Oh my! I’m not sure which I like more, Lilitu’s dialog with the boys, or her mental side-trips. Subdued by a handsome guard!

haute ecole rider~ Thank you Its not too difficult to pull off the raciness when you're used to having to be somewhat discreet And I imagined the flare and healing law somewhat like how you have to wear your seatbelt or not ride in the bed of a pick up truck (at least here in California). It was really the only explanation as to why literally everyone in Cyrodiil can do it

King Coin~ This won't die until the grand finale I'm too stubborn for that.

SubRosa~ Actually yes, the Rudgrumphs are the nearest neighbors I'll fix the cenoreds soon. I just wanted to display that Relemus is at the age where every sentence must be a swear

mALX~ Yay! Thanks mALX ♥♥

Grits~ Would you believe some of that dialogue was based off actual, constant fighting?




They stood in the backyard. Lilitu set an iron bucket at the target. Lilitu and Relemus stood in front of it, while Vardas and Saint sat on the sidelines.

Lilitu clapped her hands together. "Alright, now show me."

Relemus sighed heavily, slumping her shoulders. She flung her arm forward only to be rewarded with the dry hiss of a failed spell.

"See?" She said, her voice going up several octaves. "I can't do it!"

"Calm down and lower your voice!" Lilitu sighed. She tapped her lip. "Let's see, you were born under the Lord... Vardas, is there any negative effects on magicka under the Lord?"

Vardas shrugged.

"N'chow!" She swore. "Okay, watch me." She flung her arm out and a fireball zoomed onto the target. "Just a simple fling."

Relemus groaned. "Even you can do it and you're just a thief!"

"A little louder please, I don't think they heard you down in Leyawiin."

Relemus giggled a little.

"Alright, when you cast your fire, what do you feel?"

"Like I'm wasting my fetching time."

Lilitu pinched the bridge of her nose. "Alright, let's start this way. What is fire?"

"Hot."

"So how does it feel?"

Relemus looked at her flatly. "Hot."

Lilitu sighed deeply. "No, I mean... fire is anger, strength, passion..." She looked at Vardas. "Help me out here."

Vardas stood in place for a moment before silently walking over to Relemus and he slapped her over the head.

"Hey!" She cried, rubbing where she had been hit. "What in oblivion was that for, you dumb s'wit?!"

"What are you doing?" Lilitu hissed.

"There's a method to my madness," Vardas said softly. He hit Relemus again.

"Stop it, you cow!"

Vardas hit her harder, then pushed her in the snow.

"You fat son of a guar!"

"You angry?" Vardas asked, shouting in her face.

"Yes!"

"You want to beat me up?"

Relemus stomped her feet, gritting her teeth. "Yes!"

"Then throw your fire! Do it now!"

Relemus swung her fist, but instead of hitting Vardas, she was rewarded with a large flaming blossom headed straight for the target. She gaped at it before hugging her brother tightly. "I did it! I fetching did it!"

"Good," Lilitu said, clapping her hands. "Remember how you felt when you cast it? You need to feel it every time until you're used to it. Now for healing. Can you do that?"

She nodded.

"Good." Lilitu looked over the Jerral mountains, disappointed to see the sun setting. "I've been here this long? Damn!"

"Why don't you stay the night?" Relemus asked.

"Because, I have to hurry. I've already taken too long. Remember, Dolce is waiting for me."

"How long do you think it will take to get the stone?" Vardas asked.

Lilitu pointed up. "The monastery is a few miles up and depending on how well hidden it is, it could take several hours."

"So, steal the stone and I'll watch for you and when I see you I'll unlock your window. You get some rest and then sneak out in the morning. Sounds good?"

She nodded, smiling. If Vardas was the affectionate type, she would have hugged him.



She was thankful for the warmth of her leather armor, but as she walked to the monastery she longed for the Grey Cowl, if only to keep her bare face warm. The mountain was steeper than she thought and the higher in altitude, the colder it got. About a mile up, snow began to fall. First in light flakes then quickly into fluffy flurries.

The cold wind stung her nose into numbness and penetrated her warmth until it sat in her bones. Her lips were freezing and she kept licking them, knowing full well it would only make it worse and chap them. By the gods it was obscenely cold! She looked up north, wondering how on Nirn the Nords put up with it, especially the so-called bare-sarks, who supposedly ran around in nothing but furry boots. It was insane.

As her teeth chattered uncontrollably, she cursed Savilla's Stone for being in such a barren place. Why couldn't it have been stashed away in Leyawiin or Anvil? Because that would have been too easy that's why. And maybe, she thought. The Grey Fox is testing my loyalty... Unlikely as it was, Lilitu repeated that thought in her mind. It was the only thing that kept her going until she finally reached the small settlement. She fell to her knees happily.

"You alright, miss?"

Lilitu looked up to see a Nord dressed in a white robe, staring down at her with kind blue eyes. He didn't shiver. Lilitu could nearly feel the warmth from his hand as he lifted her out of the snow. "What's a girl like you doing so far up here in the middle of nowhere?"

Lilitu bit her chapped lip. "I'm a student."

"Oh..." He said, raising his snow-flecked eyebrows. "What's a student doing way up here, so far from civilization?"

"Well, I'm doing a report."

"Ah, I see," he said. "Here, let's get you inside where it's warm and you can tell me more."

He led her to a small house where a few other monks were. The blazing fire warmed her up so much that she almost curled up in front of it and napped. She resisted the urge and followed the monk to a small table. She took the seat across from him.

"Oh, goodness me, we haven't been properly introduced! I am Brother Holger."

"Sadisa Nerethi," she said. She had a roster of false names prepared for times like these.

"So, what's this report you're doing?"

"It's on sacred artifacts."

One look in his eyes told Lilitu that he knew what she was getting at. Holger leaned back in his chair. "Alright, well..." He shifted in his seat slightly. "What do you need to know?"

"Well...." She began twirling her ponytail. "All I really need is confirmation that Savilla's Stone is hidden away here."

Holger looked her up and down for a moment. Lilitu forced herself to remain calm and cool. "You walked all this way just for someone to tell you that?"

"It was the only way to find out... other than breaking in and stealing it!" She added with a laugh.

He laughed a little. "Oh, you don't want to do that. The monks may be blind, but they're still a force to be reckoned with." He paused, lowering his voice. "The blind monks in the catacombs guard it. They say it might have special powers."

"Really?" Lilitu said breathily. "Could you just show me where they live? Please?"

He pursed his lips. "I really shouldn't... but I suppose I can just show you the door. I mean, you came all this way. I would hate for it to have been for nothing. Just don't tell anyone. I could get banished for this."

Lilitu jumped up, clasping her hands and smiling. "Thank you so much! Don't worry, my lips are sealed if yours are."

He nodded and led her out to a large chapel. Once inside, she followed him downstairs to a large ornate door. Moths and robed people worshiping them were carved into the wood. "They live down here, in the catacombs. It’s dark as night down there. but since they're blind, it doesn't bother them."

"I see," she said, placing her hand on the door. "It's so beautiful... I'll show myself out. Thanks again."

Holger nodded and after placing a finger to his lips, he went back to the house.

After she was sure that she was alone, she pulled out her lock pick and went to work.

"A little louder please, I don't think they heard you down in Leyawiin."

Relemus giggled a little.

Grits giggled a lot. And then some more at the rest of Relemus’ and Vardas’ antics!

Oh, Lilitu’s journey made me cold. I’m looking forward to seeing her at work in the catacombs!

Ahh, that ponytail twirl! Never fails! It's like the Korean OPW!

And I loved the siblingness between Relemus and Vardas. And yes, that's what it takes to get the kid to fling a flare!

"A little louder please, I don't think they heard you down in Leyawiin."


I liked how you used hot emotions to unlock Relemus' learning to cast fire spells. I guess it is a good thing it was anger that Vardas decided to elicit in him, instead of lust! Or course now the next time the kid gets ticked off, he will burn the house down...

I loved Liltu's frustration over her cold, mountain climb. It makes sense that Dunmer, who are resistant to fire and probably very happy in hot climates, would be even more uncomfortable in the snow than other people. Her thoughts that the stone had to be in the mountains just to make it harder for her were just priceless!

Very quick thinking on Liltu's part, not only throwing off the suspicions of the monk who found her with her story of being a student, but even using him to help her find where the stone was!


nits:
Moths and robed people worshiping them was carved into the wood
That should be were, as the subject - moths and robed people - is plural. Was is for singular subjects.

Its dark as night down there.
The Grey Fox heisted the apostrophe in It's. Remember this word is an weird case, not having the apostrophe for a possessive, but always having it when a contraction for "it is".

The interaction with the brothers is just wonderful!

