Thank you very much for all the reviews. I was a little amazed that it got fourteen, and I would like to thank everyone that left a message, because it really brightened my day. On that note, I may go back and edit this chapter. It was longer, but I've split it into two, but as such this chapter seems sort of pointless for it.
I'm glad people said they liked Aewyn. I think of her as sensible to the point of madness. Hope you enjoy.
"Lydia, why is he staring?" Aewyn murmured to her housecarl as they approached the Khajit caravan. Proventus Avennici had approached them with an impressive-looking bounty and Aewyn was never one to turn down easily-made gold. They were at the caravans to purchase extra health potions, it paid to be careful after all, and Aewyn made a point of being both politically correct (by buying from the Khajit) and careful.
"I don't know, my thane," Lydia managed to mumble back, just before they reached Ri'saad, who was well-known to them after years in Skyrim. Aewyn nodded at the Khajit merchant, politely. The Khajit did not reply and didn't meet her eyes, absorbed with places just around her face.
"Sheggorath's mark is strong on this one," he purred, cryptically.
"I beg your pardon?"
Ri'saad's old eyes snapped to her immediately. He bowed his head. "Khajit welcomes your patronage, dragonborn," he replied. "Twice-over, now that the Madgod has accepted you into his fold."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Aewyn snapped back, disgruntled.
"You have not made a deal with madness?" Ri'saad frowned at her.
Aewyn stopped and stared a few moments. "I don't condone any types of madness," she said. "That sort of thing is bound to end in tears."
Ri'saad's eyes went back to the air around her. "No?" he rasped, sounding confused. "Your aura is thick with him."
"Him?"
"The Skooma cat," he rumbled and let his voice trail off. "One moment, dragonborn," he told her and heaved himself to a stand. "Ri'saad has just the thing for you."
"Oh," Aewyn stiffened. "Well, I'm really only here to buy potions... er, okay."
They watched on perplexed as Ri'saad shuffled backinto his tent where sounds of rustling and chests being opened could be heard, before a muffled Khajiti curse. They exchanged the confused look with each other and Ri'saad returned with something small and golden clasped in his hands.
"Is that... cheese?" said Lydia.
"What?" said Aewyn and observed it closer. "Ri'saad... Why are you offering me cheese?"
"Enough," he replied, and indeed it was a small roll of cheese within his hands. "Ri'saad gifts you with it," and then Ri'saad's eyes went to the sky again. "There will be a storm tonight. Khajit smells these things."
Aewyn said nothing, not really knowing anything polite to reply with. Still, when Ri'saad extended his hands and offered her the cheese, she took it, not wanting to appear rude.
"Leave it by your window when the storm hits," he told her. "As a gesture of goodwill to him."
"Goodwill?" Aewyn turned the cheese back and forth in her hands, extremely perplexed. "I'm not sure I like the idea of leaving cheese in my house for a mad stranger."
"It should please him," Ri'saad smiled back. "The madgod smiles at offerings."
"Are you saying that my thane should offer a mad god cheese?" asked Lydia, frowning, "to keep her from madness?"
"Cannot keep the Skooma cat from anyone," Ri'saad finished, ominously amused. "He is inside all of us—"
"Well, moving on," Aewyn interrupted, a little forcefully. "What have you got for sale, Ri'saad?"
Wisely, Ri'saad kept quiet and beamed politely.
"Take a look."
"Mental, every one of them," Aewyn muttered under her breath as she left, shoving health potions and free cheese in her pack with gusto.
"My thane?" Lydia frowned worriedly at her thane. She might have been okay with ignoring all the crazy going-ons that had happened to her as of late, but Lydia was not. Just last week a cow had caught on fire, as the Dragonborn passed through Riverwood. And then, six wolves that had descended on them spontaneously caught on fire, two horses followed simultaneously, that little boy's dog was nothing more than a blackened crisp now...
