Madness Helps Me Save Myself Options

[Jacki Dice]

Hello again. Thank you all for reading my previous thread, Champion of Madness. As I posted before, I felt the story was in need of a lot of work. First off, titles are one of my weakest points. I have to admit, it took me hours to come up with "Champion of Madness" (sad, I know) but it just didn't feel right, not to mention the fact that it didn't work with the upcoming Oblivion Crisis. Other than that, there were characters issues, plot holes, and world building issues that I felt could only be dealt with by starting fresh, with a better idea of where I was going.

That said, I'd like to welcome you to the revamped version. I hope you all enjoy it ♥

PS....I made a typo in the title... I sure feel silly now -_- Please ignore it.

~~~~~♥~~~~~

Prologue

Wrothken didn't even flinch as a deafening roar erupted from the arena. He remained in his seat at the bar, his head slumped over a cup of tea that had long since gotten cold. He sat listening to the dull buzz of quiet conversations, his ears searching for specific words. He knew he shouldn't. If he happened to overhear something that he didn't want to hear it would send him into an even deeper pit of despair or rage, like when that jerk the other night asked Kirsty if Wrothken's "Uncle Flo" had been in town. Wrothken knew what that implied as did the rest of the bakery. And many people found it hilarious up until Wrothken nearly beat that man to death with a chair.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

He could tell Kirsty was right in front of him. He could smell lavender lingering under the scent of fresh bread, cinnamon, and ham. He heard her sigh softly. He knew she wanted to help. She even tried getting him rip roaring drunk and then taking him to a brothel. Oh, what a fiasco that had been. The drink only magnified his sorrow, causing him to bawl like a baby in the middle of the street and then once he was with the working girl his body wouldn't cooperate, no matter what she did. Though she had shrugged it off, claiming to have seen that a thousand times, it wasn’t exactly something that a man ever quite lived down, drunk or not.

Kirsty sighed again. "You're only letting them win."

Wrothken raised his head slightly. Behind his curtain of Bravil-water blond hair, he saw her tiny hands holding a large knife and slicing up some ham. He brushed the hair from his face and looked up all the way. She was such a mess, but cute in a way. When she opened up that morning she had been wearing a nice, clean turquoise blouse. Now, even though she wore an apron, it was covered in white and brown powder. Her dark brown hair wasn't long enough to braid, so she wore it in a simple ponytail, though as the day went by the short locks that were once bangs escaped. Her cool brown eyes were on the meat, though she occasionally glanced up at Wrothken.

Wrothken stared at the ham. Its scent was suddenly the most captivating thing in the world and his stomach announced it loudly.

"What was that?" Kirsty asked, setting the knife down. The bright blush across his face told her the answer. "What have you eaten today?"

Wrothken shrugged. He hadn't been feeling hungry lately but when he had, the thought of food sickened him. The very act of chewing and swallowing seemed like just too much effort.

Kirsty huffed and set a cinnamon apple muffin in front of him. The crumbly top beckoned him, the sweetness he knew he would find seducing him. Yet the thought of eating turned his mouth sour. Still, if he didn't eat it, Kirsty would probably jump over the counter and shove it down his throat. He bit into it, trying to catch the crumbles before they hit the floor.

"That's better," she said, continuing to chop up the ham. "You look like you've lost weight actually."

Wrothken grunted. Atrea had been pestering him to lose weight for years. He was broad-shouldered and a bit "snuggly," as Kirsty put it. It was almost funny how the pounds began to shed after he caught his intended in bed with another man. A thigh slapper really.

"Great," he finally said. "Now if I could just lose all my body hair, maybe I could win her back."

Kirsty crinkled her nose. "No, don't do that. That's just...weird. Have you ever seen a hairless Nord? It would look off and I bet you’d hate the feeling. And besides," she looked at him, wagging her knife as she spoke. "If you take that girl back, so help me, Wrothken, I will beat you with my rolling pin until the sense comes back in your head."