Lilitu was fortunate to run into such a trusting Brother. That was easy!

However, if you rewrite it as An image of moths, and robed people worshiping them, was carved into the wood then the image is singular, so it would be valid. Was that what you intended? It works just as well either way.

I'm a little surprised that Vardas wasn't ducking the fireball when it (finally) happened. All's well that ends well.

Indeed. In that case the subject would be the image, not moths and robed people.

It was the strangest feeling. Her eyes were open but all she could see was blackness. She could hear soft footsteps and voices from another room. She reached out in front of her, afraid to take a step forward for fear of falling and making a ruckus. She reached in her bag and felt around her her ring of nighteye. Once she slipped it on her finger, the room seemed to be illuminated with blue light. She carefully went down the stairs.

The empty room she was in seemed to be a sanctuary of sorts. Benches sat in rows in front of a pulpit. Behind the pulpit stood a large, headless statue holding a book. Cobwebs draped over the hard, stone walls. Faded drapery decorated the walls. Even from a distance, Lilitu could tell it was made of silk.

There was a door to her left. It was sturdy and heavy. When swung open, it probably makes a lot of noise, Lilitu thought. Since there was no other way in, she had no choice but to go through it. Indeed it creaked loudly after it was unlocked. She whispered thanks to Nocturnal that no one was around to hear it.

She headed straight down the first hallway and entered the first room on the right. There were people inside. All of them robed, like Holger, though instead of tonsures, their heads were shaven except for a small ponytail on the top of their heads and they wore blindfolds over their eyes. They were mostly seated at a table filled with fruit and bread. This must be the kitchen. Lilitu took a step back when someone turned toward her.

"Who's there?" The monk demanded. The other monks turned as well, silencing themselves.

Lilitu pressed her lips together, her eyes focused on the long sword on his back. Its slim, curved blade was about as long as she was tall. All of them were armed with the same sword. She backed up slowly and silently and stood behind the wall.

"Damn rats..." He muttered turning away. With that, the other monks returned to their conversations.

Lilitu wanted to sigh in relief but she didn't want to get caught again. Her legs had just stopped shaking when another monk headed in her direction. Lilitu pressed herself against the wall, taking in shallow breaths when she saw a rat coming toward her. Don't come near me, don't come near me!

The rat looked straight at her, and then ran across Lilitu's feet, settling on her toe for a moment while it cleaned its face. She bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. The urge to fling it from her foot was overwhelming. She squeezed her eyes shut until it continued on its way into a hole on the wall. Lilitu sighed a little and then remembered the monk. He turned midway and went back to where he had come from. She continued down until she wound up back in the kitchen.

Damn it! I went in a circle! She looked around until she saw a door. It wasn't as heavy as the first one had been. With her eyes trained on the one who had nearly caught her, she slipped past the priests and went out the door.



The next room seemed to be for storage. Boxes were piled high with barrels littered around them. Three monks stood around talking amongst themselves. Lilitu walked silently around them, not even daring to breathe until she was down the hall.

The hall led her to what must have been their sleeping quarters. Beds were lined up in rows. A blond monk sat inside. Though she wore a blindfold, Lilitu could tell her face was delicate and gentle. She sat on the bed, her legs crossed, humming softly. Lilitu stood up and watched her as the humming graduated to soft singing.

She had the voice of a siren. Lilitu walked toward her, her heart beating fast and her cheeks reddening. One word escaped her lips in barely a whisper.

"Vivica?"

In that moment she forgot all about Savilla's Stone and imagined herself saving Vivica from the remote monastery, where she was undoubtedly being held against her will. They would run out together and once they were safe, they would celebrate their reunion in a nice little inn, sipping wine in front of a blazing fireplace.

Then she noticed a lack of freckles and fine lines around the monk’s lips. Don't be silly, she thought, backing away silently. Of all places, here? Get a grip and focus for Vivec's sake!

With a final look at the singing monk, she turned toward a rickety looking door and went through.

Lilitu descended into a cavern. It was even colder than the catacombs and something about it felt strange. Glowing mushrooms sprouted around the tall stalactites. She looked back at the door, almost wanting to turn back, but she knew it was too late. She came too far for that. She looked back ahead and almost tripped a thin rope tied from one end of the tunnel to the other. Looking up, she could see three heavy maces poised to come tumbling into the poor soul who would have set the trap. Another rope was just a few feet ahead of the first, probably to get someone who got careless after eluding the original.

Quite an odd trap on a place where everyone is blind. As she went on, it dawned on Lilitu that the trap wasn’t for the monks, but for someone like her. The thought gave her goosebumps.

She turned the corner, happy to see no more traps. No monks roamed the caverns, either. In fact, it was completely empty. It should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. A strange creaking sound only furthered the eerie feeling. The sound wasn’t from a door or just natural cave noises. It was something else.

When she found her answer, her legs trembled. She clapped her hand in front of her mouth to silence the scream building up inside her. A skeleton stood less than ten feet away. Its back was turned from her and in its bony hands it clutched a battle axe.

Lilitu was frozen in place. It had no eyes and no ears, but somehow she knew she wouldn't be able to sneak past it. Her eyes began to well up as she drew out her dagger. She blinked them away before they could blind her. She needed to be able to see if she was going to get through.

Nocturnal, please guide me. Please keep me hidden... She bit her lip and tip-toed toward it. Though she swore she made no sound, the skeleton turned anyway. It opened its mouth, making a horrible hissing noise.

Lilitu didn't bother to try and be quiet. As it brought down its axe, she screamed, rolling out of the way. Its eyeless sockets followed her as she crawled backward. With every movement, its bones creaked, echoing throughout the cave. It came toward her, its axe raised high above its head. She looked at the dagger, knowing it wouldn't do much damage from afar. The creaking began to sound like mocking laughter. The skeleton stood directly in front of her, its mouth hanging open.

"Get away!" She screamed, kicking its kneecap. It shattered under the force of her kicks. The skeleton screamed, falling over. Lilitu got up quickly and began stomping on its head until it cracked open.

She sank to her knees, her entire body trembling. She choked back sobs, her eyes refusing to leave the skeleton. It rose from the dead once, what would stop it from rising again, with or without a head? It’s not like the lack of a brain, or eyes and ears had stopped it in the first place. She nudged it with her foot a few times before picking up the axe and sticking it in her bag. That way if it did rise again, heaven forbid, it had no weapon.

She continued down the cave, though she kept looking back to be sure nothing followed. When she saw another skeleton she nearly screamed. It was only until she saw it was just a corpse that had been caught in a trap that she calmed down.

Before her, a narrow path went through several sharp spikes. A large chest sat in the middle of a group of them. The poor soul embedded in the spikes seemed to be reaching for the chest. The path was too narrow for her or anyone bigger than a Bosmeri toddler to get through easily and far too long to jump over. There was no other choice but to plow through.

First she threw her bag across the spikes, so she wouldn’t be weighed down. Then she set one foot in front of the other, holding her arms out to balance her. She looked at the chest, wondering what could be inside, but she figured it was probably an empty lure for greedy people looking for loot.

“Alright,” she said, once past the spikes. “A skeleton, spikes, what else could be lurking in here?”

A ghost.

She knew what it was the moment it swooped down the tunnel. She breathed in short gasps, unable to believe it. What in Oblivion did the Gray Fox get her into? She clenched her fists, at that moment wanting nothing more than to throttle him for sending her out into the cold, isolated, and haunted dump for a stupid stone!

She waited for the ghost to come her way, but after it drifted down another tunnel it didn’t come back. A part of her wanted to fall to her knees and thank the gods, but she didn’t for fear of wasting any more time. She went ahead to another door, so rickety she could have easily broken it down if she wanted to.

The door led to her an open cavern. An altar was below her with a floating black stone above a solitary man, kneeling before what appeared to be a crystal ball. It matched the Gray Fox’s drawing of Savilla’s Stone. No ghosts, no skeletons, and no rats stood between them. This is it, she thought with a sigh.

She circled the area, looking for any other doors rather than going back the way she came. Sure enough on the opposite side there was a path with a trap door on the ceiling. She descended silently, watching the monk carefully.

The black floating stone started to glow. Lilitu stared at it and when it was at its brightest, it hit her with a frost spell. It was so cold that it burned, even through the leather armor. She ducked down under the wall, clenching her teeth. Once the pain lessened, she stood back up, this time watching the stone as well as the monk.

The monk was armed with the same sword as the others, but given the fact that he was the sole guardian of Savilla’s Stone, Lilitu figured that he would be much stronger than the others. There was no telling what spells he knew, so it wasn’t enough to stay farther than his sword could reach.

How could she get the Stone with him and the frost stone guarding? One more hit from that thing and she was sure to cry out. She bit her lip when the idea came to her. She tiptoed up the stairs to the altar, just behind the monk. Please, let this work.

