in since Atrea had not only rejected him but thought he was deformed and shared it with everyone at Bernice’s!

He shook his head. Was he doomed to be alone for the rest of his life? What if Atrea truly was the One? He couldn’t imagine begging for her to come back to him, yet he honestly couldn’t imagine himself with anyone else.

“Damn it,” he spat. He had gone so long without thinking too much about her, but the whole Rheyna issue made it hard not to. “Looks like I’ll just have to quit thinking about both of them.”

Easier said than done, he thought as he continued on his way.

He was surprised to see that the tunnel suddenly stopped. The floors and walls became stone and there was no sign of plant life. The smell was gone too, replaced with the stench of decay. It nearly knocked him off his feet.

The first thing he noticed was a black patch on the ground with madness ore sprouting from the ground. He grinned, pulling up three large pieces of ore. At this rate, I’ll have that armor in no time! he thought.

He placed his hand on a piece of rock and fell back in shock. A human skeleton laid on it. Its head and arms were no longer connected to the rest of the body. Wrothken wondered if the beheading was done before or after it death. He approached it carefully. He was told stories of the walking dead haunting their tombs.

“Those are just what they are,” he told himself. “Stories.” A little voice inside his head reminded him that skeletons don’t produce smells.

He kept going down the hall until he saw two bodies lying on the same type of stone the skeleton had been on. The first one’s skin was tight around its body while the other one looked fresher. Both of them wore hooded brown robes.

Wrothken backed away slowly, looking around. Who could have done this? Surely not the grummites. The bodies were too clean, too nicely set. Then again there was a lot of evidence that the grummites just might have a primitive society going on. Were these people sacrifices to those strange statues? Did grummites eat human flesh?

Wrothken looked in his bag and decided he had enough ore for one day. Not wanting to find out first-hand what had happened to the people, he hightailed it out of Knotty Bramble. Seven out of sixteen pieces wasn’t bad.





When Kirsty returned to where Capaneus had been sitting, he forced himself to keep a grim expression. He sighed, just a little louder than normal and placed a hand on his temple.

“What’s wrong?” Kirsty asked, just as Capaneus knew she would.

“Oh, nothing…” he said, looking out the window. “It’s just…” He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears. “I really care about you. I want to protect you is all.”

Kirsty chuckled. “I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, listen.” He motioned for her to come closer. She bent down over the counter. “Something will be happening soon. I don’t know the exact date, but it’s getting close.”

“What?”

“A cleansing, Kirsty. A great king will come and rid the world of its impurities and create a paradise.”

Kirsty stood up, an eyebrow raised. “What are you talking about?”

“Please, just hear me out. What do you know about Daedra Princes?”

Kirsty leaned in, suddenly looking at him with a look that bordered on shock. Her brows were furrowed and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you some kind of Daedra worshipper?”

“What? No, not like that!” He said, perhaps a little too quickly. He wanted to do this carefully. “It’s just…. Lord Dagon is coming and he’s going to remake this world into His paradise. But the thing is, he’s only going to save those who belong to him. If I explain everything to you, do you promise to think it over?”

He didn’t like the look in her eyes. She looked skeptical. Perhaps it was too soon to try and bring her into the fold. It took time to ease people in, to mold them, to build them. He had only been seeing Kirsty for a short time. Nowhere near long enough to gain her unquestioning trust, but he didn’t want to risk it. He felt she was different than the others. She was kind. She was generous. She was smart. He didn’t want to say he thought of her as a challenge, but he enjoyed taking his time slithering into her mind.

“Sure,” she said after a while. “I guess there’s no harm in that.”


This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 07:57 AM

First off, let me say that I've been reading since Wrothken 1.0 and I've enjoyed the ride so far. I find your balance between Wrothken's thought process and what's actually happening very unique, and his humor is always good for a few laughs.

Poor Kirsty, always worrying about Wrothken and waiting to hear from him. He's thought of her several times since coming to the Isles and he hasn't thought to write her yet... (Unless he has, and I missed it.)





Ooh. I can't wait to see where this goes.

