Of Mongrels, Fools and other Riff-Raff
(Previously Two Girls one Jester - which was only a working title)
Chapter 1 - Homeward Bound
This chapter will focus on the introduction of my OCs Ashlyn and Myrabeth - placing some first hints.
So there won't be any gore, smut or romance right now ^^ I'll keep that for the coming chapters. Those also will be a little bit different in their structure. Some chapters will be about one PoV only, sometimes two. This gives me more freedom and room to get the story going without rushing it too much.
Second chapter is already in the making. I intend to be able to release it in the coming days (middle of March).
Note for Language and Lore Freaks:
English isn't my native language. So forgive me, if some weird germanized sentence structures snuck in.
Even if I haven't declared this as crossover, you might encounter some content, jokes or phrases that come from another universe (so far you are familiar with some old school RPG games or books/movies).
Ashlyn - Windhelm
A thick depressing mass of grey clouds and a bone chilling snow storm whipped across the city of Windhelm, tugging fiercely at branches of trees and bushes. This wasn't a welcoming city for a Dunmer, no matter if one was referring to the climate or the people who lived in this snow cursed swath of land. Too bad she couldn't shout the dreary weather away like the Greybeards.
If it hadn't been for her sister's persistent nagging, Ashlyn would have never set foot in this place. Here, the only warmth one could expect was provided by tavern brawls, alcohol and the forge of the local blacksmith. She missed Cyrodiil, especially Cheydinhal and its flower decorated houses.
Now she stood here, freezing her ass off and hidden in the corner of a porch, while her sister poked around in some keyhole. While she tried to evade the never ending wind biting into her skin, she kept an eye on the empty streets. Ashlyn could only hope that no one would come by and see what was going on. Their escape from Riften, after they had murdered that old wench from the Orphanage, had been quite a drama and expensive.
Ashlyn had no desire to raise a bounty on their heads in Windhelm, too. Especially not with Ulfric on the throne, who was known as a rather unforgiving Jarl. With a bit of luck, they could dare to show their faces in Riften after a couple of months. Murder and thievery wasn't too uncommon there, they were after all high ranking members of the thief's guild.
'They will have to get along without us for a while…' she thought sadly. It never would have occurred to her, missing those rough louds, but she did.
Heavy wet snowflakes kept slapping into Ashlyn's face, while she angrily watched her sister fumbling with a lock. "We shouldn't meddle in Dark Brotherhood affairs Myra. They could come after us, you know and just because our mother…"
"Calm down Ash, I've got it in a few seconds." Myrabeth intervened; "just a few more careful turns to the right!" breathed Myrabeth, whose eyebrows were furrowed in extreme concentration only disrupted by small giggles. "It was quite fun watching her die like a rabid dog, all foaming," A clicking sound and the pained groan of old wet wood was heard "There we go… and in we go!" Myrabeth chirped happily, still giggling.
Rolling her eyes, Ashlyn followed in, welcoming the dark and somewhat warmer ambiance. "Yes it was fun. But this is Skyrim. Not Cyrodiil. They don't know us, nor do we anything about them." Ashlyn hissed, remembering the horrible riots. "How can you be certain they won't cut our throats for stealing one of their contracts?"
Myrabeth's hand came up, gesturing her to be silent. Her eyes sparkled with intense crazy joy, pointing upstairs in satisfaction. From some room above, she and her sister picked up a low murmur. It sounded almost like a chant with a desperate undertone; or was it frustration? Ashlyn couldn't make out the words yet, but from the repetitive rhythm it was clear was said.
She still doubted that a mere child could perform the Dark Sacrament with serious intent and that Myrabeth was just following a foolish rumor in the hope to find those who their mother had considered family. But what could she do. She was her sister, a totally crazy nut, yet her sister nonetheless.
Listening intently, she still wondered how long the boy was already at summoning required a certain attitude and dark finality of mind and a great deal of gold. While children could be cruel, Ashlyn was convinced that they neither had the gold nor the spirit. What if the boy would back out and suddenly regret what he had asked for. The woman was dead and death couldn't be undone.