She grabbed and dipped him, planting a big kiss on his lips. The monk fell down the stairs, unable to pick himself up once he was on the ground. “Sorry!” She called out, grabbing the Stone and running off with it. She ran up the stairs across from the altar and ran to the trap door.

“Come back with Savilla’s Stone!”

She looked back and saw the monk getting up, his sword drawn. Her paralyzing kiss wore off on him much quicker than she thought.

She saw a ladder and a hatch at the top. She climbed up and pushed the hatch open. It was almost as dark outside as it had been in the monastery. She bolted down the hill and the painful burn of frost hitting her arm told her the monk was still trailing her. She looked back and saw that he was catching up. “N’chow!” How was he able to chase her if he couldn’t see? She wondered if there was some sort of magic he was using to be able to sense where she was.

She started to panic. Her first instinct told her to throw things in his path. That way he would trip and fall if he couldn’t dodge in time, but the path was so clear that if he tumbled down he might knock her over as well, and that would be the end. She bit her lip as she ran. That’s it!

She turned and cut through the forest. Even if he somehow sensed her, there was so much to have to jump over or dodge. She pumped her legs, hoping with all her might that she didn’t run into a spriggan, a hungry bear, or worse a spriggan and a hungry bear. She half hoped the monk would, then felt a little guilty for thinking it. The monk was only doing his job, after all. She certainly would be upset if someone stole a precious stone from her.



By the time she reached the Serano manor, she was ready to collapse. The monk must had long since gotten lost or given up because there was no sign of him. She dug through the snow until she found a small rock and she threw it against Vardas’ window. A light appeared and she saw him for a second before he disappeared and showed up in Lilitu’s old room. He opened the window and lowered a rope.

Lilitu groaned. “Can’t you just open the door?”

“Do you want to explain to Mama what you’re doing here in the middle of the night, looking the way you do?”

Muttering a string of swears, Lilitu pulled herself up the rope. When Vardas stumbled a little from supporting her weight, she nearly screamed. “Don’t you dare drop me or I’ll beat you!” She grabbed the windowsill with one hand and Vardas’ arm with the other and she plopped on the hard floor. She panted, wiping the sweat from her face.

She was surprised to see that her room had gone mostly untouched. Her bed remained neatly made with the same sheets as her last night in them. Little statues of winged women in dark gowns sat on a shelf, caked with dust, but in their original positions. Her chests were shut tight with the padlocks intact and Dolce’s bed still sat in the corner in front of the fireplace.

“So, how’d it go?”

Lilitu looked up at Vardas. “I’m going to smother the Gray Fox in his sleep for this!” She opened her bag and handed him the axe she confiscated. “I had to fight a damn skeleton! And there was a ghost! And monks that were blind, but wielded swords!” She pulled out Savilla’s Stone and set it on her bed. “All that for this little trinket!”

Vardas picked it up, looking it over. “Well, it’s a nice trinket.”

Lilitu huffed. “I’m just glad it’s over with. Oh and if a blind man comes down here looking for me, throw rocks at him until he goes away.”

Vardas chuckled a little before leaving her alone in the room. She laid on the bed, her body worn down but her mind racing. She reached under her pillow and sure enough, a small key was under it.

She sat up and opened a large chest by the bed. The scent of lavender rose up mixed with old parchment. She picked up a stack, bound by a red ribbon. It was one of many attempts at writing. She untied it and read the first few pages and laughed at how unbelievably awful it was. She remembered it being the best thing she had ever written, but looking back it just reflected misery and a deep desire to escape and live a life of glitz and excitement.

And how would that story write now? She wondered. Now that glitz and excitement have shown their costs?



The Gray Fox erupted into a smile as Lilitu placed Savilla’s Stone before him. “Capital!” He said, clapping his hands together. “Now I can see past the palace defenses. It's a good thing the Emperor didn't know they had this stone. He would have had it destroyed or taken it from them and kept it under lock and key in the palace. When I have learned what I need to know, I will call for you again. Let us leave Helvius' house now. He has served me well and deserves his peace.”

Lilitu cleared her throat, tapping her foot.

“Oh, right. Don’t think I forgot your pay. Here you are,” he said, setting a large sack on the table.

She picked it up, looking at the coins. She decided to count it later while cuddling with Dolce. “By the way,” She said as she turned to leave. “Is it true what they say? About your cowl?”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother told me that Nocturnal cursed it. That without it, you don’t exist.”

The elation disappeared from the Gray Fox’s face. He slumped in his seat. “I suppose there is no hiding it from you.” He paused. “No hiding. What a joke! My whole life is hiding. Everything he told you is true. My identity cannot be known.” He paused once more. “I just told you my true name twice, but I bet you don't remember it. You and I have even met before, when I was not wearing the cowl. To your clouded memory he and I are two different people. My own family doesn't even know me. I would give much to be rid of the Gray Cowl and its curse."

Lilitu felt the urge to console in that instant, but refrained. “I see,” She looked away. “Well, I look forward to seeing you again soon. Shadow...ah…”

“Shadow hide me?” He laughed a little. “You bet She will.”

As she walked home, thankful to be done with her job, she couldn’t help wondering when was it that they had met. It bothered her the whole night.

I promise to edit and extend my comments when I am able to read more deeply. But for now- I just want to say- WELCOME BACK!

It is so wonderful to see you working on your story once more, and I see much to like in this installment.

This is a great take on one of the more spooky quests in the game. What's with those blind priests, anyway? I swear they have noses like bloodhounds and ears like bats!

You did a great job showing us Lilitu's responses to her environment, and how it scared her to the point that she was so angry at the Grey Fox for making her run the gauntlet for a silly stone. Having just completed the Miscarcand quest in the game, I was struck by the similarities between the two quests. Yet my PC wasn't angry at Martin for sending her against a badbutt lich. Instead, it seemed she understood the importance of the Great Welkynd Stone. Thinking about it, it struck me that Martin and the Grey Fox are two different men. Martin was honest and forthcoming about his reasons for needing the GWS, while the Grey Fox was more circumspect about his need for Savila's Stone. I think I'd be pissed too, if I had to go through what Lilitu did to get a lousy stone, not knowing its real value!

Lilitu's interactions with her brother when she got home was hilarious! Typical siblings!

Then the discussion about the Grey Cowl's effects at the end of the chapter was interesting. In game he never struck me as being a chatty guy, and yet here's Lilitu dragging the grief out of him. Huh. That was a great touch.

Exciting chapter!

I guess thieves aren't very good at fighting are they? lol
The part about the rat was a nice (and funny) touch.

Good job

I loved Liltu's breathless encounter in the kitchen, followed by the rat!

Vivica? I wonder who that is?

“Alright,” she said, once past the spikes. “A skeleton, spikes, what else could be lurking in here?”

A ghost.
I loved this. Isn't it interesting that the Ancestor Moth priests are also necromancers? I remember when I did this quest, the ghost was the only one I could not sneak by, because it was literally blocking the tunnel.

By time she reached the Serano manor
I watched Ghost In the Shell: Standalone Complex last week, and one of the companies in it is Serano Genomics. Does Liltu come from a family of micro-machine (nanite) manufacturers?

if a blind man comes down here looking for me, throw rocks at him until he goes away.”

I loved the tension throughout this episode, I could really feel Lilitu’s stress. They only time I did this quest, it turned into an absolute bloodbath. Lilitu showed that the Grey Fox chose well!

That was a close call with the singing monk. I was so nervous that she would attack Lilitu! Then the skeleton battle was nerve-wracking. The fact that she is not an eager fighter in addition to her other skills makes her so appealing.

She pumped her legs, hoping with all her might that she didn’t run into a hungry bear, or worse a spriggan and a hungry bear. She half hoped the monk would, then chastised herself for thinking it. The monk was only doing his job, after all.

I loved this whole thought process. She is such a city girl!


As she walked home, thankful to be done with her job, she couldn’t help wondering when was it that they had met. It bothered her the whole night.

Yeah, that was really creepy. Yikes. I also loved the detail about her attempts at writing. It gave us a hint about her past and made her even more real.

treydog~ Thanks treydog! Its good to be posting again

haute ecole rider~ Poor Gray Fox. He could have explained from the get go what it was for, but that wouldn't be like the sneaky thief at all

King Coin~ The rat was a mix of an in game rat that just hangs around the tunnels and my reaction to wild rodents. Cute from a distance, but no disease-breeders on my feet!

SubRosa~ I haven't seen Ghost in the Shell... is there a Serano Manor there too?

Grits~ My first playthrough of this quest turned out to be a blood bath too. Turns out heavy boots aren't good for sneaking around





Home again, home again, piggity pig.

