The Damn Dog.
Sect 1: Interval
Across the mountainous forges of northern Hammerfell, and up through Dragonstar into the only section of High Rock not cut off by the Illiac river of Adal'am, the grasslands of High Rock were swept about in a forwarding motion, almost beckoning a draft of clamor with it through dilution and calmness. The ghastly greystone chapels standing out in protruding warfare amongst the hills, their bells chiming lightly in the wind and their boards creaking with the weight of the priests and savants that caressed their halls with joyous ceremonies of faith and gospel, the sky blended the gray buildings into its ever-more eye. Past the lakes and prairies of the rich soil, northward more past Thorkan and into the badlands, just north of Old Gate, there was a small town not marked on the maps and not densely traversed. A town called Iremar. In this town, prosperous with a small farm and a lively market, there was a baron of the land. His name was Ilicore Stovarn of Stormhelm and he lived in a grand manor that dwarfed any other building in the town. It had tall peaking roofs and a lush garden in the back that had a local river running right through it. The windows were tall and thin, allowing pure light to flood the halls, quarters, and galleys. There were fine statues of granite and onyx that lined the landscaping, tall golden fountains that bid their warming calls in the sunlight, and full, ripe trees with juicy and abundant fruits. The estate was the gem of the badlands, and the people were happy with it. All was fine and boastful for the servants and retainers that laundered the estate and the permanent residents were joyful as well. This went on for some time, as messengers went to and fro carrying transactions and gold from one place to the estate and back again. There was, however, only one problematic kink in the clockwork euphoria of the town. And that was Nathorn Stovarn of Stormhelm. The baron's father.
Ilicore himself was, indeed, a middle-aged man and was, indeed, void of family. To account for his gap, he had his father move in with him years before. At first, it was fine. His father would go around town, jostling and laughing with the folks, telling jokes and buying rounds of ale for the workers after their tedious shifts in the farm and around the muddy grasslands. But suddenly, one day, and for no apparent reason at all, he stopped bounding himself around town; he quit visiting the grand garden at noon to sit on his favorite stone bench amongst the Poppies and Iornband flowers. His eyes grew weary, his skin was left paled, and his smile…his smile that could ignite a crowd…it withered away into a sour mix of epiphany and delusion. Ilicore became depressed and worried, fearing that his father may be sick and dying. He ordered for the best doctors come in from Daggerfall and try to mend his father. They tried, all of them. But none could find anything wrong with him physically. Emotionally, however, he was ecstatic and sporadic and even a bit lustful. He would place objects around his room in stacks and in odd designs. With no luck for his father's well-being of mind in sight, the baron stopped tending to his land. He let his glorious garden die and crumble away. He let the cries of his people go unheard when a famine of Rock-Joint spread through the entire providence. He let the farm die down and the herds of livestock diminish. He even allowed his people; the same people that once loved him and that he loved back; to leave. He actually almost forced their decision upon them. He cared less for the world. Instead he bound his face into books of how to cure his father. Books about what could cause such a disturbance in his attitude, in his soul. After much reading, he finally gave up. Winter was upon the land and he had only seen his father get worse. Things happened in far reaches of his manor, his manor that was blighted with broken window panes and loose bricks and holes in the ceiling and overgrown weeds and broken statues and an overall feel of desolation. Things he shuttered to imagine. Odd noises, but more than that; odd feels and smells, they came from everywhere. His servants had all left, all but a few. These were the ones either too afraid to leave, for fear of Nathorn and his wild mind, or those that had no place else to go.