Sneaking upstairs, Myrabeth's eyes went wide and so did her lips. If her grin grew any wider, she could start chewing on her ears, "See, what have I told you!" with an theatrical gesture she beckoned her closer.
"So what? If he's a child, it can't be taken serious…" Ashlyn growled at her sister with a low voice, while they squeezed path her sister.
Carefully, not to topple over any of the clutter they headed for the room from which the chanting came. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, Send your child onto me…For the Sins of the unworthy… must be baptized in blood and fear."
Myrabeth chuckled under her breath, almost starting to dance upstairs like an idiot. Sighing inwardly Ashlyn ignored her sister.
As they entered the door frame of the room, both of them saw a young boy kneeling and hunched over a bloody heart and a skeleton.
They waited several minutes in absolute quietness, listening to the frantic pleas of the boy repeating over and over the same ritual words. With a sigh, Myrabeth stepped in and towered over the young one but said nothing as he jumped up, his eyes huge with surprise and joy.
"Really, I mean, I knew the Dark Brotherhood was good... just not that good! You killed the old hag before I even asked!" His arms hugged around the legs of Myrabeth, who gave Ashlyn one of her smartassing triumphant grins.
Not in the mood for childish games, Ashlyn quietly asked "Do you have the payment ready, boy?"
Releasing Myrabeth, from his embrace, he jumped past the women out of the room. Clanking and thuds of objects falling to the ground could be heard and then quick steps returning to the room. In his hand was a huge ornate silver plate, and without hesitation he props it into Myrabeth's hands. "I have a family heirloom you can have. Supposed to be sort of valuable. I hope that's all right."
Ashlyn thought "Well, better than nothing…"
Her sister patted the boy's head. 'Don't be so greedy sister. To him it's probably of a higher value than to us in gold' Myrabeth's mind brushed against Ashlyn's. 'Maybe we should give it back to him. It doesn't feel right to take something that belonged to his mother.'
Ashlyn shook her head, giving her sister a mental pummeling, 'No way! Business is business. You killed that old woman and now don't get soft. We keep it. It has been weeks since I had a bath and a good fuck! And who knows, maybe we die a horrible death sometime soon…'
The only answer she received was a high pitched laugh and a fist in her shoulder. Since early childhood they could communicate silently, only using their minds. It was useful, but very often unsettling if one of them wasn't in control of their emotions. It took some effort to hide each other's intentions, not to mention well-meant surprises or intimate moments with the few hunks Skyrim had to offer. Not to mention pranks among siblings, for which she was more than grateful. Myrabeth had a sick sense of humor she wouldn't even wish upon her most dreaded enemy.
Myrabeth Windhelm – New Gnisis Cornerclub
The hot water felt good and sitting huddled up next to her sister, Myrabeth could finally relax. Despite her goal to find the last remaining Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood, she felt anxious and worn from all the attempts. Finally they had made some progress, not to mention the fun she had while doing so.
It had been pure luck that they found out about that Aretino boy doing the Black Sacrament. Something like that wasn't exactly material for gossip nor reliable rumors. In worst case it could have been a trap. Not that she had anything against slicing some throats of unwanted witnesses, but she had promised her sister and a promise was a promise.
Ashlyn took a mouth full of the soapy water, and squirted it into Myrabeth's direction, "Stop grinning like an idiot. No wonder the men weren't interested in us…"
"What men? You really must be desperate if you call those filthy and hairy skeevers men," Myrabeth snorted, and splashed water into her sister's face. "When we get back to Whiterun you better pay Athis a visit. He's leaving trails of drool wherever you walk… you better make him stop before someone slips on it."
Ashlyn giggled, "No thanks. I prefer a well-equipped grown up man and not a boy."
"Men like Sam Guevenne?" Myrabeth had to stifle a giggle.
Her sister still holding a grudge against Sanguine, had challenged the Lord of Debauchery himself for a drinking contest which he had accepted with the widest and most wicked grin Myrabeth could remember. In the end, and very much to her sister's disappointment, they all spend the night nurturing the trees and bushes with their vomit instead of having a happy threesome.