After a long nap and a refreshing shave, he decided to take a walk around the city before he had to see the Duchess in the morning. He felt relieved as he walked through Crucible. Though the buildings were just as shabby as Bravil and the streets barely paved, he had come to love them. To him, they were warm and welcome. Even a little cozy. He was even considering making it a permanent home while he was in the Isles. That was, if he survived Sheogorath's tasks.

What in Alduin's name did he get himself into anyway? He sighed. At least he didn't have to kill innocent people. That would be truly mad.

A few people were out, though it was well after dark. At a distance they all seemed peaceful...and normal. As much as he was starting to want out at times, he couldn't let these innocent people suffer at the hands of Jygglepuff or whatever his name was.

He was about to head up the street back to Bernice's Taphouse when he saw the blond Imperial who wanted to have a private word with him. He considered hightailing it away from him, but he was spotted. The Imperial smiled a little and walked up to him.

"Ah, I'm glad you came," he said, leading Wrothken back to the statue. "Name’s Hirrus. So, are you interested in earning some loot?"

Wrothken was hesitant to answer. He imagined all sorts of scenarios that would earn him loot and so far none seemed pleasant. However, he decided to see what it was before refusing.

"Sure, why not?"

"Great!" He cried out. He hugged Wrothken tightly before composing himself. "There's a... a simple task. Yes, a simple task that you must perform." He took a deep breath. "This life, it's... well, it's too painful. Everywhere I look, I see death, dying, and decay. When I dream, I see a world without sunshine. I’m constantly on the verge of retching up, or falling asleep, or screaming at someone who doesn't deserve it. I'm just so fed up with it all. Look, there's no point in talking about it. Action must be taken. You must…” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I need you to kill me."

Wrothken was stunned. "What? You... no way..." He took a breath. This was unbelievable. He was just thinking about how glad he was to not have to go around killing people! "Why not just... you know... do it yourself if that's how you feel?"

"Have you seen those miserable souls on the Hill of Suicides? Do you think that kind of existence is any better than this?”

Wrothken furrowed his brows. The Hill of Suicides? That implied Sheogorath actually punished people for ending their own lives. It felt cruel, especially considering that would be the only true escape to someone trapped here for their entire lives.

“No,” Hirrus continued. “You must kill me. I don't necessarily want to see it coming. And I want to die here in the city so all these people finally believe me. They'll wish they were nicer,” he said bitterly as he clenched his fists. “You probably want to do it without spectators though, so you don't get in trouble. Best to make it look like an accident. But remember, I don't want to see it coming. Take me unaware."

Wrothken shook his head and when he lifted his arm to move his hair from his face, the man suddenly cowered before him.

"No! Not like this!" He screamed. "Please, no!"

"One...two...three..." Wrothken closed his eyes and counted through clenched teeth. He needed to get back to bed before he accidentally made his wish come true.





As he was heading back to the taphouse, he heard someone shout, "Kick him in the shins!"

He looked around, but no one was nearby. It sounded like it was coming from the roof. He walked behind the building and saw a flight of stairs. He ran up to see what was going on, and was surprised to see Rheyna in the center of a circle of excited people, beating up an Orc twice her size. When she kicked him onto his back, the crowd cheered and toasted their drinks. Rheyna panted heavily, wiping her hair from her face. "Alright, who's going next?"

Rheyna... With everything going on, she had slipped his mind, but with her standing before him, skin glistening with sweat and her hair plastered to her face. He recalled just before he left to get Thadon's Chalice, she mentioned that she liked his innocent look and wanted to get together later... His hand immediately flew to his cheeks. He wondered if she would notice.

"I'll go again," Cutter said, shoving through the crowd.

"You lose on purpose!" the Orc said, brushing himself off.

"He's right," Rheyna said. "Besides, I've already got someone in mind. You," she said, looking at Wrothken.

An Altmer scoffed. "He's not in the group! You can't!"

Rheyna growled. "I can and I will. Come on."

Wrothken froze for a minute, finding him to be the center of her attention for the second time. Again, he was reminded of the stark contrast between her and Atrea. Atrea disapproved of sparring. Apparently, only delinquents did that. What the silly elf didn't understand was that it was a way to bond. He smiled, eager to bond with Rheyna.

He stepped in the chalky circle, remembering his sparring days with his friends. It was several years ago, but once he got in position, it felt like just last week.

He faced Rheyna and, as was customary, at least in his circle, he bowed deeply. Rheyna responded with a slap to his head. The crowd roared in amusement. "What are you doing? We're fighting, not dancing!"

Obviously, she wants to start now... As he lifted from his bow, he threw a punch at her face. She pushed it up, leaving his side perfectly exposed for a hit to the ribs. He grunted, but didn't back down. Instead, he threw a quick jab, hitting her cheekbone.

She stumbled to the side as the onlookers gasped. While she rubbed her head, Cutter shouted, "Go for neck!" The others began to shout where else she should attack.

Rheyna rushed forward, her fist headed for his nose. Wrothken blocked with his right hand, redirecting her punch, and grabbed her wrist and pulled her downward. He then pushed down on her head, making her fall on the ground.

She got up, fire in her eyes. "Oooohhh..." the crowd said. She swung several punches at him and he dodged or blocked each one. Though he was doing quite well, Wrothken was starting to get goosebumps every time their eyes locked. He could feel something different about her. Instead of punching him, she began grasping him. The crowd had quieted down and a quick glance at Cutter's furious expression told Wrothken something was up.

Finally, she spun around with a kick. Wrothken caught it and she pulled him close. His heart pounded out of control as he realized what was about to happen.

She roughly pressed her lips onto his. She pushed him off and said, "Your bedroom now."

He was only too happy to oblige.



Wrothken's mind spun as her lips hungrily covered his face and neck. When they crossed the threshold to his room, Rheyna slammed the door behind them.

"Get your shirt off," she demanded, pulling her clothes off.

He did as commanded and didn't object when she roughly pushed him on the bed. As she explored him, his mind wandered off.

As Rheyna stripped him the rest of the way down, he thought, If only Atrea could see this! I bet she thinks I'm wallowing in misery still. Ha!

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Rheyna began screaming in terror.

"W-what's wrong?"

She cowered in the corner, looking at him with wide eyes. She continued screaming as he took a step toward her. Before he could get another word out, she ripped the door open and ran downstairs sobbing.

He quickly put his pants back on and headed to the stairs, where he could hear her screams.

"He's...deformed!" She cried out.

"Dearie, what are you talking about?"

He heard mumbling and then Bernice's laughter. "Oh, sweetie, that's not deformation. That’s rather common among men."

"It's repulsive!" She made a gagging noise. "I never want to see anything like it again!" The patrons chuckled a little.

Why, oh why did he even think for a second it would end well? His fantasy shattered, he went back to his room. He screamed into his pillow until he tired himself out and fell asleep.

Oh, it’s great to see Wrothken again!

"Oh for the love of..." Wrothken threw his arms up.

"No! Not like this!" He screamed. "Please, no!"

"One...two...three..." Wrothken counted through clenched teeth. He needed to walk away before he accidentally made Hirrus’ wish come true.

This is hilarious. Poor Wrothken. A simple task, too good to be true!

Then the very promising start with Kalila did not end at all well for him, Wrothken has had a bad day! And thinking about Awour at that moment, now he’s probably stuck imagining Awour laughing at him. Yay for the update, I’ve missed him!!

Finally caught up. Loved Lilitu's sojourn to the east of Cyrodiil, her navigations through family in Cheydinhal, and duty in the mountains.



Now, is that any way to treat a nice, blind old monk that's just looking for a small trinket that he claims was 'misplaced' by a younger member of the order? Lilitu really should have remembered Rule #1: "Do not act incautiously when confronting little bald wrinkly smiling men!" I'm sure the Blind Moth Prelate was all of these.

And then we return to Wrothken. First, he gets asked to kill somebody. Not another person, no, the person doing the asking wants himself killed. And he doesn't want to see it coming. AND it really should look like an accident. I just hope the guy knows how dangerous bath-tubs can be!

Then, Wrothken gets to see something that reawakens an old passion in his heart. And he finds that it's just like riding a, er, learning to swim. Only the fight turns out to be less of a brawl, and more of a crazy seduction.



So Kalila is really just putting on an act? Or has she always been so obsessed with all the gimmicks and extraneous techniques that she's never even experience the basics?

Shame, really. Except for that, she's my kind of woman.

Like Grits, I'm happy to be seeing Wrothken again.

This really isn't Wrothken's night is it? Kalila isn't what I expected at all

There is a Serano Manor. You see it briefly in one episode when the Laughing Man kidnaps Mr. Serano for a second time.

