Hello. My name is Esuerc Marcellus Voltimand. Long has it been since I was last active on this site. Much has changed.
Regardless, this is the story of Lour'ek, a small, miniscule wood elf with a chip on her shoulder the size of Tamriel. She is neither Dovahkiin or the original Champion of Cyrodiil, only the Thane of Sheogorath... or was, in any case.
The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Fool of Madness: Chapter 1
The dark mahogany stool squealed quietly under the added weight of its new arrival, the humid air of the Bannered Mare thick with the scent of smoke from the nearby hearth. Lour'ek, a miniscule and diminutive half-elf even amongst her fellow elves and humans, sat silently, tiredly at the bar.
For someone of her terribly small stature climbing the mountainous trails and rocky crags, the sloping hillsides and rushing rivers proved to be most difficult in her profession- courier for the Jarls of Skyrim. She fully understood she did not stand alone in such an endeavour, but the idea of having another at her side didn't sit well in the pit of her stomach.
A single pint greeted her downcast stare, thrown to her from the barmaid situated behind the counter. Many times the half-elf found herself in such a position, worn and fatigued after a journey from hold to hold, from Whiterun to Solitude, from Riften to Windhelm, from Dawnstar to Falkreath, and everywhere in between. Upon this night, the ride back from Markarth had been a draining one.
More than once her brigade, a group of fellow travelers, farmers, and messengers, had been surprised, ambushed, and cornered by the men of the wilds, an almost subhuman culture- dark and morbid- the Forsworn. Half their group had been taken, slain at the mangled and jagged weapons of the savages, the deluded Bretons of High Rock. And yet, they managed an escape time and time again, finally seeking refuge in the hold due east, Whiterun, where Lour'ek soon found herself as she did after every delivery.
Two steins sat at her splayed hands, drained of their contents, her lids dropped and darkened.
In her tired state, she stared lazily at the far wall as she turned in her seat, the fire dancing this way and that, guided by an unseen force, a mad puppet master. Golden and amber, orange and volatile, Lour'ek let her mind wander, let her thoughts drift and her eyes close.
Laughter resounded through the ancient throne room in her mind, the aged, dual-coloured stone walls adorned with tapestries and sconces echoing the hearty chuckles of the Daedric God, the Prince of Madness, Lord of the Never-There…
Lord Sheogorath.
The Asylum, as the Lour'ek would jokingly yet aptly call the palace and most of what was known as the Shivering Isles, was home to the delirium and madness of Sheogorath and his subjects. For one-hundred and seventy years, countless days and hours or servitude blurring into the next, flew before the half-elf in fogged flashes - like a painting dashed away by an unforgiving rain on a spring day- misty and veiled.
Ale, mead, wine, and the like did nothing to fade the burnt-in images from her consciousness.
Memories of lounging upon the throne of the Daedric Prince when he ventured out and about amongst his subjects, knowing fully well to be caught in such a position would be most perilous. Of Skooma and Elytra, of the Mad Court over which Sheogorath held sway.
The spot nearby to the throne sat empty, void of the chamberlain who so frequently stood still as stone upon the rug- the fine regality of the fabric worn slightly under his tailored shoes. Instead, Haskill, ever loyal to his Lord, followed him about like a melancholy shadow, fully aware of the antics the half breed held in his absence.
In the miasma only fine mead could offer, Lour'ek looked back upon one such occasion with diluted disdain, her hand placed against her cheek so that her lips puckered strangely, drawn down to her chin so her skin pulled in an awkward grimace, the buzz of the tavern a distant reminder of the present.
Snoozing upon any other object would have been met with amusement from Lord Sheogorath.
Atop a stall in the Mania district, up high on the strangely gnarled trees dotting the island, even on the table of his Duke of Mania, Thadon, as Lour'ek was found before in times previous, drunk off her arse and belligerent.
But on this day, when her Lord returned from a leisurely stroll through his New Sheoth, she was met with a reaction far less than humoured.
Stretched out across the length of the throne, legs thrown haphazardly over one of the finely carved arms, Lour'ek snored with a slight twitch to her cheek, her foot tapping ever so sporadically as though deep in a dream. Sheogorath leaned heavily on his cane and gazed down at her meager form with amber-ebon eyes, his cat-slit pupils dilating somewhat. His nostrils flared with a huff, his back gone straight as a board, a glance sent to his chamberlain as though his eyes deceived him. Haskill blinked slowly, as a turtle would- if one were willing to stare at a turtle for long enough to find out the precise time- and sighed with a slight rise to his chest.