Ashlyn sighed "Don't remind me, yes? I don't even remember when I had a man in bed who didn't run off screaming for help when things got a bit rough."
"Well, what do you expect! There's a reason that he's grandpa's best drinking buddy, so that makes him part of the family…" Myrabeth said, then grinned at the thought. "Uncle Sanguine! That sounds kinky!"
Letting her head loll back, Ashlyn directed her annoyed groan toward the ceiling. "That reminds me of something. I still think it would have been better to leave Lucia with Farkas. That old crabber has a way with unruly kids."
"Yeah, until your fosterling finds herself a pet spider." Myrabeth chuckled, picturing Farkas running through Whiterun, screaming Oblivion and damnation.
Another squirt of water hit her face, "Don't be so mean. You know why he doesn't like spiders."
Grabbing for the goblet next to the bath tub, Myrabeth cackled, "Well, if Lucia isn't going for a pet spider, I sure will do. They are useful for my poisons. They make my victims squirm and twitch so nicely…"
"You are crooked!" her sister retorted, "and don't you dare to use my adopted brood as an excuse to infest my house with vermin you consider useful. The skeever droppings in my storage room weren't exactly useful nor appetizing and I bet that hagraven head you hid under your bed already got worms housing in it…"
Myrabeth pouted and answered with a fake whine, "Yes mommy…" Changing the subject, she leaned forward her expression turning into a very intense frown, "Ash, what will you do if they come for us before we get back to Whiterun? What if they aren't like our mother's family? What if their Listener is not like aunt Alisanne or Rasha?"
Ashlyn reached out, removing a wet lock of white hair from Myrabeth's eyebrow, "What is done is done. I got your back sister. If they turn out to be hostile, I will FUS RO DAH them to Sovngarde." Everything in the room reverberated slightly, letting the water churn in tiny ripples.
Myrabeth swallowed hard. Under normal circumstances she would have laughed at their insider joke. This time a treacherous pressure rose in her nose and behind her eyes. Thinking of Cheydinhal brought back the faces of the people she loved and considered family and the horrible events that lead to their flight to Skyrim.
One day, she swore, they would pay for this. She would skin the one alive who had killed Rasha, and burn down the houses of those who had taken the only chance of becoming acknowledged Assassins of the Dark Brotherhood themselves.
Not being able to speak with all those tears behind her eyes, she took another much deeper sip from her goblet. Skyrim wasn't all bad. The dragon shouts weren't only handy, they also brought a lot of fun and opened many doors to all kinds of pranks and mischief. Whiterun was as much home as any tavern room for the night, the companions were kind and good to them, and so was the thieves guild. But it wasn't home as she knew it. It wasn't simply the same.
Watching the flames in the fireplace dance and flicker across the red embers, she contemplated the past and future possibilities.
Something brushed her face, stroking across her skin like a flimsy spider web 'Don't grief for the fallen… find some peace in sleep.'
Shaking her head, she eyed her sister with miffed intent at that sudden and unwanted lecture 'Playing the smartass again, huh?'
'Huh?' Ashlyn frowned quizzically at her, touching her sister's mind. 'What brought that up?'
Tired of mind speaking, Myrabeth whispered "Do you really think a bit sleep will make all the pain go away? Even if we haven't been in the Brotherhood, they have been our family and friends, too! I simply can't sleep over it. No no I can't!"
With a sudden rush and loud splashing, Ashlyn climbed out of the tub. "Come to bed. Tomorrow we head back to Whiterun and see what Lucia brought into the house this time." With a sigh she grabbed for a cloth and started to rub down her ebony skin.
Myrabeth soon followed her example. The bed suddenly looked very tempting. Maybe tomorrow things would look a bit brighter. Before she drifted away into sweet Oblivion, she snickered into her pillow. At least the Aretino boy would be happy to find his family heirloom still in his possession if he stuck his nose out of the door.