I liked Uungor. But being a Bosmer man is already one huge strike against him in the sanity department. Methinks he protests too much on that score. He is probably the looniest one in Bliss!

What in Alduin's name did he get himself into anyway?
Nice touch, using the old world-devouring dragon's name here.

At least he didn't have to kill innocent people.
Just wait...

Ahh, the rooftop Fight Club. At least Wrothken did not hold back against Kalila. Obviously she likes it physical, considering that she ended up in bed with him! Still, quite a surprise she had! Poor girl. I feel her pain. She needs to stick to women.

I also loved the fact that even when he is getting it on with Kalila, Wrothken is thinking how he wishes Awour could see! I can just hear him thinking in Homer Simpson's voice: "In your face!"


nits:
"Go {the} for neck!"
I think you wanted a 'the' where I inserted it above.

Grits~ He probably was That sort of thought seems to back fire often

Captain Hammer~ Kalila originates from a whole different story. In the version I borrowed her from, she completely devotes her life to her studies becoming a great battlemage, but severely stunted at matters of the heart and others. It ended differently for the love interest in the other story though

King Coin~ In the Shivering Isles, it never seems to be Wrothken's night

SubRosa~ Wrothken's mind: In your face! In your face! In your-- uh-oh! Dammit....




Wrothken woke up at the crack of dawn and slipped out of Bernice's Taphouse. He couldn't bear facing anyone after last night.

He was on his way to meet Syl, duchess of Dementia. As he headed toward the palace door, he hoped his visit with her wouldn't be as trying as with Thadon.

He traveled up the stairs and was surprised to see Hirrus standing at the top. Wrothken groaned and tried to sneak past him. Unfortunately, steel boots make quite a racket, even while tiptoeing.

"Sometimes I come up here to think," Hirrus said sullenly. "Everything looks so small from up here. Makes me feel better, you know? Like I'm not so small myself. But that feeling only lasts for a little while. Then I start thinking about how miserable everything is, and then all I want to do is step off the ledge." He sighed. “But I can’t. Don’t want to end up on the Hill. But I hope that someday maybe a big gust of wind will come and push me off so I can end it all. I often wonder what it'd be like, to fall to the ground so far below. I bet it'd be like flying - - then suddenly falling into a deep, blissful sleep."

"Yeah...." Wrothken said, nervously rubbing the back of his head. "Good luck with that."

"Pfft. Whatever."

Wrothken shook his head. He felt sorry for the guy, but he wasn't going to kill him. He couldn't, no matter how much he begged.



Like their cities, the palace of Dementia was the complete opposite of the palace of Mania. Syl's lair was lit with blue flames, giving off the feeling of cold gloom. There was no party, no feast, and no topless women. Syl sat in the center of the room. She wore a long black dress with spines along the plunging neckline.

"Why do you approach the Duchess of Dementia?" She snapped. "Do you seek death?"

Maybe Hirrus should come by, he thought. Deciding against suggesting that to him, Wrothken said, "Sheogorath told me to speak to you."

"The Madgod sent you, did he?” Syl’s voice lost its edge. She regarded him for a moment. “Then you're safe for now. Speak to no one unless I instruct you to." She walked over to him, leading him down a hallway. "None of them can be trusted. Do you hear me? None! Surrounded by traitors and spies, I am. Always, always." Her eyes shifted around nervously. "They watch and wait, eager to slip a knife into my spine when I'm not looking."

"Who is?"

She led him to a small room and after checking to be sure no one was around, she said, "Could be all of them. Every last one. None can be trusted. But they'll never take me down. Never! I'll see them all rotting in shallow graves before I let my guard down!" Her face lit up slightly as an idea formed. "You... you will help me. Yes, yes. You will be most useful."

"Useful?!" Wrothken sputtered. He was getting sick of being used for other people's dirty work.

Syl didn't seem to notice. "You're going to find out who knows. You're going to learn who keeps secrets, who conspires against me. You will be my Grand Inquisitor." She made a knighting motion with her hand. "Expose the conspirators, and they will be punished, I assure you. Find out who keeps secrets, and what they are. Speak with Herdir. He will help you. Do you understand what is required of you? If no one is found, you will be held responsible."

"I..." He sighed. If he didn't do it, he would still have to answer to Sheogorath and he didn't fancy having his intestines being used to skip rope with. "Okay, fine. I'll find them. Where is Herdir?"

"He is in the dungeon. Downstairs and to the left. Go now and find them."



The dungeon was more of a torture chamber. Instead of traditional cells, there were small cages with spatters of blood on the floor. By each cage, there was a small table with various blades and pincers, each crusted and filthy. By the door, there was a plush chair with a table full of food.

When Wrothken walked in, the first thing he noticed was a bald Imperial smelling a long, serrated knife, touching it almost intimately. He was a bit embarrassed to say anything, so Wrothken just cleared his throat.

Herdir jumped, dropping the knife on the floor behind him. "Oh, oh my!" He smoothed his head, a habit likely left over from when he still had hair. He cleared his throat. "What brings you to this delightful corner of the House of Dementia? How may I help you?"

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

"Are you? Hmm." He looked Wrothken over. "I'd expected an entrance with a bit more flair." He shrugged. "Ah, well. Perhaps you'll grow into the role. One can hope, eh?" He laughed, nudging Wrothken a little.

Wrothken couldn't help but notice that Herdir was the happiest person he had come across in all the Isles.

"Now, we've much to do. Lady Syl is not a patient woman, as I'm sure you've seen. Shall we begin?"

"Alright, but what exactly should we do?"

“Isn’t it obvious? We need to search through Crucible, looking for these traitors. Talk to whomever might have information. If they’re reluctant to help, you just say the word and I’ll do my best to.... persuade them. Really, we should be going. Her ladyship expects results!”

"Wonderful," Wrothken said. He really hoped the conspiracy, if there was even one, would remain in the palace.



Herdir followed him out onto the palace grounds. He nudged Wrothken and gestured toward a Redguard reading a book. "That's Kithlan, Lady Syl's steward. If I may be so bold, I would suggest we start with him, Grand Inquisitor."

Wrothken nodded. "Alright." He headed over to Kithlan. "Excuse me, do you know anything about a conspiracy against Syl?"

He didn't look up. "I don't know anything about one, but Anya has been acting strange lately. You might want to check with her." He nodded toward a Breton walking along the pathway.

Anya was tall and blond and wearing a beautiful dress. It was deep purple with a bodice that seemed to force her body into an exaggerated hourglass. The skirt poofed out, making her hips appear larger. Wrothken knew Kirsty would love one like it, but he didn't know her exact measurements.

Anya smiled at Wrothken, but when she saw Herdir, her smile flickered for a moment. "Hello, I'm Anya Herrick," she said to Wrothken.

"I'm Wrothken, Lady Syl's..." he sighed. "Grand Inquisitor."

"I, too, serve Lady Syl," Anya said, a light tremor in her voice. "She allows me to remain protected within the House of Dementia. I'm so grateful to her."

She knows something, Wrothken thought. She seemed way too nervous and it sounded as if she were reading from a script.

"Well,” Wrothken said in a voice that he hoped sounded sincere. “As you’re so grateful to her, then you'd want to tell me if there was a conspiracy going on, involving her demise, wouldn't you?"

"What?" She took a fearful step back. "N...No. I don't know anything about anything. I'm sorry, I can't help you." She turned quickly and broke into a run.

"Let me take care of this," Herdir said. A bolt of lightning sprung from his hand and flew into Anya's back.

"What in Oblivion did you do that for?!" Wrothken cried. He rushed over to Anya and helped her to her feet. "I'm sorry, I--"

Anya sniffled, wiping a tear from her eye. "Please. I am not involved... I didn't do anything! They wanted me to get them close to Syl, but I wouldn't abide them!"

Wrothken looked around. The palace grounds were empty except for himself, Herdir, and guards from Mania and Dementia. Given the apparent rivalry between the two houses, Wrothken suspected the Golden Saints or people from Thadon's court.

"Who approached you?"

Anya bit her lip, looking around nervously. "I..." When Herdir came closer, she spat it out. "It was Ma'zaddha," she whispered. "He said he was working on behalf of someone else. He told me I needed to help him, or there would be repercussions." Tears formed in her eyes again and spilled down her cheeks. "I didn't know what to do. Turning on Syl could cost me my life, but if I don't help, what will Ma'zaddha do to me? You must do something!"

"I will, don't worry."

She nodded and wiped her eyes. "Can I go now?"

"Yes, of course," Wrothken said. "Just go on about your business."

With a glance at Herdir, she quickly walked back to the palace.

Herdir chuckled. "Anyone ever tell you you're too soft?"