The MadGod twiddled his gloved fingers over the handle of his cane, the eyeball decoration rotating beneath his fingers at the strange prodding. His thin lips dipped into a frown hidden away by his finely groomed beard, creases on his cheeks and lines under the darkened recesses of his eyes.
He lifted a hand with a sudden grin and snapped loudly, the small figure of Lour'ek disappearing from the throne in an instant. Haskill watched on, forever unaffected by the antics of his Lord, and yet ever understanding the madness behind them.
Normally, such a treat was reserved only for the most heinous offenders of the MadGod, and on that day he was feeling particularly lenient. Instead of a fatal drop from the highest point in the Realm- what was guessed to be upwards of nearly one thousand feet or more- Lour'ek appeared at the apex of the throne room, suspended for but a moment. Like a rock, she dropped from her drift in the air to the floor of the Throne Room, her mismatched, male-contoured glass armour nearly shattering at the impact against the stone. She groaned heavily at the pain across her back, signals itching up her spine like the claws of a Grummite tearing at soft skin.
Lour'ek's eyes opened through the jolts up and down her back and neck and stared up at the disinterested face of Haskill, his hands held firmly behind his back, his eyebrow raised in a "I-warned-you" look. Her half-idled orbs found their way to the towering frame of Sheogorath, who hovered over her on his cane, one ankle crossed over his shin, a bemused grin on his devilish features. "Well now, Little Elf? Sleepin' on the job? In my throne, no less?" He questioned in a heavily accented croon.
She went to sit up, to pop the cramps in her back, but he stopped her instantly. His cane snapped against the stone floor beside her head, pinned in the gap between her left ear and the small chain pierced from tip to tip, leaning down ever heavier on his walking stick to glare at her. "Not so fast, missy." He cooed- his eyes, like that of a Saber Cat, trained on her intently.
The Half-elf grinned nervously, her eyes, rounded like that of her imperial blood, creased tightly. The chain pulled taut against the elongated point on her ear- her Bosmer ancestry- as Sheogorath scraped his cane against the rough surface of the floor, keeping her attention trained solely on him and not the small glimmers and sparkles swimming across her eyes.
"Ye ain't gettin' off that easily this time, Lour'ek…"
Lour'ek snorted as reality crashed back before her, her third stein having fallen from her hand and to the floor of the Bannered Mare, clanking loudly. She rubbed rigorously at her eyes and cheeks in an attempt to stay awake, her hand instinctively wrapped at the chain held on her ear a moment later. The fire from the hearth burned hotly at her back, even through the thick, aged glass of her armour- the very same from nearly two-hundred years prior, crafted by her father in the Imperial City in Cyrodiil.
Not enough mead, it seemed, was available to drown her memories, both good and bad. She remembered fondly the Hero of Kvatch as she stared across the Bannered Mare to a table situated against the wood wall, two Companions from Jorrvaskr whom she recognised sitting idle and happy in their drinks. The laughter and drunken merriment brought about a recollection to her short time in Cloud Ruler Temple- her attempts to become a blade for the would-be emperor, Martin Septim, all for naught.
And yet the Hero saw something in her despite her failure at impressing Jauffre and Baurus, an inkling of determination, a true desire to serve the Empire. Their friendship soon grew, deep and caring, argumentative yet content- a true bond. But their ties were shattered as Lour'ek disappeared beyond the door to the Isles, in a last ditch attempt to create a true name for herself. For several months Lour'ek worked under the bizarre and twisted guidance of Lord Sheogorath, becoming his eventual Thane and quasi advisor, much to the disdain of the existing Chamberlain.
But the Champion refused to leave her in light of the time that passed, finding themselves in the Manic and Demented realms of the Shivering Isles after the events of the Oblivion Crisis. The Half-Elf greeted the new-comer with more than a hint of remembrance as they drew nearer to the clapping and jovial MadGod. She remembered calling out to them, boisterous and shrill, Haskill all the more pained at the squeal in his ear.
Her friend had returned.
Or had they?
