Inheritance Chapter Three Options

[Zarrexaij]

I'll get some more comin' soon. Y'all just sit here and wait as I post more stuff. I won't edit this post to add more, though. I'll just post it.

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Inheritance
Chapter Three: Bark and Bite

Zarrexaij had just entered the famed meadhall of Thirsk when he had heard the guttural, accent-rich voice of a Nord barbarian.

“I heard from Isralla th’ other day there’s a werewolf runnin’ ‘round here. She said the wolf was unusual. He had jet black fuir and was ‘bout twice the size of a normal werwolf. She saw its shadow at the highest peak of Moesring Mountain barkin’ and howlin’ at the full moon. Somehow, the unholy beast saw her, and slid down the mountain sides t’wards her. Isralla reported that it seemed unusually intelligent... and, well... insane. Said it made strange sounds that sounded like laughter. Then, it disappeared into the night. That’s a bad sign. If it’s any smarter than the average werewolf, we have trouble on our hands.”

Zarrexaij was tempted to flee the place. He was a newcomer, and suspected they would find him a bit suspicious. Afterall, he was pretty damn tall, and his scales were darker than ebony. But... they couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t ever know the truth. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly closed the meadhall’s doors and stepped towards the group of Nords. They turned towards him, and were shocked to see such an unusual creature so far up north.

“What are ye, an overgrown Argonian?” the first one, a tubby, dirty blond headed male Nord interrogated him, cocking his broad head at the half-Rapthyr. Zarrexaij calmly, too calmly, answered, “No. I am a half-Black Rapthyr.” A second Nord, a tall strawberry blond with a little bit of facial hair, lifted an eyebrow.

“Ne’er heard of such a thing.” Zarrexaij laughed. He wasn’t surprised at all. Not that he thought they were completely incompetant, it was just that Black Rapthyrs were a dying breed. With an offended look on his face, the second Nord then riposted, “What’s so funny, eh?” Zarrexaij looked at him square in his blue-gray eyes. “I’m not surprised that you have not heard of the Black Rapthyrs before,” Zarrexaij replied ,“I just find it amusing. I apologize.” The Nord gave him a slow, pensive nod. The Nord’s eyes darted around for a few minutes before asking the bundled-up Rapthyr, or, rather, half-Rapthyr, another question. “What brings ye up this far, half... Rapthyr?” Zarrexaij thought for a second. Why was he here? Oh, that’s right. “I’m up here because,” Zarrexaij paused, gathering his scattered thoughts together in an organized way, “I like the forests and snow. It’s a bit of a ‘vacation’ for me. This place reminds me of Blacklight with the snow and all.” He chuckled heartedly, smiling at the memories that were more than five hundred years old.

“Oh, ye are from mainland Morrowind? Interestin’,” the Nord said it sincerely, swallowing saliva in his throat and causing his larynx to bob a little. The half-Rapthyr obsessively smoothed out his thick robe he bought from a trader in Khuul. Supposedly, it was made from furs of wolves. He thought the robe was a little... soft to be wolf fur. “I take it you don’t get much action up here? You Nords seem a bit bored,” Zarrexaij spoke loudly. His oddly beautiful voice jingled in the room as bells. The Nord gave him a half smile, “Not much. We drink. We be merry. Occasionally, we get a werewolf sightin’ or two back near the Moestring Mountains. I think it has to due with the Bloodmoon. So many bad omens have appeared here and there. It’s worryin’. Now, all we need is some damned witches and we’ll be complete.” The Nord chortled nervously. It was almost as if they were suffering greatly. They probably needed a good laugh.

This all happened a few weeks later when Zarrexaij had noticed something odd about the moons. It just so happened he was, unbeknowst to himself, about to be a part of something important again

[Zarrexaij]

It was now the second day of the apparent "infection," and Zarrexaij was acting a little more like his self. However, he seemed depressed, and ever since he had woken up, he had hid himself in his basement and locked the door with a very powerful spell. Fortunately, Verunollo had someone more unstable around to unwid the extremely tense half-Rapthyr. It wasn't that it was abnormal for Zarrexaij to be in his study; he just never locked the door. Veruna suspected he was studying. Not that it would do him much good.

The Dunmeri-looking woman had gone into town earlier in the day and bought a Cure Common Disease potion for the stubborn mule. She had looked in town for a scroll to open the door, but nothing was powerful enough. Of course, none of the spell merchants had the needed spell, so she went on her way. Verunollo was a mage herself, but she was hardly powerful enough to unlock a stupid door. Of course... she could always ask the lingering Sheogorath to, who seemed a bit bored with the "normal," stable nature of the stronghold.