After they had sold it to the blacksmith of Windhelm, Myrabeth had stolen it back when no one watched.
But the sweet embrace of sleep didn't last long. 'Myra, wake up…' A painful jab in her ribs send her jumping out of her bed, ready to trash whoever had intruded upon her night rest. Myrabeth had no idea why the air was so extremely cold and clammy, and why the heck did heir room look so decrepit.
"Where the hell are we. Ash?" she looked at her sister, who angrily kept her eyes pinned to a dark corner. Her eyes followed and she saw a shrouded figure sitting on top of an old shelf.
"Sleep well?" a female voice asked.
Where have you dragged us to? Some swamp?" Ashlyn's head went around, probably searching for something to give their captor a good clubbing.
The woman answered, completely unruffled by their attitude, "Does it matter? You're warm, dry... and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Grelod. Hmm?"
Myrabeth focused on her breath, calling upon her blood 'Don't…' Ashlyn cautioned her not to.
"Half of Skyrim knows," the woman laughed. "Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot. Ah, but there is a slight... problem." She paused, regarding the sisters with narrowed eyes. "You see, that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill... that you stole. A kill you must repay."
Heartbeat quickened, Myrabeth had no idea if she should start to dance and laugh or shout the shit out of that annoying wench on the shelf.
Ashlyn put a hand in a calming gesture on Myrabeth's shoulder. "What now. What do you want of my sister and me? Gold?"
"Well now. Funny you should ask. If you turn around, you'll notice my guests. I've "collected" them from... well, that's not really important. The here and now. That's what matters. You see, there's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive. But... which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill. I just want to observe... and admire." The woman threw a dagger in their direction, which Myrabeth snatched out of the air.
The coldness of the floor was forgotten and so the circumstances that had brought them here. 'Home sweet Void, I am coming!'
Ashlyn groaned under her breath, signaling her to do whatever she wanted to around, Myrabeth eyed the three captives and asked with a leering smile, "Which little pig shall it be…"
Cicero - On his way to the Sanctuary on some Road
He was stuck and as if the situation wasn't bad enough it was dark and raining. No one would be willing to help a stranger at night, not with all those bandits and foresworn skulking around. With a torch in his hand, Cicero threw back worried glances at the huge wooden coffin on load floor of the cart.
The farmer who lived close by had turned him away like a filthy beggar, not even the gold Cicero had offered him could change the man's mind. All he would have needed would have been an extra pair of strong hands or another draft horse, pulling the cart out of the dirt.
"Curses and pox on those stupid Nords. Can't even build proper streets," he growled under his breath, watching tiny rills of water running down coffin. He had to get the coffin out of the rain, or all his suffering had been for naught.
What had he done to deserves this? Hadn't he been always a good Keeper? "Poor Cicero…" No answer, only Silence.
With frantic sweeps of his gloved hands, he wiped at the water, "Sweet mother are you alright?" he asked quietly with a hint of hope, putting his hands on the wooden surface of the coffin. "Please don't be mad at poor Cicero."
The prospect of having still several hours of a muddy and hole infested road ahead made his mind reel. He couldn't risk losing the remains of the Unholy Mother, not now… not ever. He was her Keeper and it was his sacred duty to protect and tend to her remains.
Not caring about the wet mud staining his clothes and boots, he coaxed his horse into another rescue attempt. While his horse strained forward he grabbed hold of the stuck wheel, trying to free it from the trappings which held it tight in the sludge.
Without warning the wheel cracked around the notch and the cart sunk into his direction. First panic, then anger frothed up. He wanted to kill someone, no matter who. He was stuck in the rain and that accursed farmer Loreius wouldn't even let poor sweet mother sleep in the barn.
"Agh! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! Stuck! My mother, my poor mother. Unmoving. At rest, but too still!" Snarling, kicking up dirt and sludge, he shook his fist at the evil wheel for giving him such a hard time.
An amused female voice called from afar, "Need help with that wagon?"