Keep up the good stuff

The champion of a lunatic couldn't very well be sane. It wouldn't make sense.
Indeed not. It would be... crazy!

Still, in spite of his very valid misgivings and natural homesickness, Wrothken does seem to be starting to ease into life in the Isles. He did make a friend in Bernice after all (she is one of my favorite people in the Isles), and is coming to enjoy the land, and at least some of the food. Even the grummites are not repelling him so much.

“I guess there’s no harm in that.”
Eeep! Is Kirsty going to become a cultist! Oh noes!


nits:
Itnearly knocked him off his feet.
The hungry forum at your space between It and nearly

Wrothken wondered if the beheading was done before or after it death
I am sure you wanted its there.

RainbowVeins~ Nice to see you reading Wrothken has thought of her, but more in terms of thinking of back when things were sane.

SubRosa~ I liked Bernice too. There's something very "grandmothery" about her.




After a couple well-deserved days of rest and relaxation, Wrothken made his way back to New Sheoth. Well, it wasn't all laying under the trees and staring at the stars. First a hideously emaciated creature came and during the fight it somehow ate away at Wrothken's armor and later on an elytra had shown up. One thing led to another and before he knew it Wrothken had cleared out a cave full of them.

As he made his way to the palace, he crossed a shop called The Missing Pauldron. He looked down at his dented and dingy armor and decided to stop in and see if it could get repaired.

Like everything else regarding Bliss and Crucible, this shop was a stark contrast to Cutter's place. It was clean and well lit. The top floor had stained glass windows. It even smelled like Kirsty’s bakery.

"Hello?" Wrothken called, walking down the stairs.

"Hello!" A gruff voice called back cheerily. An Orc stood behind the forge wearing a pink frilly apron as he wiped the counters. "I'm Dumag gro-Bonk. Best and prettiest smith in town."

Wrothken couldn't help staring at the ribbons tied into his hair.

"Sticky bun?" Dumag offered, lifting the top to a cake dish.

"No...thank you," Wrothken said. "Actually, I was wondering if you could repair this." He motioned to his armor.

"Oh, my word," Dumag said. "Well, take it off and let's see what we can do!"

Wrothken was put off by Dumag's unfaltering stare and thankful he wore regular clothes under his armor as he stripped it off. He set the damaged goods on the counter. Dumag tsked and shook his head.

"Somebody's been a violent bear! Don't worry, I'll have this fixed right up for you," Dumag said with a wink. "Oh and how's that big, heavy mace?"

Wrothken looked it over. It wasn't in danger of breaking, but it was better to repair it before it got too busted up. "That'll need a repair too, actually."

"Alright, well normally this would cost a little over twenty gold, but since you're so damn cute I'll do it for fifteen!"

He handed over the money, happy to get a discount even if it was only because the Orc was being flirty. Dumag took his hand in his and giggled. "What nice hands you've got!" Slowly letting go of them and putting the coins in a box he said, "They'll be about an hour. Why not sit and make yourself comfy?" He nodded to a floral printed loveseat between two suits of gold armor.

"You know," Wrothken said, backing towards the door. "I actually have to go see someone. Why don't I come back when they're ready?"

"Oh, I guess," he said pouting. "I'll see you later then."

As much as he didn't want to see Cutter, he didn't think he'd be able to exclusively go to Dumag. Maybe he could switch between them in order to not overload.



When Wrothken approached the throne, Sheogorath leapt up with a grin. "Well, well," he said walking toward him. "So you've experienced both shades of madness. Wonderful." He clapped his hands together. "You seemed fulfilled. Full of fill." He patted Wrothken's stomach. "Bursting at the seams. Seamless. Now to the meat of your endeavor. The crux of the situation. The reason for your being here!" He put his finger to his lips and added, "And the likely cause of your death."

Wrothken's eyes widened. "What?!"

Sheogorath proceeded on, as if he didn't hear him. "You'll be stopping the Greymarch. Altering the course of events, breaking the cycle! A fly in the ointment. A new cause for a different effect. We're going to change things." He put his arm around Wrothken and hugged him close. "No... things will be different this time around." He released him and poked his chest. "You'll be my champion. You'll grow powerful. You'll grow to be…” He dramatically moved both arms in a circle around his body and with his hands raised above his head, pointed at himself. “Me! Prince of Madness, a new Sheogorath. Or you'll die trying. I love that about you." He pinched Wrothken's cheek.

