Summary and info:
Cat and Cicero continue their adventures.
In the Shivering Isles, Sheogorath has helped Cicero ascend to the throne of the House of Mania. The jester now bears the title of duke. In New Sheoth, contending with minor adversity and sexual frustration, Cicero grows bored. Furthermore, Cat does not want to stay in the Shivering Isles - she has unfinished business awaiting her in the Commonwealth. The two proceed to reclaim what was once briefly lost between them while pursuing the demise of the Institute.
This story is a work in progress.
It is rated E for explicit content. (Sex, violence, and language - the holy trinity of things that make the world go 'round...)
It is a crossover between Elder Scrolls and Fallout.
My story, "C.A.T." is a prequel to this first volume. You will need to read it in order to understand the plot.
Also - I would love to see some fanart based on this.
New Sheoth, the capital of the Shivering Isles, was a place of twisted beauty and splendid crudeness, all wrapped up in one. Nevermind the Isles' countryside, littered with mushroom trees, blister pods, grummites, scalons, and baliwogs. Nevermind its Gardens of Flesh and Bone. Nevermind the dilapidated town, just west of the Fringe, called Passwall. And that was quite literally its only function. Mortals went there in order to pass through the wall – if they were worthy. If not, they were dead. The Gatekeeper saw to that.
No, it was the district of New Sheoth that was to behold. Behold it in all its glory, for it seated the very throne of the very god who willed it to even be a word upon any lips to any ear.
New Sheoth's palace was divided between two houses – the House of Mania and the House of Dementia. Both were troubled by their own demons, both had dark intrigues lurking behind whispers and plots and schemes. It wouldn't have been an aristocracy without such obligatory nonsense, of course. The Aureals – the Golden Saints – pledged their allegiance to Mania and its district of Bliss, while the Mazken – the Dark Seducers – pledged theirs to that of Dementia and its district of Crucible. Citizens of this realm were tormented in ways that no mortal of Tamriel could fathom. And it was all because Sheogorath, the Daedric prince of Madness, willed it to be so.
It wasn't too long ago that Sheogorath found his one and only son and heir, a half mortal fool of an Imperial by the name of Cicero. He was a Fool of Hearts who once pledged himself to serve the repugnant Night Mother. She was a wretched crone-corpse that the Mad God would've rather smashed and burned – and in so many ways, he willed that to be so. Sheogorath intercepted his son's lunacy, resulting in the Night Mother's destruction and Cicero's liberation. The Mad God talked sense into his red headed child, easing him into the role of prince – or duke, rather – and at times Cicero was referred to as princeling. The Mad God showed his son the way of magic, true magic, the kind of magic reserved for those who walk the planes of Oblivion and beyond. The jester took to it like a bird to flight.
Cicero's assumption as duke could not have come at a better time. The priest, Thadon, who was also the former duke of the House of Mania, irritated Sheogorath for the last time. Thadon fucked the duchess, Syl, on one too many occasions for Sheogorath's liking. The obnoxious, amorous arguing between the two of them overlapped between both Houses of Mania and Dementia, driving the other inhabitants to madness. And such was not the kind of madness that Sheogorath willed. It was the madness of children – the madness of mortals. The kind of madness that bored Sheogorath with its frivolity and its flippant disregard for the Mad God's whims. Beyond that, Thadon was a drunk and a drug addict, too incapable to continue to fill the position as duke. Sheogorath excitedly put Thadon under the knife – Cicero's knife.
"That's it," the Mad God told his son. "Nice and easy – slide it right into him." And a flash of evil spread across Cicero's face in the form of a maniacal grin as he sunk his dagger through Thadon's gaping mouth, piercing the flesh in the back of the priest's screaming throat. The tip of the ebony metal spliced through Thadon's shuddering brain stem and, just like that, the old duke was dead. Brain dead. And dead-dead.
Cicero took his throne.
Much to his liking, being duke to the House of Mania was no difficult task for the jester. And yes, Cicero, royalty and all, still dressed as a jester. He told his father that even though he no longer served the Night Mother, he was content with his classic style as it was a trend of peculiarity. Cicero cherished peculiarity.