After a night of dancing with a few bottles of the finest imported Mead, Ilicore packed up his things and sent off for a coach to take him and his father to neighboring Normar Heights. While he was waiting for the coach, it began to snow lightly. He looked out of his favorite window. It sat atop the central spire of the manor, a stained glass window of a white bird flying above a field of bright flowers and a placid river. The top part of the window had been shattered right before he forced the people of his town out. A small riot, or more like parting gift, had been issued by the people. Many rocks were thrown and a few of the more magely citizens cast fire spells at his vast, vacant home. He looked down and thought for a moment to jump, but a knock on the door of his office, the room in which the window was situated in, jumped him back into reality…or what he could tell of reality. The Mead was hitting him harder and harder every moment that passed. It was the last servant he ever hired, Jaustine. She was young with soft brown hair and soft brown eyes, her light skin contrasting them into a beautiful radiance of majestic triumph. She had to speak with him, a slight worry in her voice. His father was asleep. Curious as to why this was a problem, she informed him that he hadn't slept in days. He counted it off as his father simply wearing himself out and bid her off, but not before reaching into the slender birch desk that sat in his office. He pulled out a small leather sack of five-hundred Septims. He told her to take off with it and never look back. He never cared to know what had happened to her, as it was off of his conscience. He walked past her without acknowledging her praise and wandered the littered halls for a while, stopping to look at the papers and mugs and spoons and torn cloths that piled around the once angelic and lively and bright gem of the badlands. He sat down on a ravished couch; its fine velvet coat stripped off and looted. He began to sob heavily, his belongings that he had left were close at is feet. It all fit into two small piles bound in by Imp muscle. He cried and sniffled for a while until his father interrupted. He ran into the wall right in front of the door to the room Ilicore was in. Ilicore jumped and quickly gathered himself. With a sturdy hand, he led his father down the chipped stone steps of the manor, out into the frigid world of snow and gray clouds. A carriage was there; the horses it was drawn by were gallant and silver, their manes fading into the serine white background. With a last look back at his past, Ilicore took in the sights of the destructed town around him. He momentarily saw the houses and his manor all rebuild again, the people walking the streets with their fur coats on, laughing and drinking warm ales. He sunk his head low and dragged his father into the carriage with him, knowing his vision was but a dream of what he whished could have stayed true to him. The ride to Normar Heights was daunting and solemn. His father spoke not a word the whole day-and-a-half's ride there, he only looked down onto the carpeting of the coach, which was bright red with a swirling oceanic pattern on it. Ilicore took in the sight of his mantilla, his life that was perishing and his father's mind which was closely following.
Once they reached Normar Heights, Illicore paid the runner a handful of gold and bid hin a good day. The winds had picked up over the past few hours and the sky became blackened with darker clouds. Ilicore pursed his thinly-knit fur coat's collar closer to his neck. He sighed heavily as the coach pulled away and he watched a ghostly white trail of steam grasp out to the heavens from his mouth. It lingered in the air for a few moments before dissipating. He walked with his luggage and his father close next to him through the hazy and quite vacant streets of Normar Heights. There was a town pool right ahead of the town gates that was frozen over, acting as a mirror, reflecting the depressed vision of Ilicore and his father in their idle thinking as they walked past it. The black-gray cobbles of the street were slippery and icy, and it was hard to concentrate on so many things at once without falling or letting his father fall. The dead trees that lined the middles of the streets and that nestled in the fronts of the houses and taverns all danced in the wind, a low grumbling howl bellowing from the throat of Nirn itself. They reached a small white building on the eastern end of town that was on the corner. A few cats scurried by into the alley right beside it, disappearing into a crack in the wall adjacent to the house, into the cellar of the tavern it was reinforcing. His father dully watched the two cats go by and giggled to himself a little. The first noise he'd made sense they left the damned city of the well part of their lives. Ilicore walked to the plank door and knocked slightly. A man with fading black hair and a light grey beard answered and beckoned them inside. They made themselves at home and unpacked, though Nathorn had nothing of his own besides the tattered brown jacket and the worn down grey vest and white shirt beneath it, which he wore at all times any way. The man and Ilicore talked all night beside a warm fire that was burning in the cozy den while sipping on Colovian wheat tea. Ilicore requested his be enhanced with some form of alcohol, but the man refused as it was getting late and they needed rest, though deep down it was solely because he feared for Ilicore's battered state of being enough as it was. The man was in fact Heram-Entall Stovarn of Wayrest, the beseeched count's cousin. He had written him over the past few months and the elderly cousin welcomed them in, as he too hurt to see his uncle in such a state, and to see how much it hurt Ilicore was too much. The night came and they slept soundly, though Nathorn began talking in his sleep again, groaning and huffing. The next morning, however, would be the awakening of a grand tale, one that would impale the very outreach of Ilicore's own mental state of being and his very will to interfere with fate and the destiny of his father.