Getting a little irritated at the constant poking and prodding, Wrothken took a step back and asked, "How can I possibly be you? Or any Daedric Prince even?" He couldn't imagine it, though it did fuel his theory that Sheogorath was purposely trying to drive him insane.

"A fair question," Sheogorath said, rubbing his goatee. "You won't, really. At least I don't think so." He shrugged. "But you'll have power. My power. Try not to lose it. It's a pain to replace. But, for all intents and purposes, you'll be Me. A Me to fight the Him. Since I won't be around. It's simple, really. If you don't think about it."

It took every fiber of his being not to bury his face deep in his palm. A glance at Haskill showed that he was enjoying the show. "Wait," Wrothken said. "You won't be here? Then where in Oblivion are you going?!"

"Not here." Oh really? Wrothken's mind screamed. Sheogorath continued. "Didn't I say that? I'm never here when Jyggalag walks. It's one of the Rules!" To Wrothken, Sheogorath seemed like the last person in the world to be concerned about rules. "I've told you too much for now. Listen to me prattle on. I can see your mortal brain straining." Sheogorath tussled Wrothken's hair. "We'll talk more later."

Straining? Wrothken's brain was sobbing, if anything. "Why me?" He sighed.

Though the question was more to himself, Sheogorath responded. "Because you seem a nice enough sort. And you've made it this far. And if you don't, I'll swallow your soul and vomit it into the Everfilling Chamberpot of the Ageless." Sheogorath leaned in. "But mostly because I asked nicely," he said menacingly, squishing the eyeball atop his cane.

"Fine,” Wrothken said, closing his eyes. Sheogorath sure knew how to create colorful imagery in his mind. Wrothken didn’t like it. It made him feel like the Madgod was worming his way into his brain. That was not what he needed. “What's next then?"

"Now... you've seen the Great Torch that burns brightly over New Sheoth?"

Wrothken honestly couldn't recall seeing a torch over the city. Maybe he was too busy with everything else to notice, but he shook his head.

"No?" Sheogorath said, raising his eyebrows. "Because it doesn't!"

Trick question. Of course.

"It should. But it doesn't. You'll fix that. You'll go to Cylarne and bring back the Flame of Agnon to relight the torch. Oh... and take care with my minions at Cylarne. In their eternal quest to please me, they're constantly fighting over Cylarne. It can be tiresome. But, really, it's divine. Divinely tiresome. Well. That's your problem now," he said waving his hand. "Oh," he leaned in Wrothken's ear, whispering loudly, "Don't forget to make use of dear Haskill. Between you and me, if he's not summoned three or four times a day, I don't think he feels appreciated. Now, off with you. I don't want to see you again until the Great Torch is lit. I wouldn't want to have to hurt you. Much."

Wrothken looked at Haskill and sighed. "Can you tell me where Cylarne is, exactly?"

Haskill sighed heavily as Wrothken took out his map. "Cylarne was once the capital of the Shivering Isles. Perhaps the first capital." Wrothken didn't really want a history lesson, especially from Haskill, but he figured if it would help him not die trying, he would take what he could get. "In any case, the Flame of Agnon here is always used to light the Great Torch of New Sheoth. It has always been so, and presumably always will be so." He gave Wrothken back the map and continued.

"Now, the Flame of Agnon can only be lit by the immortal servants of Sheogorath: the Golden Saints and Dark Seducers of His creation. In normal times, Sheogorath would simply command it and his servants would leap to sacrifice themselves upon the Altars of Rapture and Despair. But, alas, the times are not normal, and Sheogorath has given you this task, without the authority to command it. I'm afraid you may have to be a little bit clever. I know that will probably be a stretch for you."

First order of business when I become Sheogorath, fire Haskill, Wrothken thought.

"Why is the flame so important?" He asked. "If it’s out now, then why bother with it?"