Distracted from his ranting, he turned his gaze into the direction from where the voice came. With a swirling light floating high in the air, a lonely figure walked towards him. 'Only a lonely wanderer… no problem for Cicero should there be evil intend… my dagger will make short work of her if she tries something funny… heheeheee… funny' he thought, trying to calm the skittish horse which suddenly began to flatten its ears back.
The horse became more and more agitated, splattering his jester's suit with more dirt. As if the broken wheel and rain hadn't been enough. The Fool of Hearts looking like pitiful filthy wretch. Then again, looking pitiful might help his cause.
Letting go of the horse's head-stall, he pointed at the broken wheel, „Poor Cicero is stuck. Can't you see? I was transporting my dear, sweet mother." How would he explain this stranger his need without giving away the truth… after pausing he said "Well, not her. Her corpse! She's quite dead. I'm taking mother to a new home. A new crypt. But..." with all his strength he could muster he kicked against the broken wheel, not caring that more of the dirty water splashed up his pants, "aggh! Wagon wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke! Don't you see?"
Putting his best 'looking miserable' expression on, he took his jester's hat and wrung the water out of it before putting it back on. "Poor poor Cicero. No one wants to help a soaked and filthy fool. Ohhh woe me..."
The woman laughed, and pushed her hood back which revealed a smiling Dunmer face in the floating mage light. "Calm down, let me help you with this. Is there any barn or maybe village nearby?"
Her offer kindled joy in his heart. This was most unexpected, especially at night, 'She wants to help us… sweet Cicero has found help. Maybe Cicero is naïve and she only wants to rob us, but oh what choice do I have sweet mother…'
"Oh. Oh yes! Yes, the kindly stranger can certainly help!" dancing happily he pointed up the hill from where he had returned without success, "Go to the farm - the Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road. Talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me! But he won't! He refuses! Convince Loreius to fix my wheel! Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!"
As she came closer, her eyebrows drew together in a thoughtful frown - reminding Cicero to be on his guard. He slowly stopped his dance, and took a small step backwards. He hated it when people came too close, unless he wanted to stab them without being noticed.
She stopped, her eyes shifting from his face to his hand which he had positioned on the hilt of his blade and back to his eyes, where they locked their gaze. It was then that he became aware of her unnatural eyes. Golden eyes! Hurt and a long forgotten ache had him almost stumbling backwards. 'This cannot be… foolish Cicero seeing Ghosts of the past. No no, this cannot be. Oh mother why are you toying with me. What has sweet Cicero done that you torture me thus?'
Clearing her throat, she nodded towards the hills, "Will be back in a few. Try to stay save." Her expression turned from pensive to smug as she looked skyward, "LOK VAHR KOOR"
He jumped in shock from the sheer power in her voice. Since when could a tiny woman yell like that? Within seconds the rain was gone and much to Cicero's relief the first stars twinkled back at him. Being quiet for once, he watched her walking up the hill until she vanished behind the first line of trees.
"Look mother. The rain is no more and soon we will be back on our way home," he cheered at the coffin. A woman with such a voice must be able to convince a brain addled farmer, he was quite certain of that now. Imaging the look of the farmer's face if she should yell at him had him cackle.
The sudden alarming sounds of fear from his horse made him stop as abruptly as he had started. The horse's ears were still pressed backwards and now it even tried to tear loose from its restraints. Slowly, while watching his surroundings, the hilt of his dagger snuggled against his palm.
"Maybe that Dunmer had still tricked him and now her friends came to rob poor Cicero," he snarled into the dark. With the mage light gone, the street lay in shadows again and he could only see something moving in the dark at high-speed. And it moved toward him on all fours.
Not moving, Cicero drew his dagger, "Want a piece of Cicero… come and get it when you're up to it." Whatever closed in made his horse reel in panic, but he would defend his precious cargo. No one would get to his mother's coffin.
A paralyzing roar came out of the dark and suddenly Cicero's legs turned to rubber 'Oh shit… oh shit oh shit oh shit. Sweet mother protect your poor Cicero... '
A huge wet smelly and hairy creature stopped dead in front of him, splashing dirt all across Cicero's already dirty and soaked boots. He knew that the Sanctuary he was heading for had a Speaker who could turn into a werewolf, but this one looked shaggy, unkempt and not civil at all.