Sheogorath molded the Hero, her friend, into his image, twisted them into his crazed mindset with the sole intention that they were to become a future replacement for the MadGod in the upcoming Greymarch. And still Lour'ek followed her Lord to the end, transferring her servitude over to the new Sheogorath and former friend as the true MadGod disappeared in the form of Jyggalag, their mind warped and broken in a state of eternal mania and madness, a contorted, knotty bramble of incoherent thoughts and actions.
The Pact with the original Sheogorath was explained via Haskill to the new Champion. To become the Thane of Sheogorath, his messenger, and secondary Chamberlain aside from Haskill was in exchange for prolonged life- immortality against time and time only, not against the most grievous of injuries. Should she be struck down their pact would become null and void.
Lour'ek's fear of an early death was aggravated by her half-blood, unaware of how long she would truly live with the traits of both Human and Elf, more of a curse than a blessing.
Sheogorath had been most welcoming to her predicament.
But unknown to all who resided in the Court- Haskill, the New Sheogorath, and the diminutive Half-Elf- the Daedric Prince vanished, "vanquished" himself purposefully to a well-earned vacation, whisking away to another realm. A small lie, the MadGod told himself through his Cheshire grin as he would watch them from afar on special occasions, ensuring his land was in well-laid hands.
One-hundred and sixty-seven years passed under the rule of the Pseudo-Sheo, and Lour'ek grew increasingly anxious with the approach of war in Cyrodiil, a scent wafting through the air like that of burnt flesh and ash.
Whispers drifted over the Isles of a new foe, exceedingly powerful, nearly as ancient as the long vanished Ayleid. She feared an enemy's approach into the Imperial Province, that of the Aldmeri Dominion, the Thalmor. The Gate into the Fringe would stand an open portal to their onslaught should they choose to continue their tirade into the realm of the MadGod, eliminating any chance of her every returning to the lands she truly called home. She dared not think that the portal would be shut, sealed, eliminated.
No, Lour'ek had made her mind.
Behind her, she would leave the Isles.
Lour'ek was hauled unceremoniously from the floor of the Bannered Mare, her glass armour clinking loudly against itself as she was dragged toward the door, the light of the morning sun filtering through the half-opened entrance. The two Companions from what seemed moments previous but was in actuality the night prior carried her unceremoniously down the inlaid steps of the tavern to the cobbled streets of Whiterun, their tall, rugged Nord forms amusingly large in comparison to her own.
"This is the third time this month, Lour'ek." One of them warned, and for a moment the half-elf looked between the two men as though she were seeing double, her green eyes crossed and idled. The Twins, she remembered, as Dragonsreach's steps came into view.
Farkas and Vilkas.
"Really, boys, this is completely—" Vilkas righted her as his brother nearly ran the woman into a bench, the slurs coming from the Half-Elf a most hilarious distraction, "—unnecessary. I'm perfectly capable of walking."
"Hardly." Vilkas scolded, hoisting her up higher to keep the toes of her worn leather boots from dragging on the steps leading upward to the Jarl's abode. "We could smell the ale on you all the way from the other side of the Inn. And you smell like you haven't taken a bath in days."
"Look who's talkin'." She slurred, righting herself in their hold as they approached the large wooden doors to Dragonsreach, several guards posted outside as per usual. "And besides… I just… returned from Markarth. Had a package to deliver… decided to head straight to the Inn when I got back. I'm far more tired than drunk, I can—" Her face turned a dark green in an instant and Vilkas dropped her without a word, his brother holding fast.
Lour'ek deposited what was left of the contents of her stomach into the shallow mote under the bridge spanning the gap to Dragonsreach, Farkas keeping a firm hand on the pauldron on her right shoulder. "I'm much better, I can assure you."
Farkas pushed her forward gently so that she began to walk on her own accord across the bridge, the wood slats noisily giving way under her weight. "I'm sure Balgruuf is looking for you. Best not to keep him waiting." He advised the half-elf, his voice much softer than that of his brother's.
Lour'ek wobbled for a moment before she finally collected herself, her balance more than slightly off-kilter. She adjusted the loosely belted dirk at her side and sent the twins one final glance before she turned toward the door. "We should drink together sometime, you guys… It'll be a party."
Farkas smiled somewhat at the invitation, but stopped when Vilkas sent him a look. "Get going, elf. And make sure to wash behind those ears of yours."
"And your mouth." Vilkas added for good measure.
Lour'ek laughed quietly as the opened the door to Dragonsreach, disappearing within.
