A Soiree Not to Be Remembered
When the palace of New Sheoth threw open its front doors, both Bliss and Crucible issued through the portal like a living stream, one half immaculate and lively, the other dingy and sluggish. Though it was typical the two districts never mingled even when thrust together, something certainly was there that had never been seen before, and that was a public feast with none other than their lord and master: Prince Sheogorath, Daedric Lord of Madness.
The throng, squinting through the bright light of the noonday sun it just escaped, looked about at the splendour of the combined entry and throne room. The stone walls and floors were decorated with the finest of adornments, and a massive rectangular table spanning from entry to throne dais was laid out magnificently. And, of course, there was the cathedra, hewn of solid grey stone and seating its only occupant since the dawn of the Shivering Isles' existence.
The mad god, leaning on his arm listlessly, changed from mildly happy to overjoyed in an instant, righting himself to clap his hands together. Whether this was because he was happy to see that some blinded people were running into the laden table and spilling assorted foods on the floor or he was mad, nobody knew, but he clapped all the same.
Few outside the palace knew what Sheogorath looked like in the flesh, but none could doubt their eyes now. He had the face of an elderly man—oddly sagacious features, snow-white and greased hair, a trimmed beard, and slight creases—but he was nothing of the sort; all Daedra were older than they appeared, immortals that sought out planes of existence to live, and he was no exception. The most prominent feature that proved his inhumanity was the eyes: golden, penetrating, and slitted like a snake. That would have been terrifying, had not many folk have gazed in the sight of his lesser Daedric guards the Golden Saints.
"Salutations!" the Prince boomed from across the room, still thrusting his palms together in merriment. "Welcome! Do, come in and enjoy! Or stay out and not. And die. Never forget that. The latter sounds like a blast, really."
Several of the audience members quieted, paled, and wavered slightly, but none booked it out of the madman's palace, of course. Others did not care in any way, moving further into the room and eying the delectable gourmet cooking that awaited devouring.
"Wait, I am recalling something now," Sheogorath mused before slapping his knee and giggling like a child. "How wonderful! How very wonderful! Except when it's horrible. Then it is horribly wonderful. But enough about that. Haskill!"
The warping hum of a teleportation spell filled the room, and within the instant the Chamberlain of the Isles was revealed. A thin and lightly bronzed man he was, with a balding head and morose eyes that revealed he would rather be somewhere else entirely. Even still, he answered the beck and call.
"Yes, my Lord?" he answered succinctly, annoyance seeping from his tone.
"Tell everyone to be seated! Everything needs to be perfect! Or does it?" the ever-jubilant god blabbered before the golden eyes lit up. "Oh, yes, it does. Much needs to be perfect, and much doesn't, but this does."
With a regretting moan, the servant conceded, patted down his black and red suit, and informed the audience that they may sit.
Each party member, whether he be a happy, chatty Maniac of Bliss or a morose, quiet Dementiac of Crucible, populated the side of the massive oaken table with his fellows, continuing the oil-and-water relationship between the two districts. The only exceptions were the Duke and Duchess of the two realms, each seating at the very end and secretly holding hands underneath the table.
"I suppose you know why you're here! Or maybe you don't. I don't know why you're here myself. What are you doing here?" the god prattled on, glaring at the gathering with his inhuman gaze.
"They are here because you invited them, Lord Sheogorath," Haskill stated in his low monotone.
"Ah, Haskill. Ever the astute one, and snappily dressed, in fact. Though you should probably floss those teeth of yours. I don't want just anyone around with venison in his teeth! But now's not the time to think, of course. Thinking is terrible at the moment! Horrible! Abysmal! But not other times. Now, it's time to dine!"
With a swift motion, a gnarled cane rose into the Mad God's hand from the edge of the throne, propping him up to head toward the table. Not a muscle was moved by anyone else before the god tore off a leg of a roast pig and placed it on his plate, at which everyone decided to get friendly with the meats and wine—especially the wine.
As the hours passed, the Maniacs got more and more lively, and the Dementiacs got more and more reclusive. Only the Duke of Mania, Thadon; Sheogorath; and the Chamberlain were unaffected by the liqueur, mostly because Thadon drank so much wine per day that no amount would affect him, the Prince of Madness was not bound by human limitations, and Haskill never craved alcohol.
Eventually, the party moved off the table and onto the floor, striking out conversations of every nature when all that remained of the banquet were bones, dirty plates, and empty wineglasses. Maniac with Maniac and Dementiac with Dementiac were commonplace, but sometimes the opposites mixed and conversed. The two master blacksmiths of either realm, the sadistic elf Cutter and the effeminate Orc Dumag gro-Bolak, ridiculed each other viciously and continued their existence as long-time rivals. Gloorolros and Fimian, beggars both, exchanged pleasant conversations about sticks and sweetmeats of the roll variety.
Much conversation dropped when a sanguine Khajiit Ma'zaddha shouted out his desire to run with knives, and naturally the mad and drunken crowd agreed, joining in and creating the fray. Haskill, being the lone sane person in the room, uttered a worried whisper in Sheogorath's ear, but the Mad God enjoyed the frivolous idea.