Chuckling maniacally it regarded him with a lopsided grin, tongue lolling out to the right. In its left paw it held a still bleeding leg of some animal he couldn't identify. This raised the hope that he probably wasn't meant to end up as dinner. Cicero had no idea what the beast was up to nor why it had decided to grace him with its presence. Maybe it only wanted to torment him?
Visibly annoyed by the whinnying horse, the werewolf turned and grabbed the head of the animal while crooned soothingly "Kraan Drem Ov". Much to Cicero's surprise the horse relaxed, stopping its futile effort to fight against the harness. Since when could a werewolf calm down horses. Could this night become any stranger? 'Maybe Cicero is becoming demented... maybe soon I will see white rats, too...' he thought.
Not certain what just happened, he slowly stepped between the beast and the wagon. The last thing he wanted was a hulking werewolf damaging the coffin.
Moving back to him, the werewolf patted his shoulder with his free and hopefully clean claw. But nothing more happened. The sudden quietness made Cicero nervous. Where was that Dunmer? How long could it take to shout a brain addled farmer into the ground for a damn wheel? Next time he needed help and not getting it, he wouldn't stay his shiny sharp blade.
No one moved for several minutes, caught in a staring contest of toothy grins. He didn't even flinch as the creature brought up the bloody leg and took a hearty bite from it before offering it to him. Blood dripped on the ground, and he could smell the warm juicy scent of fresh game.
Carefully, not wanting to insult the werewolf's questionable friendly gesture he pushed the lag back, "Uh.. No thank you. Cicero is not hungry…" That was a lie and his stomach betrayed him fiercely for it. Stupid stomach, stupid sweet roll not making him well fed!
After a while watching the werewolf chewing on meat and bone until nothing was left, he became bored. What if the Dunmer was simply too scared to come any closer? How could he make the thing go away. As long as the werewolf was nearby, he couldn't leave and look for that woman.
The snout of his visitor came closer, prodding his forehead. He couldn't help the small yelp escaping his throat, and even less not to crinkle his nose. This was simply too much for his poor nose. "Shoo, away with you… you foul smelling carpet!" Then his face brightened, "Or have you come to Cicero for his famous jokes?" he asked hopefully almost preening.
Nodding the werewolf sat back on her hunches, not letting him out of sight. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. What kind of jokes would a werewolf like? Maybe a dance instead? He began to move his feet in a complicated pattern, jumping and spinning in front of his furry audience. Unfortunately the street was too wet for other tricks, or he would have performed a row of acrobatics.
The head of the werewolf tilted to the side, giving him a curious look, which he regarded more than suspiciously. Looking the whole creature over for any weaknesses, he noticed two round orbs protruding from the chest and nearly broke into sweat. 'Oh dear... what if that smelly beast is the Dunmer wench who promised to help Cicero?' That thought unsettling and even more crazy than him. 'Sweet mother make it go away,' he pleaded.
He rather would drag the sarcophagus all by himself than allowing some wench to make an idiot out of him.
Maybe he could find out if said creature was the long overdue Dunmer woman, "Where are my manners…" he took the Jester's cap from his head and bowed deeply before the still chewing beast. "My name is Cicero, the Fool of Hearts! And yours?" Before he could straighten himself back up entirely, two paws grabbed his head and tugged him closer to her gaping jaw.
"Noooooo!" his voice was shrill, fearing the worst. At no cost he wanted to become a thrall of Hircine. His allegiance was with the Night Mother alone.
Growling and snarling, he grabbed hold of the paws and put all his strength into, alas they didn't budge even the slightest bit. He, who hauled the heavy coffin of the Dark Mother from Cyrodiil to Skyrim couldn't even get rid of an over-sized mutt?
A long wet warm tongue went over his face leaving a trail of slobber. As quickly as the beast had grabbed him it let go of his head and started to laugh. This was far too much for his nerves.