He believed her. She didn't like Atrea much before but now it was full on hate. The feeling was mutual. Not that she ever admitted it, but he knew Atrea was insanely jealous of Kirsty. He didn’t think she should have been, but he could understand why. Kirsty built herself up from a grape picker for Tamika to a little pastry cart by the markets to an upscale bakery. She was as strong, persistent, and smart as she was beautiful, and Wrothken happened to work late with her most nights. Not that anything happened. He had honor. He was faithful.

"Have you given any thought to my idea?" She asked.

He had, but he didn't really want to go through with it. "I won't run away," he said quietly. He would rather drop dead than give them the satisfaction of knowing they ran him out of town, tail between his legs.

"I never said to run away," Kirsty said. She glanced back at an hourglass atop the oven. The pink sand was almost all the way at the bottom. She swore under her breath and began chopping faster. "I said take a break. Go on a trip for a while to help clear your head. Maybe meet some new people while you're at it."

"But they'll think I ran away!" He protested. He could imagine them laughing about it after a good romp in the sack. His stomach churned at the thought.

Kirsty set her knife down again, exasperatedly saying, "Who gives a flying guar what they think? They aren’t worth the filth under your boots. Why are you going to let them control your well-being?" She chopped furiously. "Do you really think it’s healthy to just hang around here forever? Or avoid places because you're afraid to run into them?"

She had a point. Kirsty always had a point and she would nag and push and prod until the point was not only seen, but agreed with.

"Where would I even go?"

"Well," she looked at the hourglass. It was empty. She opened the oven and pulled out a batch of flaky croissants. "You're from Bruma. Why not start there?"

Wrothken's slapped the counter. "I'd sooner hunt mudcrabs while skyclad!"

Kirsty laughed a bit.

"I'm serious!" Wrothken said, shoving the rest of the muffin in his mouth. "If I set foot there, my ma will bludgeon me with 'I-told-you-so' until my ears bleed! No way am I going back there like this!"

"Okay," Kirsty said taking out a bread knife. She took each croissant and cut it in half before slathering on creamy butter. "How about the Imperial City? There's lots to offer there. In fact, I'd like to move there one day..." She trailed off for a moment as a slight smile grew on her lips.

He agreed on that point. The Imperial City was the center of everything. A man could make his fortune there just as easily as he could lose it. All kinds of opportunity was found there.

"And I'm not saying forever, either." She continued, placing the sliced ham on the bottom halves of the croissants. "Just a week or two. Just enough time to clear your head."

"But what about you?" He asked.

"I'll be fine," she said as she started to slice bright tomatoes. Chop! Chop! Chop! Chop! Chop! Wrothken was amazed that she never sliced a finger off with how quick she was with her blade. "If I could get from Valenwood to Skingrad on my own, I'm sure I can handle a few drunken oafs. Besides, it’s just for a little bit. Worst case, I can see if Yyaevannte can come by now and then. He’s not as big as you, but he’s Fighter’s Guild."

Wrothken could see that she wasn't going to let up. As much as he wanted to just go back upstairs and sulk in bed, she would just push it later, over and over and over until he went mad. Women. Why did they have to be such nags?

"Fine, fine," he sighed, getting up. "I'll get my gear then."

"Hold it," she said. "It's not enough to just go. This is a chance for a new beginning. Once you leave those gates, I want you to think of it as the first day of the rest of your life. No thinking of her. No thinking of him. Now, you are going to reclaim your dignity. Just promise me that."

He nodded. He didn't remember ever seeing her so serious before. "Alright, I'll do my best."

"Good! Now, come see me before you leave. I'll pack a lunch for you. And write to me once you get there."

"I will."

"No, promise me. I know how you are. You'll forget the moment you find something interesting. In fact, I'll even write a little reminder for you."



This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 07:29 AM

[Jacki Dice]

SubRosa~ I love how this drips with bitter sarcasm! Lol that's me! It gets me in a lot of trouble (mostly with Wrothken ) but this is such a good outlet for it all

D. Foxy~ Yes It's not just Sheogorath messing with your head

Grits~ She’s not bossy, she just knows what he should be doing. Exactly. Its best to just listen and accept it

~~~~~♥~~~~~

Chapter One: A Door in Niben Bay

"Your money or your life!" The Khajiit snarled with one hand on her steel mace. It was well worn, probably from several violent robberies.