Wrothken fumed. He had indeed heard that plenty of times from several people. "Oh and it's not a little too much to just attack people like that?"

"It got what we needed, didn't it?"

"Well, it did, but..."

"Just relax," Herdir said, rubbing Wrothken's shoulder. "By time this is over, you might even come to enjoy it a little..."

Wrothken groaned. This was going to be a long day.

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.

"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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

That's why I picked the Saints and made them follow Mirel's recommendation to go through the underdeep. I figured the survivors would learn the lesson better than those who missed most of by being dead.

Wrothken finally encountered the Priests. I had a mage character that wore the Priest of Order garb.

I choose to help the Mazken as well. Aureals didn't impress me with their arrogance. I remember being surprised at the ending of this mission when the Mazken sacrificed herself on the alter. Thinking back on it, it really shouldn't have.

Very good chapter. Haskill is hilarious.

I’d be delighted to look at pictures of your characters on TV. I’m in the same situation; a screenshot means a snapshot of my TV screen.

I enjoy Wrothken’s mental asides as he deals with the sarcastic Haskill. I felt bad for Wrothken, stuck in a battle that didn’t concern him, just trying to get his task accomplished. I felt like I was right there with him this whole episode.

Wrothken's first battle with an Order Obelisk. I wound up running away my first time, as I could not figure out how to deactivate it. I never think to summon Haskill to find out how things work.

Since he hadn't met a Golden Saint that he liked, he approached the Mazken.
I suspect this is a feeling shared by everyone who goes to the Isles...

I loved Wrothken's exasperation over the feud between the Sexy Seducers and Boondock Saints. Can't you just light the cursed thing and get it over with? Noooo, of course not. It is another wonderful example of how divided and screwed up the Shivering Isles are.

Haskill is of course, his ever fun self: "Do you want an honest answer?"

haute ecole rider~ I always pick the Mazken as well. The Golden Saints are just too... well you know. Female-doggy.

ghastley~ Good point, but if they're that stuck up after thousands of years, then maybe they're beyond learning

King Coin~ I was surprised as well. I kinda wanted to save her from it, but if it made her happy...

Grits~ It would be an incredibly annoying situation. Luckily it was an even match, rather than him being sent off to fight the Golden Saints alone!

SubRosa~ I rarely summon Haskill during gameplay, just check out the UESP site. It doesn't backsass me





Everyone in New Sheoth stared in awe of Wrothken as he headed down the roads. Even the Golden Saints reacted with slightly less attitude than normal, though Wrothken wondered about how they would behave if they knew he had sided with the Mazken at Cylarne. He was directed to the center of town, up a long flight of steps to a sanctuary, where the flame was to be relit.

Sacellum of Arden Sul

Like Sheogorath’s Palace, it was split down the middle. A set of pews sat on opposite sides with a pulpit in front of each. An altar stood in the center, with two men at each side. One wore a red robe and the other wore green. They looked amicable enough, but Wrothken could feel the tension between them.

When the men noticed Wrothken, they nearly shoved each other over for the chance to greet him. The red robed man reached him first, leaving the other to sulk away.

“You've brought it! The holy Flame of Agnon, the fire of Inspiration and Rapture! If you light the Great Torch on the Mania side of the Sacellum, you will be a hero to the people of Bliss, I assure you!” He shook Wrothken’s hand, apparently aware that the flames would not burn. Wrothken couldn’t help wondering why they had that little nugget of knowledge but no one bothered to mention it to him in the first place. “I am Dervenin, High Priest of Mania. Welcome to the Sacellum of Arden Sul.”

Dervenin

Wrothken nodded. “You said I’d be a hero of Bliss… wouldn’t it be for all of New Sheoth?”

Dervenin chuckled. “Oh, heavens no!” He pointed to a cage on his side of the Sacellum. “One side will burn for Bliss, the other for Crucible. Trust me, you’ll want to light the flame for Bliss. Those bottom feeders wouldn’t be able to appreciate its glory!”

“Wait just a second,” the green robed man exploded. He walked over to them, his blue eyes blazing with fury. “You decadent lot are the ones too stoned out of your mushy minds to feel a thing!” He turned to Wrothken. “Forgive me. I am Arctus, High Priest of Dementia. I see you burn with the purging Fire of Agnon, the flame of Truth, the flickering beacon of hope in the gloom of despond! Come, light the Great Torch for Dementia. Illuminate the conspiracies! Deepen the shadows! The people of Crucible await their Hero!”

Arctus

Wrothken looked at each man, both of them practically squirming.

“Can’t I just light them both?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Dervenin said. “Once you step into the Great Torch, the flame will leave your body entirely, lighting the way for your chosen city. Now, are you ready to repent of your actions in Cylarne, and light the Great Torch for Mania?”

“Repent?” Wrothken asked, his eyes widening. Did he know that he had sided with the Mazken? How could he have found out so quickly?

Arctus shook his head, patting Wrothken’s shoulder. “Don’t allow that heathen to guilt you. You'll uplift the poor, suffering folk of Dementia with the Flame, won’t you?”

Well when he put it like that….

He looked toward Crucible. If he did light it for them, Bernice would be sure to see it. And frankly, she was the only one he felt any sort of attachment to. Besides, all Sheogorath cared about was that the damn thing was lit.

“I’ll light it for Dementia.”

Dervenin growled while Artus broke into a wide grin. It looked rather painful. “You are truly Demented, as I always suspected,” he said. “Release yourself to your secret fears and desires. Let them rule you, as they must in the end! Now, light the Great Torch as a beacon for those who fear and those who inspire fear. Right this way,” he said leading Wrothken to the Dementia side. He swore he saw Artus stick his tongue out at Dervenin from the corner of his eye.

Wrothken stepped into the cage momentarily and the flame seemed to melt off of him and onto the altar.

“The Great Torch flares with the light of Dementia!” He boomed, his arms spread out. “All of Crucible will be celebrating tonight! Here. Take this. The reward you have earned. Quickly now. It's best if no one knows you wear this.” He thrust a folded black suit into Wrothken’s hands.

He couldn’t help wondering where it came from, or if it would even fit, but he accepted. “Thank you, its very… soft.”

“Aren't you off to a good start?”

Wrothken jumped at the sound of Sheogorath’s voice, so much that he dropped his new clothing. “That's important,” he continued. “For me. Really, your work is going to save me a lot of time.”

“Dammit!” Wrothken growled, picking up the finery. “Can’t you warn someone when you’re about to pop up like that?”

“And take the fun out of it? Don’t be silly. We don’t have time for silliness! The Greymarch is upon us, and the Ordering begins. Armies of Order sweep My Realm.” He made a sweeping motion with his hands. “Death. Destruction. Then I have to pick up the pieces. And there are always lots of pieces. I don't like it, having to rebuild My Realm every era. Sometimes I forget where things go. Like New Sheoth. I can never remember where it belongs.... You'll change that. Break the cycle. You'll stop Jyggalag, and I'll have My Realm to come back to. I've never actually tried that before.”

Wrothken sighed. Every time he was sent out on some journey to supposedly stop the Greymarch, things got out of hand. Wrothken felt that it was all hanging by a thread finer than spider’s silk. How much longer until someone came in with a broom and broke it away? “Are you positive that I can do this?” He asked.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “Something has to work. Once, I dug a pit and filled it with clouds.” He tilted his head. “Or was it clowns?” He shook his head and waved his hands. “Doesn't matter. It didn't slow him down. To be honest, it wasn't the best idea. And it really began to smell funny.” He snapped his fingers. “Must have been clowns. Clouds don't smell bad. They taste of butter! And tears. But, this is all new! A fresh idea! Something I hadn't thought of, until I did. It's sure to work, even though it might not.”

Wrothken should have known seeking reassurance from Sheogorath would be like seeking wisdom from a goblin. “So what now?”

“Now? You'll need the respect of My citizens. They'll need a leader, someone to look up to when I'm gone. They're the backbone of any great land.” He paused. “Except where the backbone is an actual backbone. Ever been to Malacath's realm...?” He asked, crinkling his nose. “Nasty stuff.”

Wrothken made a face of disgust as well. If Sheogorath said it was bad, it was probably a thousand times worse than imaginable.

“But, back to the business at hand.” Sheogorath said. “You'll need to control one of the Courts of Madness. Replace a current Duke. Or Duchess. Whichever. That will command respect! The people will rally around you. You'll have their love, their admiration, their complaints! Whatever. As long as it keeps them on our side.”

Wrothken furrowed his brows. “Won’t Syl or Thadon be upset at my having to replace them?”