Cicero was torn between outrage and disgust, nearly sat down into the mud. "How rude! Using your tongue and Cicero doesn't even know your name. Shame on you!"
At once Cicero went quiet, not so sure of himself anymore. Mouthing off a werewolf? This was madness, nightmarish madness and another story for his diary. Who would believe him anyways? Bragging about being licked and not eaten by a werewolf? 'Now where put Cicero his rag... can't tend mother likes this. Filthy and sticky Cicero... creepy smelly werewolf.'
"Myra!" an outraged voice shouted, "Leave him alone you rabid hyena…" rapid footsteps came closer, and the Dunmer with the golden eyes from before pushed the werewolf away who yelped in protest. "I am sorry. My sister just wants to play!"
"Maybe you should get a leash for her ... or a tight muzzle. Aaargh that smell...," he mumbled, wiping at the sticky drool and blood. "Where have you been? Cicero was worried for his poor mother! What if your sister would have decided to turn poor Cicero into a chewy toy?" he ranted.
The Dunmer directed her attention at him again but remained calm "That oaf of a farmer agreed. He will be here any minute and help you with the wagon!"
Maybe he should ask her name to thank her properly? Golden eyes or not, a little revenge for leaving him alone with that stinking mutt she called sister. Myra? His thoughts came to a sudden stop as the wagon's wood groaned in protest.
The coffin slid somewhat to the side with a loud bump. Wishing for more speed, Cicero nearly stumbled over his own feet as he darted toward the Night Mother's encasing. "Get off!" the werewolf didn't move. "I said get off! There's nothing in there for you! Only Cicero's poor dead mother," he shrieked, but it was too late.
The werewolf sat on the coffin, nose close to the wood and gave off whimpering sounds before she started to scratch at it. Either she ignored him or was too busy inspecting the wooden box beneath her paws.
"She wants to play? Oh nooo. Cicero doesn't think so. Mother's coffin is no toy!," he said angrily. "Now do something or Cicero will not pay you the shiny clinky gold coins I promised."
The Dunmer sighed, probably resigned and went over to the cart to grab her sister by one of her ears. Cicero wondered how often she had to put up with her imbecile sister like this. If she were his sister, he would have skinned her alive and turned her pelt into a nice warm cloak. Or maybe not, considering the smell she gave off.
"Myrabeth, be so kind and leave that man's coffin alone. There's no time for games... remember?" she tugged at the ear until the werewolf yelped.
The beast freed herself from her sister's grip and cocked her head into his direction, revealing a sharp array of teeth and jumped to the ground without taking her eyes off him. Uncertain if this was a grin or snarl, Cicero signaled her to stay at distance with his dagger pointing her direction. Lady werewolf or not. No one touched the unholy mother and her coffin.
"Now move it dear sister..." The woman commanded and the werewolf skulked back to the street like a well-trained dog. "I am really sorry. Sometimes she gets a bit a bit out of hand. I hope she hasn't hurt you? You've got something on your cheek."
Cicero shook his head and spread his arms.. "No. Cicero is still in one piece... see."
Turning towards the street she smiled somewhat sadly, "Good luck on your journey. I hope Loreius won't let you wait too long."
He hoped that as well. If something like that happened again, he probably would start stabbing and stabbing until whatever had annoyed him wasn't breathing anymore.
Finally he could relax a little. 'Just a bit longer and we are back on our way home mother… sweet mother. Then Cicero will oil your skin and put a dry dress on your corpse teheheeee… maybe getting some flowers too.'
After he had handed out the promised gold, he climbed back on the wagon bidding those two weird travelers his farewell. '…and they say that Cicero is strange…' Waiting on the farmer and his tools, Cicero watched the Dunmer and her werewolf sister strolling out of sight.
"...dear Cicero will keep you from harm, sweet Mother. Forever and always..." he crooned softly, only to be annoyed by his growling stomach. "Patience sweet mother… soon… soon we will be home" he whispered, digging through his pouch for a carrot. 'Feeding time for poor Cicero first I think.'
Dear Reader,
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