There was no explaining the dragon they encountered on the road that had perfected the art of 'flying in reverse'. Its wings had carried it away and all the while the dragon's ancient face had seemed to scream in protest. Don't even get Lydia started on the singing Dremora.
It had been garbling a song in some Daedric tongue and the only mortal words Lydia had caught was the phrase "Strawberry torte." They might have been able to find out more, but Aewyn had rather calmly decapitated the Dremora with her battleaxe.
"That Sam Guevanne," she said, airily, wiping the blood of her axe. "He really must return for the staff of his." And that had been the end of matter; with no discussions allowed on any of the events that had passed.
Lydia privately thought that the more her Thane ignored the insane happenings, the more they seemed to increase. They needed to find help, or at least someone who knew what was going on.
"Stop dawdling, Lydia," she heard Aewyn snap. The woman hadn't slept well for the past two weeks, always muttering about cabbages, golden eyes and strange dreams. "You'd be dead six times over if there was a dragon around."
"Unless it flew backwards, like the last one, my thane," Lydia replied, as she came to her decision. Whatever happened tonight, storm or not, she would leave the cheese out. Perhaps if they 'appeased' this madgod, he would let them be. That was, if he hadn't stopped already. Only today could tell. But there had been no strange happenings for six whole days now. It had put her Thane on edge.
"Lydia."
"Coming, my thane."
"She stabbed him," Sanguine was seated in one of many tea-rooms in the Shivering Isles, resplendent in his armour and horns. He had chosen his usual form for that day, instead of gallivanting around in his mortal guise. It was often, however unbecoming, that the two princes would drink. Well Sheograth would scoff cheese and say mad things, and Sanguine would drink. They disguised their meetings under the important title of "allies."
"Through the heart," Sheograth intoned, frighteningly coherent. The Shivering Isles and Sheograth, they were one with each other. The realm had operated at a zealous hush, almost silent these past days, so quiet that other neighbouring Princes sent letters, inquiring what the matter was. Malacath had sent a rather impolite missive stating that he was entitled to Sheograth's realm, should it be found that the madgod had died. Haskill had enjoyed writing the equally impolite reply to that.
The last 'courting' gift from Sheograth had been five days ago; a singing Dremora kiss-o-gram. Sanguine's idea, of course. The Dragonborn had listened to the song, at least, though it had been entirely in Daedric and therefore meaningless to her. When it tried to kiss her, she cut its head off with a battleaxe and a surprised scream. Sheograth had been moping ever since and Sanguine had invited himself around to find out what had happened to one of his minions. The Dremora had been one of Sanguine's of course, and he and Sheograth were good allies, as Sheograth's was the madness that sung in Sanguine's heat of the moment. It had been one of minions, because only Sanguine's Dremora were gifted in music or song-making. Haskill couldn't believe that his master had called in an important favour for something such as this.
A song for an object of affection...
Sheograth had kept one eye upon this Aewyn, trying to find out what to woo her with and had also enlisted the help of Vaermina to make said object of affection dream of madness. And so it had been that no madness happened upon the mortal realm for a full five days, for Sheograth existed only with one eye open and one eye within a dream.
"What kind of cold bitch stabs a singing daedra through the heart," Sanguine tutted, or slurred really. Drinking like a fish was only one of his many talents.
"She's not a cold bitch," Sheograth protested, waving a hand in the air. He was not so talented at holding his drink, but there was very little difference between a mad god and a drunken mad god anyway. One could not invite Sanguine around without a lot of Cyrodilic Brandy on tap, you know. "I like them very much warm, you understand. The same way I like my Strawberry torte!"
Haskill was almost relieved to find that Sheograth was up and about, sending some people crazy and keeping other's sane. Even receiving other Princely visitors, who were often shy of others entering or of visiting each other's realm. Of course the mad-god was still very much taken with his latest prey. And Sheograth did not send a mortal an inordinate amount of food, unless he really liked them. In any case however, the cabbages had quickly been forgotten by all; by the madgod who had other aspects of his courting campaign to oversee and by Aewyn (who had received a public commendation for donating them to orphanages.) Haskill hadn't forgotten the cabbages of course, for Haskill forgot nothing.