"Alright," agreed Sheogorath, "but as I said once before, you will dance each year at my birthday party." And little did the Mad God realize that Cicero would dance on any occasion, all year round, no matter who was interested or not. Such was an easy trade-off.
Now, the old patchy motley the red head wore throughout his travels of Tamriel was removed and burned at once. For the sake of aesthetics, his own father couldn't allow such shabby clothing for the very duke seated upon the throne of Mania.
"You will have a new outfit, my child," promised Sheogorath. "You will be a beautiful fool."
Cicero wore a jester hat embroidered with a twist of crimson crushed velvet and soft black silk. Silk woven from the conical, finger-like appendages beneath the bulging abdomen of a Diamond Spider Queen, no less. The tips of Cicero's hat were long, hanging downward, extending along the length of his hair, both of which ended at the expanse of his shoulders. The hat's color suited him, matching up exquisitely with the golden, copper hue of his eyes and the deep, red intensity of his thick, luxuriant hair. On the front and center of the jester hat, there was a silver emblem of Sheogorath – the three gaping mouths.
Cicero's bodily attire was hand crafted by a clothing merchant from Crucible. The under-layer was constructed of studded, fine dark leather that attractively hugged his abdomen, buttocks, hips, and legs. Over his upper torso, Cicero wore a duke's black vest, woven from that same spider silk, buttoned to his neck. Overlaying the vest was a silver mesh of mail, tough as dragon scales, and protective against the assault of lycanthropes and vampires alike. Cicero's pale arms, curved with lean muscle, were left exposed. But his hands donned heavy, dark leather gloves that cuffed past his wrists, nearly to the elbow. "So that Cicero may still kill with ease," he'd mutter with a grin just before he'd slip them on. And lastly, the jester's boots were sleek and dark, rising mid-calf, offering some extra height in their modest soles. The divine footwear provided ample muffling for stepping quietly like a ghost as it should float through the halls of the dead.
Cicero did not come to the Shivering Isles alone. Sheogorath knew the jester would bring her – his Wanderer. Cat; the princeling's scientifically engineered true love. The young woman was riddled with trauma, easily seen by the way she appeared; thin, shaven, and wide-eyed with perturbation. Whatever it was that the Institute had done to Cat, the experience surely left its cold-blooded mark.
Sheogorath couldn't stand the sight of her looking so frail, so bald, and her left arm covered in those strange numeric tattoos. So many ones and zeros – so many barcodes. With the snap of his finger, Cat was adorned with an elegant gown, glittery daedric jewelry, and her black hair had grown to a length that reached the top of her narrow backside. She hated it. Cicero couldn't believe the sight of Cat decorated with frippery, her unusually long hair, and wearing a dress of all things! Cat was utterly disgusted by the whole ordeal.
"If you live under my roof," said Sheogorath with the waggle of his finger – and the two of them said nothing more of it to the Mad God. At least not right away. They had only just arrived, so they had to pick and choose their battles. Cat being unexpectedly hurdled onto nauseating levels of femininity was not an immediate priority.
As for choosing battles, Cat and Cicero had some things to work out between themselves. There were times Cicero tried to make advances on Cat. And therefore, there were many times Cat recoiled from him, still trying to make sense of everything. However, there was always a look in her eyes that convinced the jester she wanted him. His Wanderer was... struggling. Cicero loved her and he adored her to no end. He couldn't force the issue, but damn if he didn't repeatedly try.
At times, Cicero would feel so sexually pent up that he'd steal off into the night, traipsing through Dementia's district of Crucible. He'd spy a victim walking alone in the street. With urgency, the jester promptly dragged them off to choke and stab and gut in the middle of the night, leaving their body to the bugs in the morning mud. Cicero channeled his sexual urges into bloodlust – what else could there be for a cold blooded killer? Many citizens of Crucible pined for death anyway, but often times feared to attempt suicide. Cicero convinced himself that what he did was a twisted sort community service.