"On with the show, Haskill! This is the most fun I've seen in years! or minutes! or seconds! Oh yes, seconds is right. Why aren't they called firsts, I wonder? So get going, vamoose, scram, before I change my mind. Or my mind changes me. We both know how ugly that can get!"
Irritated and feeling very much unappreciated, Haskill exited the room, watching the droves of drunken people carrying chairs and even the table to make space. Dishes and silverware flew everywhere as the table tottered left and right and up and down and all around, filling the air with cacophony. Sheogorath hummed to the rhythm of shattering china gleefully from his throne.
Once the stage was set and the dirty knives fully accounted for, the crowd moved onto its next course of action, and that was defining the regulations. This was taken outside of the Mad God's earshot, just in case he threw in a death policy to the victor or something equally unappealing, and within a few minutes they came to a consensus. It would be a race from one end of the throne room to the other, and the sole rule was that the winner had no blood on his blade before touching the wall. Everyone thought this was brilliant, including the Daedric Prince who was explained this prior to starting this event.
Not a minute later, man, woman, elf man, elf woman, and the few Argonians and Khajiiti in the lot took their marks by the wall, their cutting utensils dangerously high in the air and their ruddy faces lit with anticipation.
"Go!" shouted Ma'zaddha, signaling the start of the race and getting a strong headstart with his digitigrade cat feet.
The others followed, charging after him and daring the ledges and half-story stairwells with difficulty. None could match a well-practiced Khajiit's speed and acrobatics, and naturally the leader remained at the head of things.
None could match a Khajiit's pride, either, and when Ma'zaddha climbed the final steps and turned to look at his headway he had not realised he was about to run into someone. That someone was the man Sheogorath trusted the most: Haskill.
Both toppled into each other head-over-heels before collapsing onto the floor, but when Ma'zaddha checked to see if the knife was still in his hands, he realised it wasn't. Instead, it was nestled between the Chamberlain's ribs, a sticky flower of red flourishing in its place. The cat paled under his fiery red fur, all drunken evidence removing itself.
The others zoomed by, touching the wall with all haste and almost tripping over the body. Ma'zaddha looked through the many toward the Prince who did the same, snake eyes locked on him.
"I'm sorry, my Lord. I-I never meant to do this! I never saw him coming and—"
On he blubbered, apologies streaming from his mouth like water from a faucet, but Sheogorath waved it off.
"Haskill was always the good actor, Kitty Bitty Witty Sitty Mitty . . . hmm, not much rhymes with 'Kitty', does it? Whatever. Don't worry your ugly fuzzy head about it. He'll be up and we'll all have a laugh together!"
The thing is that Haskill did neither of the two, not ascending from his façade in that very minute or the remaining hours of the party. Once dismissed, the chamberlain remained on the floor without a second thought as the merriment continued, and soon the party was finished with the guards shoving the revelers clear out the door, leaving behind the mother of all messes.
The torches on the wall magically lit up, bathing Sheogorath's palace in their light as the last rays of the westward passing sun left his world. There the Prince of Madness sat, alone with the unfortunate chamberlain.
"Okay, Haskill, it is getting old. Mildewingly old, even," He said, tapping the end of his cane on the ground and summoning the man in front of him.
Haskill plopped on the ground, his expression fixed and lacklustre and the knife still embedded in his chest. Sheogorath chuckled in slight amusement from the summoning like he always did and tapped the Chamberlain's cheek with a slipper-covered foot.
"Did you not hear me? I said it's too drab, unfit, unworthy for even worms to sniff at! Or did I? I could be thinking about yesterday."
Silence followed, as did a harder boot to Haskill's head.
"Come on, hup hup!"
Nothing changed as the booting continued in both period and force, and Sheogorath froze in slight dread afterward. Could it be that the man, his valet and castellan, was really dead, that the immortality spell cast on him by the Mad God's own hand wore off prematurely? Who would take care of the interior decorating and the kitchen if he was gone? His face grew fret lines for the first time since the last Greymarch, and lonesomeness grew in his heart.
Snatching the cane nearby, the prince ascended and walked toward the palace entrance to gaze out at Mania's open sky, but no brilliance of the star-laden glow that lit the area like that of a moon would yielded him much solace. He gave up early and looked back at the crumbled form of his Chamberlain sombrely before a thought struck and peaked his eyebrow.
With the tap of his cane and the sound of a warp, Haskill plopped to his side once more. Sheogorath laughed happily, giddily even, and walked a little bit further away to repeat the process. Eight times, he did that, never tiring of the gig, before he heard a "Could you please stop doing that?" underneath him in a drawling monotonous voice he was familiar with.
"You're alive!" the Prince exclaimed, quickly getting that much happier. "How glorious, and terrible at the same time. I was just having fun."
"Such I have gathered from my pounding headache. How wonderful for me, my Lord, that this happens every time I nearly die," Haskill spoke sarcastically, pulling the knife out with little more than a minor tug and a groan. Blood reemerged from the wound, but the application of Restoration magic reversed that effect easily; within seconds, the wound was knit, the blood gone, and the suit as clean as a whistle.
"I always forget that. Or maybe I don't and hate niggling details. Now is the time for celebration! Would you like a foot, or cheese, or maybe some foot cheese? I can't decide, so all will do. Good to have you back."
"Always good to be back, my Lord," Haskill answered dully.