Just this morning, Wrothken would have simply walked by, hoping the bandit would end it quickly. Bow it was different. He promised Kirsty that it was a new beginning. It had to start now.

"Why don't you take that mace and shove it up your tail?"

The Khajiit growled. "You know what? I'll just take both!" She swung the mace at him. Well worn or not, it looked like it would be decent enough with some minor repair. If he could disarm her, he would take that on the road with him.

He dodged her blow and punched her in the face. She reeled back, grabbing her nose with her free hand. Her eyes were on fire and Wrothken knew he had to be quick. She roared, swinging the mace as hard as she could, barely missing his shoulder. Wrothken noticed her overstep, and he grabbed her wielding arm with one hand, pulling her in, and he thrust his knee hard into her stomach. As she cried out, Wrothken was able to wrench the mace from her hand. In one quick move, he slammed it against her side. She moaned in pain, clutching it. Wrothken wasn't sure if it was in his head, but he swore he heard a crack on contact.

"Jekosiit!" She hissed. Quickly, she ran from him.

Wrothken's heart thudded as he watched her take off, cursing at the top of her lungs. It felt good to get some of his aggression out. He almost wished the fight would have gone on longer. However, he was wasting precious sunlight standing out there so he hurried away.

As he walked, he looked south to Valenwood. He briefly considered heading in that direction instead of the Imperial City, to start his new life but then he remembered all Kirsty had told him. The government was in ruins. They were distrustful of other races, so a Nord would be unwelcome and likely alone in the society. Oh, and she said something about them eating other people occasionally. That indeed was a dealbreaker. After all, he could easily feed a family of four and then some. He also didn't know if Bosmer had a preference toward "white meat." Shaking his head, he continued on the Gold Road.

With a sigh, he realized that he didn't think about the loneliness factor when he allowed Kirsty to talk him into his journey. He was by nature a very chatty person. He looked back, barely able to see the faint outline of Castle Kvatch. He wanted desperately to go back and convince Kirsty to go with him, but he couldn't. For one, the afternoon was slowly giving away to evening and she hated traveling by night. The other thing was that she would never leave her bakery. Not after all the blood, sweat, and tears she poured into it. Kvatch would burn, and she would remain, rebuilding with her own tiny hands if she had to. Trying to accept his isolation, he turned to his own mind for conversation.

He looked around as he crossed Skingrad. "I wonder what it would be like here in Wine County..." He envisioned himself in a house with cultured friends over, sampling the latest Surilie Brothers concoction with fine cheeses. He laughed out loud. That was no place for him, except for the cheese. He was more the type to guzzle ale in a loud, seedy tavern.

Soon he saw a woman standing in the middle of the road. She was a Dunmer, wearing only simple clothing. When he got closer, he noticed dirt stains on her knees and leaves in her hair. Her stubby fingers were caked with soil. He smiled. "Afternoon," he said, longing for a decent conversation.

"A perfect tomato... one taste, and it is gone forever. And then... a lifetime of searching for the next one," she said sadly. "Undena Orethi. I am a pilgrim in search of the perfect tomato. It is my grail, and I shall follow it all my life."

Wrothken didn't know what to say. He wanted someone to talk to, but really? Tomatoes? He gave her a nod and continued on his way.

As the path took a sharp curve, a thought came into his mind suddenly. Kirsty was right! I haven't thought about Atrea all day! Then he stopped. "Dammit!" he shouted, stomping his foot. Those thoughts were always counter productive, as his mind always became flooded with memories of the Altmer. Anytime he closed his eyes, he swore he could feel her golden hair on his cheeks. He could still see her pale green eyes staring at him, though he was miles away from her. He still smelled her flowery scent--

"Stop it!" he said aloud. He forbade his mind to bring her up again. Obviously Skingrad wasn't far enough.