"It is a symbol of Sheogorath's power and a source of great comfort for the citizens of New Sheoth. For eternity, the start of the Greymarch has been heralded by the torch going out. Lord Sheogorath, in His wisdom, wishes for you to relight the Torch, to help ease the worries of the populace."

"Or... he could just talk to his people himself and tell them he's going to have it stopped, right?"

"Aren't you the curious one?" Sheogorath piped up from his throne. "You know what they say about curiosity, though, don't you? It killed the intrepid adventurer who really should just be doing exactly what I say at all times!"

Wrothken sighed. He figured that if he needed more information from Haskill he could always summon him later. Armed with little information, he left the castle trying not to think of it as possibly the last trip he would ever go on.

This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 07:59 AM

even though he had a sack full of ore to give her
I'll be he does!

A fun meeting with the prettiest smith in New Sheoth! Good thing Wroth is so cute, look at the money it is saving him!

Straining? Wrothken's brain was sobbing, if anything.
This is such an excellent way of describing the effects of a talk with Sheogorath!

First order of business when I become Sheogorath, fire Haskill, Wrothken thought.

For the first time in ages, he was able to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the Shivering Isles. The caps of the mushroom-like tree he settled under were a vivid turquoise and the flowers around him blossomed every shade the rainbow could offer. The leaves of other trees were all the rich colors of autumn and the sky above was cloudless blue, speckled with gold stars. Perfect.

I’ve never played in the SI, but this passage made me want to go there!

It smelled good, but he had a natural aversion to green meat.

That’s probably for the best!

As much as he didn't want to see Cutter, he didn't think he'd be able to exclusively go to Dumag. Maybe he could switch between them in order to not overload.

I like how Wrothken is figuring out how to cope with his situation, with this idea and with the plan to lean on Bernice when he needs to. I’m starting to think he might actually save himself!!

But now Kirsty in Kvatch talking with Capaneus is very worrisome. I wonder how that’s going to work out.

25

Despite going off to collect ore, Wrothken keeps brooding about Awour and Kalila.

Kvatch's time is nearing. I hope Kristy makes it into the chapel or out of the city!

26

That orc is hilarious!

Sheogorath takes the show though. He is sucha great character because he's so colorful. A pleasure to read, but very difficult to get along with as Wrothken is finding out.

I love this line: isn't everything?

Sorry it took so long to get over here and read, this month has been unbearably hectic so far.



This had me rolling! I could picture it! Better yet though - the Orc, and then Wrothken wondering about walking in on the girls together - this whole thing had me in stitches! Great Write !!

SubRosa~ Wrothken may prefer the pretty Orc, since he doesn't threaten

Grits~ The scenery in the SI was a great add since Cyrodiil looked so much like Northern California

King Coin~ Sheogorath was a fun Prince to work with, if only because he's so overly colorful.

mALX~ I'm glad I was able to make you laugh with it all. I never thought of myself as funny

Everyone~ I'm going to start including screenshots from the UESP of some characters and places. My main characters might be able to get screenshot if the camera takes a good enough picture of the tv




The road to Cylarne was long and scattered with gnarls, which he recognized as the walking trees he saw in Xedilian, and the emaciated creatures, identified by an annoyed Haskill as hungers. Wrothken was thankful that Dumag, uncomfortably flirtatious as he was, was a good smith and his armor was holding up nicely.

He was almost there when he came across a large obelisk, twice the size of the one he had come across when leaving Xedilian. Two Knights of Order were standing guard and a man in a purple robe and Orderly mask knelt between them, as if praying.

There was no way he could take on all three at once and they were smack in between him and Cylarne. He summoned Haskill to see if he had any advice.

"Yes, what is it you require," he said as he appeared by a tree. He looked and saw the Knights. "Oh dear. I suppose you want to know how to deal with them quickly?"

Wrothken nodded.

"Very well," he said, as if Wrothken had asked him to count all the stars in the sky. "The Knights are mere shells. Use that brutish strength of yours to beat them to a pulp. Now the Priest... A bad lot they are. Traitors. They perform rituals at the obelisks to summon Knights to the Realm. Their link to Jyggalag gives them power. As long as their obelisk is active, they cannot truly be killed."