Sheogorath waved his hands. “No. No, no, no. Absolutely not.” He pursed his lips. “Well... yes. Absolutely. Bit of a shame for them. But, sometimes you need to break a few eggs. Or skulls. There are rules, though. Even in the Isles. Rituals and rules. You need to follow them. Speak to Arctus and Dervenin, the High Priests here at the Sacellum Arden-Sul. They can explain what needs to be done. And you've always got our man Haskill to call on for help. Faithful like a good hound, that one. And he looks better in a suit.”

Wrothken sighed. Rituals and rules. What could possibly be required? Painting himself with grummite blood and dancing naked in the full moon? Or rolling in animal waste and yowling like a cat in heat in the center of town?

He approached Dervenin, who was giving him a dirty look. “I'm disappointed in your choice. Why you would choose to honor the fetid madness of Dementia is beyond my understanding.”

“I don’t doubt that. Can you explain the ritual for becoming Duke of Mania?”

“Oh, looking to redeem yourself, are you?” His smile returned to his face. “An important part of our history, my friend! I would be glad to tell the tale if you have a moment.”

“Sure, why not?” Wrothken took a seat at the pulpit.

“Arden-Sul was perhaps the greatest Duke to walk our land. Many years ago he decided to hold a night of absolute indulgence, resplendent with dance, wine, and sex to celebrate his fondness for his brethren. The Greenmote flowed like water in a stream as the revelers voraciously succumbed to its rapturous ways.”

“Okay…”

“As the bacchanal reached a crescendo, the people began to clutch their chests as their very hearts exploded! The Greenmote had taken its toll. The ground stained a deep crimson as the sanguine liquid flowed from their lifeless bodies.”

“By the gods,” Wrothken said, a look of revulsion on his face.

“To represent that night, when the ruler of Mania is to be replaced, he partakes of the Greenmote and allows his lifeblood to flow upon the Altar.”

“You want me to what?”

“Not you, Thadon. When the ruler of Mania has decided it is time, he will choose a successor from his court. The successor is invited to a huge celebration... a night of hedonistic revelry; wine, song, and, of course, Greenmote. During this, the exiting regent imbibes three doses of the potent drug. This causes his heart to burst... and his lifeblood flows from his body. The successor then gathers the drug-tainted blood and brings it to the Altar of Arden-Sul in the Sacellum. Once this is done, I will proclaim the successor a Duke or Duchess. Then, Sheogorath gives His blessing, and the cycle is completed.”

“That’s…” Wrothken tried to hide his disgust. “You know, I better talk to Arctus.” Before Dervenin could object, Wrothken sped over to Arctus. Convince Thadon to kill himself with a greenmote overdose? Sure! And afterwards, Wrothken could talk Haskill into helping him braid his hair.

“Well, if it isn’t the Hero of Dementia!” Arctus said, clapping his hands. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yeah, could you tell me about the ritual for becoming duke of Dementia?”

“Seldom is the subject ever bro-... wait a moment, did you want to hear the history of the Ritual?”

“You mean the sex, drinking, and greenmote?”

“What?” Arctus looked aghast. “No, that has nothing to do with Arden Sul! As if he would act in such a manner.”

“Alright, fine. Tell me the history.”

“As it happened so many years ago, my lord Arden-Sul suspected a traitor in his midst. Not wishing to find himself on the wrong end of a blade, he gathered his flock here in the Sacellum. By poisoning the sacramental wine, Arden-Sul was able to suppress any such conspiracy in one fell swoop.”

“Sounds like something Syl would do.”

“Yes. He then removed their hearts from their bodies and used his ancient scrying technique known as visceromancy to read their lifeblood. When Arden-Sul couldn't divine the traitor's true nature in their hearts, he became distraught and took his own life in the same way. From that day on, the Ritual of Accession for the throne of Dementia was set. To become ruler of Dementia, the current leader's heart must be cut out and brought to the Altar of Arden-Sul in the Sacellum. Once this is done, I can pronounce the heart-bearer a Duke or Duchess. Then, all that is required is the blessing of our lord, Sheogorath.”

Wrothken’s jaw dropped. Gathering vials of blood or human hearts? Whatever happened to simply naming a successor?

Wrothken approached Sheogorath. “You're back! How nice for you. Does that mean you've made a decision? Or are you lost? Suicidal? Just let me know.”

“Speaking of suicidal, there’s problem with this. Both priests' stories involved the current ruler committing suicide.”

“And?”

“So, shouldn’t you be talking to Syl or Thadon?”

Sheogorath rocked back and forth on his heels. “Well, the thing about that is that their suicide must be brought on by your hand.”

Wrothken thought about it for a moment. “You mean you want me to kill them.”

“You got it! See, and Haskill says you’re as smart as a rock. I told him that he doesn’t give you enough credit. You’re at least as smart as a grummite.”

There was his limit. So far, he had rationalized everything he had to do by being thankful he wasn’t being asked to murder anyone. “And smart enough to get out of here.”

“What?” Sheogorath nearly fell back. “Where are you going? You can’t leave! The Greymarch approaches!”

“Don’t care. Screw you, screw your Greymarch and screw the Isles.”

Sheogorath took a sharp breath, his eyes livid. “You dare to disobey me?!” He shrieked, raising his cane. “I'll have your skin made into a hat -- one of those arrowcatchers!” It began to glow red as he pointed it at Wrothken. Wrothken backed up. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt. He knew Sheogorath was going to kill him for this. It was unavoidable. He stared hard at the eyeball resting in the cane, gritting his teeth and preparing for the worst.

“What he means, Lord,” Haskill interjected, standing in between them. “He needs more time to consider this. It’s a lot for his mortal mind to consume. Give him some time and he’ll be back.” Haskill looked at Wrothken. “Won’t you?”

Wrothken was shaking, not just out of fear, but out of anger for now being indebted to Haskill. That was not going to be fun. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Sheogorath’s anger faded as quickly as it came. “Then why didn’t you just say so? Be more clear for crying out loud! I nearly killed you! And that wouldn’t have been nice for you, now would it? Would have been nice for me. I love those hats! Just don’t take too long considering. I hate indecision! Or maybe I don't. I like the sound of other things, though. Like birds. And bones cracking.”

Wrothken didn’t say a word as he left the Sacellum. There was only one place he could think of to clear his head and get reasonably sane advice on the whole situation.

I am loving these screens you are adding to the story! There are always funny lines when Wrothken is aboutt, lol. My favorite line in the story:




"You mean like sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll?" ROFL !! Great Write !!!

Bah! Which one to choose?! I'm betting he'll side with Dementia...

He did! But not for the reason I suspected. Bernice.


Does he actually say that?! I never noticed how funny that line is until just now!

Hey it sounds like Wrothken just might be leaving the isles.

Excellent chapter. I very much enjoy this story.

He couldn’t help wondering where it came from, or if it would even fit, but he accepted. “Thank you, its very… soft.”

Wrothken’s reactions to things can be so funny. I’m glad he stood up for himself at the end, and even more so that it didn’t cost him his life. I hope he’s going to talk to a busty Bosmeri baker, even though it’s a pretty long walk.

Everyone in New Sheoth stared in awe of Wrothken as he headed down the roads.
As Richard Pryor once said: "When you're on fire, people get out of your way!"

I love the two priests jockeying for the position of who get lit. In the end, Wrothken's decision to light it for Bernice was not only perfectly in character, but so delightfully adorable.

We don’t have time for silliness!
Blasphemy!

You'll have their love, their admiration, their complaints!
Yep, that is rulership for you, except the real thing lacks the first two!

You’re at least as smart as a grummite.
Oh, now there is a compliment alright!

So Wrothken finally reached his breaking point with Sheo and the Isles. Unfortunately, he is in too deep to back out now. After all, where can you hide from a daedra lord? I trust he is off to Bernice, to try to find a way to rationalize who is going to kill. My money is on Syl, but you never know.

mALX~ If it was Rock n Roll instead of Greenmote, Wrothken definitely wouldn't mind so much. In fact, he'd love Bliss more!

King Coin~ That little part with Sheogorath was actually made up It was a natural response since he does actually seem to pop up out of nowhere once the flame is lit.

Grits~ Everyone has their breaking point though its too bad it wasn't with someone rational. Good thing Haskill calmed things down.

SubRosa~ Wrothken's affection for Bernice is one of the best parts to write about. And it flows right since he did save her life from whatever it was she had.

~~
I was able to create some screen shots. They're not as good as they would be for pc but they work



Almost everyone knew about what went on in the basement of Sheep’s Clothing. Where most stores kept extra supplies in their cellars, Sheep’s Clothing was set up with a round table and several chairs. A deck of playing cards and stacks of round colored disks sat in the center. A chart of the latest arena combatants was nailed to the wall with a list of names and amounts of septims bet. The door had a small peephole so only the right people could get in. After all, no one wanted the count to officially find out about all the untaxed gambling going on.