He glared at the ground as he walked until a round stone caught his eye. It was white and smooth, just laying on the path. Curiously, he nudged it with his foot. It rolled over, greeting him with empty eye sockets and a malicious grin. A skull. He instantly felt a chilling numb throughout his body. He nudged it again, turning its gaze elsewhere. Only a few minutes had passed when he came across another. He ignored it, forcing himself to keep his head held high, though it was hard to resist the urge to slink back to Kvatch.

"Stop it," he repeated, this time in a harsh whisper. "She is not worth it. I'm stronger than this. Kirsty was right, I can beat this on my own." His heart pounded angrily in his chest. "Traitor," he growled.

He stomped up the path until he came across two headless skeletons in front of a cave. On either side of the cave was a stake with three skulls impaled on them. More skulls hung from ropes alongside the rickety door. Contrasting them were heart-shaped leaves with budding violet flowers, wrapping beautifully around the door and even on the poles holding the skulls.

Curiosity was almost overwhelming him. He put his hand on the knob, pressing his ear to the door. He could hear shuffling and throaty grunts and whispers. He couldn't make out any words. As he twisted the knob, a saying popped into his mind: Curiosity killed the Khajiit. He considered skipping it and heading back to the path, but he remembered that Kirsty always added: But satisfaction brought it back.

He took his hand from the knob and took his torch from his back. He concentrated hard, feeling warmth in his heart. The warmth blossomed within him and felt as if it was trailing down his left arm and bloomed in his hand. He used the small flame to ignite the torch. He didn't know what exactly was in there, but with his mace drawn and a pounding heart and quivering legs, he burst in.

A pair of goblins were a few yards ahead of him, apparently arguing over a fresh rat corpse. However, Wrothken's arrival brought them a new source of food, or so they thought. They both ran at him, one holding a rusted dagger, the other a wooden club. Wrothken had heard of people getting extremely sick from rust-infected wounds, so he focused on the bladed one first.

He was thankful for his steel cuirass. Even though it had seen much better days, it reduced the pain of the whacks he got from the club, as he attacked the first goblin. After it went down, he turned quickly, giving the second goblin a well-earned beating. The goblin chose to remain and take it until Wrothken's final blow. As it fell, Wrothken heard a clinking noise. A few gold coins and a lock pick fell from its rags. Seeing as how the goblin no longer had use for either, Wrothken picked them up and continued inside.

The first room was quiet. Most likely the two goblins were in the area before the rat came along. The first thing Wrothken noticed was a large mound in the corner with bright silver veins wrapping around it. Excited, Wrothken searched the area for a pick. Maybe if I harvest enough silver, I can convince Atrea to come back! he thought. "No, no, no!" he shouted, hitting himself on the head with each exclaim. He wasn't going to allow himself to crawl back to her. But the silver... oh, yes, he would show her. If he could get enough silver, he could show her exactly what she lost. If only he could find a pick!

In his hunting, he stumbled over a small, wooden chest. He knelt down, setting his mace down in front of him, and tried to open it. He sighed in relief as it opened without the objection of a lock. However, he was disappointed to find no pickaxe. He was rewarded with a handful of gold. "Least it's something," he muttered. With a forlorn glance at the tempting silver, he continued on.

He was caught by surprise when a goblin smacked him in the stomach with an iron mace. It must have heard him in the next room. The blow caused him to stumble a little, but when he got his bearings back, he retaliated, burying his mace in the goblin's gut. The goblin squawked angrily and tried to bite Wrothken's arm with his noticeably sharp teeth. Wrothken quickly withdrew, since his arm was unprotected and he slammed his mace into the goblin's forehead.