"So, if I can deactivate the obelisk, then they can be killed?"

"Precisely," he said. "Remind me to give you a cookie when you return to the castle."

Wrothken rolled his eyes. "Then how do I deactivate it?"

"You just lost your cookie." Haskill tsked. "You need to place three hearts of order into the obelisk. It will cause an overload of sorts and shut it down."

"Alright...where can I get a heart of order?"

Haskill pulled what looked like a jagged gray stone from his pocket. "This is a heart of order. It comes from, believe it or not, a Knight of Order. I see how you may have been confused. You will find them in the chest cavity of a Knight."

He nodded, accepting the heart from Haskill, while simultaneously picturing bashing Haskill's head in and leaving him in the bushes. Only in dreams. "That's all I needed."

As he started to vanish, he said, "My work is never done."

Wrothken left the bushes, catching the immediate attention of the priest and his knights. "Kill him," the priest shouted. The two knights rushed over.

Both knights slammed their swords down on Wrothken. They landed in an "x" which Wrothken blocked with his mace. The knights pressed hard on their swords, but Wrothken pushed harder, knocking one of the knights down.

The first merely recoiled for a second and Wrothken took advantage of the moment to bash its head. It let out no cry or scream of agony, which gave Wrothken goosebumps. The other knight came running back and was greeted by a mace to the temple.

Wrothken was about to crack open their armor to collect their hearts when he felt a sharp tingling sensation in his body followed by a brief numbness that knocked him to the ground. Trails of lightning etched themselves all over his body.

The priest was backed against the obelisk. "Fall in the name of Jyggalag!" He cried.

Wrothken got up and ran at him, not wanting to feel another shock. The priest took out a small dagger and swung at him, slashing his cuirass. Wrothken blocked his next swing with one arm and headbutted the priest.

"Ow," he said, rubbing his head with the back of his hand. That priest had one good helmet.

When Wrothken felt another charge of lightning surge through him, he roared and swung his mace upwards, getting the priest just under the chin. He flew back, leaving the obelisk undefended.

Wrothken tossed the first heart of order in and was just about to crack open one of the knights, when he felt a blade nick the back of his neck. In a panic, he turned and saw a Knight of Order behind him. After Wrothken took it down, he reached for the fresh wound. It was just a shallow cut. The knight must have swung before it was close enough to do any real damage. Even after casting a healing spell, he shook. His head could have been lopped clean off.

He tried not to think about it as he cracked open the chest cavity of the fallen knight. Wrothken shuddered. There were no organs, no blood. Just a hollow cavity that held the heart. He was told that they were mere shells, but it still gave him chills.

He loaded the second heart into the obelisk and once again, a knight appeared. It was then that Wrothken made the connection that loading hearts brought more knights. Wonderful.

After that knight was dead, Wrothken looked at the priest, who was starting to stir and he grabbed another heart and tossed it in the obelisk. The priest let out a sharp gasp and stopped moving. Wrothken was left with the final knight. "Last one, last one, last one," he chanted as he fought it. As soon as it fell, he collapsed to his knees, panting hard. He sat leaning on the deactivated obelisk for awhile before continuing on to Cylarne.



Wrothken could tell he had reached Cylarne because of the incredible tension in the air. There was a gate on each side, one with Golden Saints and one with Mazken. Since he hadn't yet met a Golden Saint that he liked, he approached the Mazken.

"State your business," she said, glancing at the Golden Saint across the way. "Cylarne is holy ground, unfit for mortals."

"Sheogorath sent me to light the flame," Wrothken said.

Her eyes lit up and she smiled warmly to him. "Then you are free to enter the Shrine of the Flame of Agnon. This key will allow you passage through any door in Cylarne." She handed him a large, deep blue key. The key itself was a work of art. Depending on the angle he held it in, he could see silver swirls dance along the blue shimmers. As Wrothken unlocked the gate, she added, "The Flame is lit from the Shrine's two Altars. Once the Aureals are driven out of Cylarne, it will be our pleasure to light the Flame for Sheogorath. The Grakedrig Ulfri will explain everything. You should speak to her at once."