"Of course, of course," Sanguine agreed with the mad-god, hastily. One didn't anger the host if they were a Daedric Prince. "Warm is the very best kind. But, why don't you just take a leaf out of Molag Bal's book?"
"Molag has a book?" Sheograth chirped. "Ol' Molag can read? Write? Both?"
"They don't call him the King of Rape for shits and giggles," Sanguine snorted and tipped his head back to drain the last of his brandy.
Haskill had been reading a book when the two princes began to call for him. He knew when Sheograth was about to call him, for it was always when Haskill had found a moment to sit down and read one of his books. The latest book he had been reading was on cats in Skyrim, a boring but pleasant piece.
"HASKIE!" Sheograth boomed.
"HASHKILL!" Sanguine joined in.
Haskill sighed, heavily.
"Yes my lord?" he droned as he traipsed into the tea-room, keeping his eyes ahead of him. It was best not to look around in the Shivering Isles, too much. Not even long-term residents did so. "More strawberry torte? More Cyrodiilic brandy?"
"Fetch me a concubine," Sheograth demanded imperiously. "I have messages to write, men to see about dogs, fingers to stick in pies..."
"Many pies," Sanguine elaborated.
"All sorts of pies, Haskill," Sheograth nodded. "Which is why you must fetch me a concubine post-haste!"
As Haskill left to get his lord his 'writing materials' he heard the madgod begin to laugh. The madgod laughed for an insane amount of time, for after all a Daedric Prince needs not oxygen and can laugh indefinitely. When Haskill returned they were arguing about Peryites and the finer points of mad cow disease, and the table had somehow been cleared to make way for a life-sized Argonian. Haskill thought it was highly wasteful. Sheograth rarely used the entirety of the concubine to write his messages and they weren't cheap. Still, in moments the Shivering Isles began to live again, and howls could be heard again, and the Isles hummed with it. Sheograth's moods were often wont to change quickly.
"I have come up with a plan," Sheograth announced, pulling over the Argonian concubine and shoving her unceremoniously against the table. "Sanguine where do you get these? I can never find them the right shade of silver..."
"A Daedric Prince has his secrets," was the other Prince's shifty reply.
"The plan, my lord?"
"The plan, Haskill! The most splendig, hair-raising, entrail-gripping..." the Prince stopped suddenly, golden eyes going dim. "Entrail-gripping. You know I always lose it at entrails."
"I know, my lord."
"Where was I?" and the madgod tapped his chin. "Here obviously, don't answer Haskill. Here and there and everywhere, I know... I know; aha!"
"My lord?"
"Haskill, my plan," said Sheograth, his eyes wandering back to the concubine-messages written in his most meticulous hand-writing. "In which I woo the lady fair. Or the fairy lad, I forget after so many days."
"The lady fair, I believe," replied Haskill, cautiously.
"Don't want no not fair lady," slurred Sanguine, wisely, with a leer at the Argonian concubine. "Lifts-her-tail. Oh, I remember her well."
"Indeed."
"The plan, my lord?"
"Now, what is it about entrail-gripping that's just so appealing?" the madgod stopped his writing to ponder the matter, over the sounds of discomfort from the Argonian. "Is it the entrails? Is it the gripping? I haven't the foggiest."
"Lord Sheograth—"
"Not now Haskill!" Sheograth remarked hotly and flailed his hand at the poor Argonian woman stretched across his desk. "I have messages to compose and Argonian blood dries so very quickly."
"She dreams of dancing," Sanguine told Haskill, tipping his head back again and trying to encourage the Argonian-shaped letter to fondle his horns. Everytime her arms moved however, Sheograth tutted and pinned her back down again. He had a letter to write!
"I'll make her dance for you, mad-god."
I'll be putting the next half up within the next twenty-four hours. Please review and have a splendid day : )