As Lilitu sat across from the Gray Fox, she couldn’t help wondering if she could accomplish the same underground area for members of the Thieves' Guild. Only instead of gambling, they could exchange tips on how to pick locks and where the best places to hit were and they would have a safe place to sleep at night and food to eat. It would be like any other guildhall.

“My work with Savilla's Stone has revealed that I need something special for my plans,” the Gray Fox said. “It's a small item in the possession of a powerful court wizard. Will you do this for me? I will pay you well.”

Lilitu knew that was true. She glanced at her new leather ankle boots with the copper buckles going across. And she still had coin left over! Still, was it wise to steal from a powerful wizard? Well, if she could escape an entire cave of Blind Moth Priests, a single wizard wouldn’t be too much harder. Besides, how could she say no to him? “Alright, tell me more.”

“Capital!” He grinned, clapping his hands. “Bring me the Arrow of Extrication. It has a key shaped head.” He passed a drawing of it to her. “Bravil's court wizard, Fathis Aren, recently acquired this unique item. You may kill Fathis if necessary, but not in the castle. My spy network will tell me when you have it. Return here with the arrow when you do.”



The last trip reminded her of all the things she had forgotten to pack. A spare set of clothes, scented cream, and her makeup joined her dagger, map, compass, and usual supplies spread along the couch. She felt better about leaving this time, though it was probably because she was bringing Dolce along. While getting Savilla’s Stone, Dolce had been listless, hardly getting off the couch and fussing when it was time for her walk. Apparently the only time she had perked up was once Lilitu was in the gate.

Lilitu smiled at her dog, cooing to her. “You look so cute in your armor!”

Dog Armor

Dolce snorted and plopped on the ground as if to disagree.

“Well, you can either wear the armor and go with me or be naked and stay here.”

Dolce let out a loud yawn.

Lilitu went back to packing her bag when there was a knock at the door. Dolce stood up and started barking. Lilitu threw a blanket over her things and opened the door.

Yyaevonnte stood there, his expression unreadable.

“Well, if it isn’t the fastest man in Tamriel. What brings you here?”

He smiled slightly at her comment. “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

Lilitu nodded and stepped aside for him. “Dolce, don’t even think about it,” she said, noticing the dog starting to bare her fangs. She growled a little and slumped back into her bed.

Yyaevonnte took a seat at the table and looked around, the same look on his face as Kirsty’s when she had first come in. “So I guess we can tell what your favorite color is…” When Lilitu sat down he sighed deeply. “We need to talk about your friend.”

“Which one?” She took out a piece of parchment and a quill. “And what did they steal?”

“Kirsty.”

Lilitu set her quill down. “What?”

“Capaneus.”

Lilitu groaned, not bothering to conceal her disgust. “He is not my friend! And what do you mean he’s stolen Kirsty?”

“You haven’t heard the rumors?”

“What…” She paused, tilting her head a little. “I did hear that he had a girlfriend… a rather beautiful—Oh dear gods, she isn’t!”

“Oh, she is. It’s been about a month, she says.”

Lilitu shook her head. “Alright, so what’s it got to do with me?”

Yyaevonnte folded his hands. “What do you know about Daedra worshipping?”

She laughed a little, thinking of Vardas. “More than some.”

“Well, it turns out that this guy has been filling Kirsty’s head with stuff about Mehrunes Dagon. Know anything about him?”

Lilitu nodded. “Enough to know he’s not one to toy with.” She paused. “Why?”

Yyaevonnte buried his face in his hands for a moment. “This guy…” He took a slow breath. His hands shook a little. “He told Kirsty that Mehrunes Dagon is coming to cleanse the world.”

Lilitu raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“Oh, it gets better,” he said, raising his hand. “According to Capaneus, Mehrunes Dagon will spare his followers and only his followers.”

“I see where this is going.” Lilitu shook her head. Cults were always popping up. Most of them were just charismatic creeps with a need to control. Though Capaneus sure fit the bill, Lilitu didn’t believe he was the real deal. Someone like him dealing with Mehrunes Dagon? He was certainly a slimy little oaf, but not dangerous. Not bloodthirsty... right? “Kirsty doesn’t believe that, does she?”

Yyaevonnte looked at the floor for a while. “Kirsty is like the little sister I never had. She’s got such a heart and when she loves someone, she loves hard. And this guy has a way with words like you wouldn’t believe. I swear to you, I’m not a gullible man, but if he were to tell me that he was the emperor’s pregnant mistress, I don’t know that I’d disbelieve it right away.”

Lilitu stood up, exhaling deeply. “Well, I could use a drink right now. How about you?”

Yyaevonnte nodded.

She opened her cabinet and took out a small white jug and two goblets. She poured a glass for them both before returning to the table.

Yyaevonnte smelled it before taking a small sip. “Hmmm…” He looked into the glass, sniffing it once more. “What is this?”

“Shein, imported from Morrowind.”

Yyaevonnte took another sip. “So, as you can imagine now I’m extremely worried for Kirsty. I’ve seen the kind of thing these…” He took a large gulp of shein. “Cultists can do. Especially Mehrunes Dagon cultists. They’re so bad that Emperor Septim actually had his statue taken down and banned from Cyrodiil.”

Lilitu swirled her glass. “Listen, I can understand and believe me, I’ve had my share of… experiences with a Daedra worshipper, though thankfully he never got deeply involved with this one, but I’m not quite sure why you’re telling me this. While I pop in for a pastry every so often, I’m not close to Kirsty and I’m definitely not close to Capaneus.”

“So, talking to her is out of the question, huh? I guess it’ll be up to me then,” he said, standing up to leave.

Lilitu waved her arms. “No, no! You can’t do that!”

“What?” He sat back down. “And why not?”

“Haven’t you ever been in a relationship with anyone else sticking their nose in it? All you’d accomplish is pushing them together. It creates this romantic notion that it them against the world. Trust me on that, if you trust nothing else I say.”

“Then what can I do?” Yyaevonnte grumbled. “I can’t just leave her with him, poisoning her mind with that stuff!”

“I know, I know…” She began chewing her thumb as she stared out the window. “Is there anyone she’s really close to? Someone she normally listens to?”

“Wrothken. And I have no idea where he is.”

Lilitu lowered her eyes. “Alright. Then all you can do is just be there and be happy he hasn’t started pushing you out of the picture entirely.”

Yyaevonnte clenched his jaw and folded his arms. “And that’s all? She can be in danger and I’m just supposed to sit and wait it out?”

“If you want to be sure she’s safe, then yes. Trust me on this.”

Yyvaevonnte grumbled a little under his breath before sighing. “I guess if I have no choice.” He stood up. “I’m only doing this because you seem like you know what you’re talking about.”

As Lilitu walked him to the door, he said, “You know, I think I’ll try and get a permit to have him deeply checked out. At least I’ll know a little something about him.”

“Just be discreet about it,” Lilitu said.

She watched him head towards the Fighters Guildhall and then her eyes drifted toward the Iron Champion Bakery. She couldn’t help worrying about Kirsty. As hard as it was, she had to follow her own advice.



Lilitu stopped by the Iron Champion Bakery on her way out of the gates, just to get a basket of pastries for the road. At least that’s what she rationalized.

She looked around, scanning the room for Capaneus. Her stomach soured when she saw him at the bar, Kirsty fawning over him. She took a deep breath, reminding herself why she was there.

Upon seeing Lilitu, Kirsty rushed over to her. She was absolutely beaming. Capaneus caught Lilitu’s eye and winked, grinning that boyish grin of his. Dolce woofed softly, obviously uncomfortable.

“Lilitu, I haven’t seen you in a while,” Kirsty said in a bubbly voice. She didn’t wait for Lilitu to respond. “He has got to be the sweetest, funniest guy I’ve ever met! And he’s cute, isn’t he?”

Lilitu literally bit down on her tongue for a moment. “Well, he’s not my type,” she said. “But as long as you’re happy, right?”

Kirsty looked at Capaneus with a soft smile as she rocked on her heels. “Yeah… So can I help you with anything?”

“Just a pastry basket and some ham slices. Dolce and I have a long trip ahead of us.” She knelt down and scratched the dog’s ears. “Don’t we, baby?”

Dolce didn’t respond with her usual bliss. She continued to stare at Capaneus.

“Alright, it’ll just be a second. Why don’t you have a seat with Capaneus?”

“I better not. You saw how Dolce got last time.”

“Oh,” Kirsty looked down at the dog. “You’re right.” She chuckled. “She looks pretty cute in that armor.”

Lilitu left as soon as she received the basket. Before walking out the door, she glanced back at Kirsty. She had immediately returned to her original position with Capaneus. Lilitu closed her eyes. Kirsty, be careful… please.