Wrothken paused. "Drive the Aureals out?” He looked around. “You mean the Golden Saints?"

The Mazken huffed. "There is nothing saintly about them. They are arrogant and bring great shame to our Lord Sheogorath. One day he will see that we Mazken are his only truly loyal servants."

As much as he really didn't want to take sides, she had a point about their arrogance. "Okay, thank you."

The fortress was dark, much like Xedilian had been, except it was as clean as a fortress could be. There were several busts of Sheogorath around, giving Wrothken the paranoid feeling of being watched through them. He shut his eyes and forced the thought away. No way in Oblivion was he going to wind up like Syl.

When he opened a second gate within Cylarne, he was stopped by another Mazken. "A mortal wandering the halls of holy Cylarne... and a male no less," she sneered. "Explain yourself."

Wrothken was taken aback by her remark. "I..." He cleared his throat. "I need to speak with Grey.... Um... Grak..?"

"Grakedrig Ulfri?" She asked impatiently. "What do you want with her?"

"Sheogorath sent me to light the flame."

"Then I am at your service." She said, this time without a trace of attitude. "The Grakedrig Ulfri commands here. You will wish to speak to her at once, no doubt."

She led him to a Mazken with closely cropped brown hair. She was checking the weapons and armor of another Mazken. Upon seeing Wrothken, she said, "Be gone, mortal, or you will soon find yourself between the Mazken and their prey. A most dangerous place to be." She nodded to the Mazken in front of her, granting her permission to leave. "We are preparing to wipe out the arrogant Aureals once and for all. Once they break themselves on our defenses, Cylarne will be ours, a gift for our Lord Sheogorath."

"That sounds great, and I can see you're busy, but Sheogorath really needs me to light the flame. So how about you light it for me and I'll leave you to your war."

"You wish to light the flame?" Ulfri grinned. "Then you have arrived just in time to help us defend the Altar of Despair. Once the strength of the Aureals is shattered, I will be honored to light the Flame as my Lord Sheogorath commands."

He sighed. Haskill said he'd need to be clever, but this was not what he expected. "Look, like you and the other Mazken have noticed, I'm just a mortal… and a male at that. I wouldn't be that helpful to you fighting the Golden Saints...so why don't you just light the flame and I'll be on my way. Please?"

"The two altars, Blessed Despair and Holy Rapture, feed the great Flame of Agnon above us. Only Sheogorath's immortal servants can kindle the Altars, and I am at my Lord's command. But I only hold Despair... for the moment. The Aureals hold Rapture, and are massing to attack us." Wrothken's eyes widened. Ulfri smiled reassuringly. "But never fear, they are no match for us. They'll come down the main passage from the Altar of Rapture." She pointed at a path on a lower floor. "They always do. They are overconfident, as usual. We have prepared many traps and ambushes. It will be a glorious slaughter. Once the Aureals are destroyed, I will light the Flame of Agnon for you. Will you help us defend the Altar of Despair?"

Wrothken stared at her with his eyes wide and his mouth agape. He wanted to ask if she was serious. He really wanted them to just put their fight to the side for fifteen minutes and light the damn flame, but that would be too easy. And he had a feeling Sheogorath knew it. Sometimes Jyggalag and his ways of Order didn't seem so bad.

He sighed, looking at his battered armor. It was already banged up from dealing with the Knights of Order. But what choice did he have? If the Golden Saints were about to attack, then going to them for help would be at the price of attacking the Mazken.

"Alright, fine. Just promise to light the flame."

"This will be a glorious day! Cylarne will finally be free of the Aureals. Follow me. We're expecting the attack at any moment."

She led him to a group of Mazken and to his surprise, there were a few men in the group. "The Aureal plan to attack through their usual passage. We are prepared for them and our Lord Sheogorath has sent us his emissary to aid us, proving that we are His chosen!" Ulfri clapped him on the back and the Mazken cheered loudly. Of course, that was not the reason he was there, but there was no point in lowering their morale.

Metallic footsteps rang through the halls. "The Aureals are beginning their attack! Show them no mercy! Today, Cylarne shall finally belong to us!"