He wasn't sure if it killed it or just knocked it out, so he didn't take his sweet time surveying the room. It was a dead end anyway. The only thing of interest was another silvery vein and a chest. Wrothken looked at the goblin and poked it with his foot. It didn't stir. If it was alive, it wouldn't return to consciousness for awhile. Wrothken went to the chest, dismayed to find out that it was locked. Lock picking was never his strong point. Just as he predicted, his first and second attempt failed. The third attempt, he got lucky and the chest opened up. It contained a little more gold, two lock picks, a head of lettuce, and a filthy fork. He wondered why goblins would bother locking that up, but he figured it was silly to expect reason from those creatures.

Wrothken headed the other direction and entered what looked like a primitive kitchen. An empty pot sat over an open flame. Nearby, there was a table with disgustingly dirty utensils. Some sort of meat sat on the table along with a few potion bottles. He was wary of anything created by goblins, so he left them behind.

Suddenly a pot whizzed by his head. He turned and saw a goblin wielding a ladle with suspicious looking fuzz sprouting from the spoon. The goblin angrily picked up a chair and threw it hard at Wrothken. He fell back, crushing the potions and dropping his mace. The goblin recognized the weapon and dashed, snatching it up before Wrothken could get back up. The goblin hit him while he was still down, creating large dents in the armor.

He couldn't tell where it was going to hit next because he was trying to shield his head with his forearms, though he could feel the goblin moving down near his legs, still swinging as hard as it could. Wrothken roughly kicked it and it landed right in the fire pit, the fire quickly engulfing it. It squealed loudly in pain. Wrothken looked at it and felt sorry for the poor creature. He picked up his mace and used a well-placed hit to put it out of its misery. The room was already starting to fill with the stench of roasted goblin. Wrothken felt ready to leave when a larger goblin strolled in.

It held a staff with a severed goblin head attached to it and wore a feathered headdress. It looked at the carnage and then at Wrothken, then back again. It gave Wrothken a look of fury, then turned on its heel and ran. Wrothken was bewildered. Surely that was the chief! Why was it running away? He thought about going after it, but he didn't know how much time he'd spent in the cave. Since he wanted to be in bed at a decent hour, he let the goblin run away and he headed to the door.


Twilight greeted him with such an eerie silence that he wouldn't have been surprised if the headless skeletons rose up and came after him. Paranoia encouraged a quick glance at them and thankfully they remained on the ground.

White-Gold Tower was glowing like a pearl in the distance. Wrothken knew there was no way he was going to make it to the Imperial City before nightfall. His best bet would be to find an inn and set off in the morning.

He felt as if a dark cloud loomed over his head as he continued on his way. He couldn't figure out what he had done wrong. Atrea never mentioned any problems. He didn't know if he should take it as a warning and be happy it ended before they actually married or if he should try harder to get her back, despite Kirsty's threat of beating him up. He was so conflicted. His thoughts were so consuming that he forgot about the path and just headed straight.

He longed to hold her cool, soft figure against his once more. He wanted to bask in the glow of her amber skin. He needed her silken hands-- A fireball zoomed past his head, interrupting his thoughts.

The imp let out chirping sounds, which Wrothken interpreted to be laughter. Did it understand? Was it mocking him? With a guttural growl, Wrothken tried swatting it with his mace. It dodged each blow, tweeting joyfully. It is laughing at me! he thought with clenched teeth. It fueled his rage and he began swatting harder and faster. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, he grazed it enough so it fell to the ground, though still alive and alert. Before it could do anything, Wrothken picked it up by the legs and threw it into the forest. It took him a few minutes to feel the slightest bit guilty about it.

"Great," he said, looking around. He was deep in the woods and it was already dark. White-Gold Tower was no longer easily seen. The night was growing chilly. Wolves howled in the distance. Wrothken was tired and he knew that would be a hindrance if confronted by a hungry pack, be it wolves or bandits. "There has to be an inn somewhere..." he said, looking around. Then again, he wasn't sure if he wanted to spend the rest of the night looking for one. He decided to head back toward Skingrad to get his directions straight.