"I suppose you'll go down into that dungeon of his and give him this? He's too stubborn to go out himself, and I'm sure he'll, though reluctantly, drink it if you give it to him," she muttered to him lowly. The Daedric Prince was sitting down and playing with one of the knives, but did not turn His attention away from it. He replied dully, "Of course." Veruna laid the vail on the table gently, trying to prevent herself from glaring at the reluctant tone in His voice.

Sheogorath had gone down there, as promised, and was surprised at how dark it was in there. The only light that was illuminating the large room was emitted from the desk. Not to anyone's surprise, Zarrexaij was sitting at his desk, writing in a blank book. To his left was an inkwell. Zarrexaij had unusually elegant handwriting, even for the Daedric caligraphy. Every sigil seemed perfected and elaborated beyond belief. It was a stereotype that magus and sorcerers had horrible handwriting, but this seemed not to matter to Zarrexaij. But, then again, Zarrexaij was hardly your average spellcaster

Sheogorath had noted that Zarrexaij's stern expression was groggy but concentration. He hadn't eaten in several hours, but that hardly seemed to matter. The Daedric Prince watched the flicks on the quill on the paper, and the ink produced from them. At Sheogorath's angle, He could easily see what the half-Rapthyr was writing.

"I'm so tired. This fatigue is unusual. I feel tired... but not in the sense that I need rest. Not in the sense I need to restore my magicka, or that my health is ebbing. No. It's a tide that I feel taking me away. It's almost as if someone had stolen my magickal umbilical cord. Ironically, if it had been, I would not be here, writing. I would be dead. Dead. Death sounds so comforting now. Five hundred and thirty-three years is a long time to go bounding on," he wrote quickly. He put little effort into thinking about what he had said. Behind the Rapthyr, the Daedric Prince gazed at him dramatically. It was very apparent now that the disease was affecting him. He had gone beyond reason, and that was not good.

Sheogorath decided to play a vilely clever trick on the Rapthyr. As soon as Zarrexaij lay the quill in the inkwell, Sheogorath used telekinesis to pick it up. With it, He started "writing:"

"Is that how it is?"

Zarrexaij looked at the book, stunned. Was he suffering a hallucination? Well, he hadn;t eaten in quite a while. He took a spare quill out of his desk. Two could play at this game.

"Yes. Yes it is."

Sheogorath smirked at the oblivious mortal, or whatever you would call the little monster. Using the quill, he replied:

"Such an ungrateful mortal. You would not be so sullen if you were actually near death."

Zarrexaij grunted and glared at the floating quill. Taking his own, he dipped it in ink, and briskly responded.

"I am not your lapdog."

The Daedric Prince felt like bursting into laughter. This was amusing.

"You are my hand," the living quill retorted. A stuble growl was emitted from the Rapthyr.

"I am not your sky."

But the riposted was, "You are the stars."

A very hammish countenance was on the muzzle of Zarrexaij. Anger flickered steadily in his faintly glowing eyes that were a kwama miner's lantern.

"I am not your thunderstorm."

Sheogorath manipulated the quill to dip it in ink.

"You are the rain."

Finally, Zarrexaij caught up to what was happening, or at least some of it. Smugly, he wrote.

"What do you want of me?"

The Daedric Prince grinned lop-sidedly. The quill flickered on the parchment.

"I want you to realize the importance of being grateful for the few blessing you have, mortal."

Zarrexaij read the statement, and felt sheepish. He felt a strange presence around him. The quill was laid down. He turned around.

"Oh," Zarrexaij muttered, feelling more than a little bit stupid. He should have suspected Sheogorath was up to mischief. He noticed Sheogorath was holding a bottle of odd-looking, odd-smelling liquid. So Zarrexaij, naturally, interrogated curiously, "What is that?" The Daedric Prince took no time to think of a lie to loosen the Rapthyr up, so He told the truth. "A potion to rid you of that dreadful disease," He replied sourly, gritting his teeth at the silly mage. Zarrexaij looked offended. "You have to take it. Don't make me force it down your throat. I'd prefer to do it the easy way."

Zarrexaij sighed, and held out his hand for the potion. Sheogorath hastily gave to the Rapthyr, relieved that he had put up no fight. He watched the Rapthyr carefully as he opened it and drank it. Only a few sips got in before in slipped out of his feeble hands.

"Blast it!" the Rapthyr hissed, reviling at the liquid at his feet. Sheogorath sighed and replied while rolling his eyes at the suddenly clumsy thing, "Don't worry. I'm sure it cured you. If it didn't, wait until tomorrow. When you sprout fur, you will know." Zarrexaij leaned back into his chair. He felt a little lighter.