But of course, given the subject of Cat, the jester still tried. One night, Cicero returned to the House of Mania just after strangling a muttering man who frequently walked circles around a particular mushroom tree. The princeling's urges had not yet been sated. The muttering man must have been suicidal. Cicero discovered no real fight in him. There were too many suicidals out there, each of them hesitant to join the sad, lonely ghosts on the Hill of Suicides. Regardless, Cicero returned home feeling ravenous and spied Cat walking along the conservatory. As she strolled past an alocasia plant, she neared the open door to the duke's quarters – Cicero's quarters.
In a matter of seconds, Cat felt an excited grip on her arm, and before she knew it she was tugged and pinned to a wall just inside Cicero's room. Light on the wall flickered from the candles that danced in the sconces above. The shadows played across the pallid cheekbones of Cicero's face as it widened to a grin that could charm devils from their deeds. His copper eyes illuminated under the wicks' flames. Cicero smiled at Cat with an all too hungry lust, mixed up with the feverish euphoria of having just killed a person.
"It has been some time," he whispered against her mouth. His breath was sticky, warm and sweet, like an oven fresh pastry. His body smelled of sweat, and his clothing smelled of leather, silver metal, and something musky like rotted flowers.
Cat breathed deep. "Yes," she agreed with a nod. "It has. I – I think."
"You think?" Cicero chuckled softly. He slid a glove up her back, resting it across her spine. His eyes intensified in sync with the further spread of his grin as he leaned closer, hovering his smiling lips beside Cat's ear. He spoke gently, "You know what Cicero wants." He leaned back, staring down at her. Then, his free hand lifted Cat's dress, sliding up along her inner thigh. She flicked her eyes to his and held her breath. Cicero slowly, lightly brushed a gloved finger up and down the center crease of her groin, teasing Cat's privates through what thin fabric pitifully covered such an area. Her breathing grew heavy as her stomach tensed in anticipation. Cicero drew his lips to her neck, kissing a path along her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, shrugging the jester off of her as she attempted to move away.
But Cicero had no plans to let Cat walk away. He tugged her back. She felt him tense and tighten behind her as his sweet breath panted against her collar bone. The tips of his hat dangled forward, sweeping along her shoulder. "Please, Wanderer," he begged in a low tone. "Cicero misses your skin." The jester spun her around, forcing Cat's gaze to meet his. She felt a familiar warmth swell beneath her dress, but she ignored it. Cat was scared – not of Cicero, but of the demons that haunted her thoughts; the things that kept her awake at night. That crippling fear was still in her. And so, she contended with the one instinct that she could never shake – Cat wanted to run away.
Cicero closed his eyes, kissing Cat's neck, moaning softly against her skin as he lifted her from the ground. Her legs wrapped around his hips and so he eagerly pumped himself against her. Leaning away from her neck, Cicero teased Cat with an impending kiss, slowly gliding the tip of his tongue along the curve of her mouth. Her jaw quivered with excitement, but – again – she ignored her fervor. She did not lean into Cicero's kiss.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he practically growled. Cat's insides went weak with readiness and her thighs felt a firm, prominent shape pressing through Cicero's leathers. Her bottom lip dropped and she breathed a short eager breath ever so quietly – but it was just loud enough to alert Cicero's ears. "Cicero wants to be inside of you," he teased and his body somehow tightened around her. Lifting a hand, Cicero began unlacing the top of Cat's dress, dragging the strings from their holes with controlled precision. He grinned while doing so, his eyes daring her to just try and stop him.
With a sigh, Cat looked down and unwound her legs from his hips. "I can't," she confessed. She did want him – Cicero was wild and wicked and strong and sadistically superb. But – no. It was the same old dilemma for Cat. Too many unanswered questions. Too many problems weighed on her mind. And to top it off, she felt uncomfortable in her own skin – uncomfortable in that god damn dress with all that god damn hair. Placing her feet back on the floor, Cat closed her eyes, feeling ashamed that she denied herself such a simple pleasure, and in turn denied Cicero something that he thought they'd already had; something deeper than skin itself. They did have it, but at the moment they didn't. It was all so complicated.
As Cat apologetically pushed her way out through the door, exiting the duke's quarters, she heard the jester behind her, pounding his fists to the wall, crying out with a dark frustration that meant all the more throats to be cut.