"Hmmm..." He stopped. After about a half-hour walking, Wrothken stared at the Ayleid ruin ahead of him. He turned to a stone fort, which wasn't too far away, and said, "Now, I vaguely remember that...but this wasn't here before, was it?" How he wished Kirsty was with him. She was much better with directions. Sadly, he was left to his own instructions. "Maybe if I head this way..." he said, walking where he thought was southeast.



He knew his feet hated him. If they could, they'd probably jump off his ankles and run away. With each throbbing step, Wrothken knew they'd pay him back tenfold in the morning. He trudged along until he caught a buttery scent. He could tell it was something baked. His stomach growled loudly, scolding him for not eating since gobbling up the sandwiches Kirsty had packed. He no longer cared about the inn. All he wanted was a taste of that food. He followed his nose until he was able to see a point of light.

It didn't flicker, like a campfire. Instead it was steady, telling him it was likely a building. For the first time in ages, his heart rose. Ignoring the burning protests of his feet, he broke into a run. Even when his torch finally blew out, he didn't stop. He followed the light as if he were a moth.

A modest building soon came into view. Two windows were lit. A single horse sat outside the door, under a swinging sign. It read: The Inn of Ill Omen. Suddenly Wrothken was a little put off. Ill Omen? Did the owner want to scare off customers? Still, it was late and the scent was stronger than ever. He opened the door, almost wanting to sleep right there on the entrance floor.

"Well, I'll be a spotted Snowbear," the man at the counter exclaimed. "A customer!"

Wrothken nodded wearily. Atrea used to refer to him as her "snowbear," but he pushed the thought away before it could distract him further. He sat at the counter and asked, "What is that smell? Whatever it is, I'd like some."

The man paled. "Oh... you mean S'Jirra's potato bread?"

Wrothken gasped. "Potato bread? Sounds wonderful!" His mouth watered just thinking about it.

"Ahh..." the man rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Well, the thing is, I don't sell it here. It's actually the inn up the road..." He trailed off.

Wrothken groaned. It was so tempting, seducing him with not just fresh bread, but potatoes... He loved potatoes! But he was so worn out. "You know what, I'll just eat here. What do you have?"

The color flushed back in the man's face. "I can fix you up some crab's meat! Just add some spices and it'll be the best crab you've ever had!"

"Fine, and I need a drink."

The man nodded, heading to his stove. "Name's Manheim, by the way." He didn't give Wrothken a chance to answer. "And as you probably saw, this here's the Inn of Ill Omen. Funny name, I know." He took out a leek and chopped it up. "But it's too late to change it now." He put the leek in a pan, along with some crab meat and a sprinkling of cheese. "Say, you wouldn't happen to need a room, would you?"

Forcing his eyes to stay open, Wrothken answered, "Yes, actually, I do."

"Great!" Manheim set the food on a plate and gave it to Wrothken, along with a bottle of ale. "I have one upstairs. You interested?"

"Yeah, I'll take it." He took a fork and began shoveling the food in his mouth. He was done in what felt like seconds.

Manheim laughed. "Now that's what I like to see! A man with an appetite!" Wrothken paid for his meal and the room, glad he found extra coin in the goblin cave. Manheim pointed up the stairs. "Alright, first room on your left. The washroom is down the hall to the right."

Wrothken nodded and walked up the stairs.

The room was no bigger than a closet with a bedroll on the floor. He was almost irritated that he actually paid for this instead of just sleeping outside for free. He stripped out of his armor and his shirt, then he sat on the bed. He swished the bottle around for a few moments as he thought. No going back now. Tomorrow, I'll begin anew. He wasn't sure what, but the Imperial City had to have something for him. He raised the bottle up, as if toasting to himself, and chugged it down.

He crawled into the bedroll, clutching the pillow tightly. Almost instantly, he drifted to sleep.



This post has been edited by Jacki Dice: Dec 23 2019, 07:30 AM