The following ordeal was among the most terrifying things Wrothken had ever experienced. Everywhere he turned, maces and axes were swung. Arrows whizzed uncomfortably close to him, one grazing him just under his eye. Everything was a blur of blue and gold bodies with splashes of red blood. "Et tah, Mazken" and "Et tah, Aureal," rang through his ears until finally, and to his relief, the Golden Saints were defeated. Should they have been the ones to win the battle, Wrothken had a feeling they would immediately execute him, whether or not he claimed to be SHeogorath’s emissary.

"Victory is ours!" Ulfri cried. "I have already instructed my subordinates to kindle the Altar of Rapture. It is my honor to sacrifice myself on the Altar of Despair at Lord Sheogorath's command. I have hoped for this moment since I took command of the Mazken at Cylarne."

"Sacrifice yourself? But...then... why not just have a Golden Saint do it? I mean...you wanted them dead after all."

"The Altars which feed the Flame of Agnon can be kindled only by the willing death of an immortal. Every Mazken under my command would gladly accept this honor, if it was not my own to claim." She smiled gently, patting his shoulder. "You fought well. I would almost grant you the honor of kindling the Altar, if you were an immortal. Farewell. The waters of Oblivion await me."

As the remaining Mazken knelt before the altar, Ulfri stepped onto the altar and took out a dagger that rested at her side. With a smile, she plunged the dagger into her stomach. She fell over and burst into blue-green flame.

When the rest of the Mazken stood up, Wrothken headed outside. He was greeted by a roaring blue-green flame in the center of Cylarne. "Okay..." He said. How could he get the flame to New Sheoth? He snapped his fingers. "A torch!"

He ran to the nearest Mazken. "Are there any torches around here?"

She paused. "There may be. We have no need for them ourselves, but there are plenty of other things around here we have no use for. Look at all the Aureal we dispatched," she said with a wink.

A Mazken with a sense of humor. He'd consider marrying her if she weren't a daedra.

Minutes later, she returned with a torch in hand. He hoped a sudden gust of wind wouldn't blow it out on the way back to New Sheoth. That would be so Sheogorath.

Hoping for the best, he stuck the torch in but to his disappointment the flame wouldn't catch. He put his hand on the end and it was cold to the touch. It wasn’t wet, so he wasn’t sure what the problem was. He held it in once again sticking it in as far as he could, but nothing.

The Mazken had all retreated back to the halls of Cylarne so he only had one option left. He summoned Haskill again.

Haskill appeared with a loud sigh. "I wondered how long it would be until you needed my help...yet again. Though shockingly, you did accomplish your task. There's no denying the Golden Saints are defeated. Spearing fish in a barrel might have proved to be too challenging. So, what was it that you require?"

Wrothken ignored his commentary. "How exactly do I get the flame to New Sheoth? I thought about lighting it with a torch, but it won't ignite."

"Did you try stepping into the flame?"

Wrothken stared at the roaring green flames. "How stupid do you think I am?"

For the first time as far as Wrothken had seen, Haskill smiled. "Do you want an honest answer?"

Wrothken glared at him. "Go into the flame? Why so I can burn to death?"

Haskill shook his head. "You don't trust me? How disappointing. Think, if it's not too much of an effort for you. What good would you be burned to a crisp? Keep in mind that if this doesn't work, I suffer as well. Can you even begin to imagine what it is to endure Lord Sheogorath after finding his realm demolished? You would soil yourself. Now be a good boy and jump in the fire. My Lord will be waiting for your return." With that, Haskill disappeared.

"Not very helpful," Wrothken said, glancing back at the flames. He reached toward it nervously. It was warm, but not scalding. Cringing his thrust his hand in and to his amazement, it didn't burn. In fact, it was rather comfortable. He slowly moved the rest of his body in until he was engulfed in the bright flames.



This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 08:01 AM

I guess Wrothken now has a glowing personality?

I enjoyed his confusion over the details of the Flame of Agnon. I didn't realize either until the Grey-whazhername killed herself what it took to light the fire. And it was weird helping one group against the other.

I usually choose to help the Mazken, too. I just like their attitudes better.