I mean to have this up last week, but I was busy up in the mountains visiting my mother. I really appreciate your review, Blixey.
I like to hear others' insight.
The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Fool of Madness: Chapter 2
Damnedest Wagon Wheel
The thick, furred cloak was pulled taut against Lour'ek's frame as tumultuous gales raged across the rolling plains outside the walls of Whiterun, the clouds painted across the sky like a spilled painter's water, the droplets full and fat against the moist dirt of the earth. She slipped here or there, the mud catching the soles of her patched leather boots, her toes frigid and numb from the water that soaked through the worn material. A soft noise sounded from the pauldrons of her armour, the rain creating small streams and shimmers against the earthy green of the glass.
A quaint farmhouse stood in the distance against the dismal gray of the sky, the thatch roof adorning its top in need of repair, the windows in need of cleaning, and the fence righted to stand vertical once more. A single rooster, their feathers frayed and splotched, scurried at the approach of the Half-Elf, a cacophonous caw thrown to the wind.
Lour'ek pulled her hood ever farther down her brow to protect her reddened and running nose, her cheeks wind burned to the point she looked as though she would bleed that very moment. Still, she struggled to traverse the almost insurmountable slope from the farmhouse, the satchel beneath her cloak heavier than she remembered it upon her departure.
A most uninviting stream of water trickled down the incline of the hillside away from the farmstead, the earth fully drenched, the clouds engulfing the lands and distant mountains undoubtedly wholesale. The mud beneath Lour'ek's boots shifted, pulled away by some unseen force as she would like to think- some cruel trick brought about by a most distraught MadGod- and caused her to slip.
Upon realizing one was falling toward the earth, plummeting at an astounding rate due to the rather unfortunate forecast and generally bad luck, a normal being would brace themselves for impact. Very much unorthodox and far from what could possibly be considered normal by any stretch of the imagination Lour'ek merely accepted her fate and planted her face two inches deep into the dirt path. With a groan, guttural and ragged, she choked out a curse, her hand at her face to wipe away her newly acquired "make-up".
Stained and bruised, Lour'ek stood to full height, laughable as it was, and trod her way down the slope, her hands clenched in a deep-rooted ire, mud caked to her once finely crafted fur cloak. Irate, she threw back her cloak and struggled once back on her feet, the rain at last coming to a standstill. She could only sigh at the shifts in weather only Skyrim experienced, and forced herself to smile sullenly at the light flurries that appeared in place of the rain.
Flakes of snow huddled on her shoulders, her glass pauldrons fogged from the rapid change in weather. Her breath hung around her and billowed out into the sky, dissipating nearly as quickly as it appeared. Lour'ek looked up through a half-idled stare to the road beyond, a wagon loudly making its way through the thick mud and stone.
As it approached its wheels caught each and every crag, every puddle laid strewn on the dirt road, and as fate would have it the puddle situated directly in front of her. With an exasperated sigh Lour'ek pulled her lips inward into a scowl at the cold wash of water on her trousers and cuirass, the wagon driver having passed her without so much as a glance.
Lour'ek immediately thought to how amused Lord Sheogorath would be at her unfortunate predicament, at every ill-starred event that day. Whether it be how her morning began, with her awakened by Jarl Balgruuf's steward in reference to an important message to be delivered to Loreius Farm. Or the bitter disagreement she and Vilkas shared over her visit with Farkas, and her supposed flirtation with the much larger of the twins (as it ended with them literally butting heads with one another). Or that her porridge had been rather cold that morning, and didn't taste particularly anything like what porridge was described to be- which should have been a welcome change if she had been in her right mind.
Oftentimes, whenever the situation would present itself, Sheogorath would laugh heartily at her expression and attempt to mimic it, all to bring a smile to her face- a far rarer event since she'd moved to the stony and frigid plains of Skyrim. She missed him dearly, on occasion, despite their bizarre relationship of Thane and Daedric Prince.
Cheese, as amusing as the thought of it was, was most difficult to look at with a straight face, as it reminded her of more lucid times. One such occasion sat fresh in the seat of her mind, of the day they flooded Haskill's room with wheels upon wheels of cheese.
Cheese wheels, cheese slices, and even a queer food called cheese cake (which Sheogorath swore was made of cheese despite Lour'ek's insistence it wasn't) filled his room to the ceiling, stacked haphazardly at the doorway, and even found stashed away in his dresser and chest of drawers.
Haskill merely complemented his Lord and Thane at their "ingenious" practical joke, and set about removing each wheel, by hand, from his room.
A raucous crash tore her from her reverie, the MadGod found far too often on her mind than she would have liked or admitted.
The wagon less than fifty feet down the road hitched at a large puddle, the dip in the road unseen beneath the clouded water. The driver squealed wildly at the unexpected lurch, the horse drawing his wagon bucking and neighing at the added dead weight of the handicapped vehicle.
Lour'ek chuckled slightly at the instant "justice" of it all, whether or not the driver realised what they'd done to her less than a minute before. But the hilarity wore off within a few moments as the driver's head poked out from behind the front of the stranded wagon, the colossal crate strapped neatly in the back his item of interest.
Lour'ek trotted warily to the wagon's side and spied the damage done to the right front wheel, the wheel itself now on the embankment of the road amongst the grass and rocks. The driver appeared atop the crate within the confines of his wagon, his hands tangled in the tightly knotted ropes securing his luggage in place. Flurries fell about his head and stuck to his nose despite his best effort to swat them away, his eyes falling to the woman now at the roadside.
"You there! Fair elf!" He cried out, repositioning the two-horned jester hat upon his head, his copper hair protruding in tufts this way and that.
Lour'ek looked to him, undeterred by his comical and eccentric outward appearance. His garb was most unusual, his over-shirt titian in colour, his pants sanguine and patched at the knees, his entire outfit resembling that of an old world fool or jester- unseen in Skyrim for at least a century as far as she was concerned.
"Mornin'." She drawled out to his jovial salutation, but ended with a croak as she tried earnestly to sound excited.
He watched her curiously as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her simple dirk plastered at the side of her soaked pants. "Might I ask for assistance, Little Elf?" He inquired and leaned over the top of the wagon, his hand extended out as though to give her a firm shake. "Cicero, the Fool of Hearts!" he introduced loudly, his eyes wide and bright. "And you?"
Instead, she stared at his hand, his ebon glove covered in dirt and grime, the golden details around the cuff faded and frayed.
"Lour'ek." She informed, and moved forward to further inspect the damage done to his wagon. "And nothing personal, but I don't care much for handshakes. The last person I shared one with hit me with a shock spell. He thought it was hilarious."
The leather of Cicero's gloves creaked as he clenched his fingers to his palm, not amused by her reaction to his polite mannerisms. "Of course…" he muttered.
He eyed her suspiciously from his perch; his behind positioned on the wooden-slat side of the wagon, his pointed boots knocking against the side beneath him. He watched as she bent low to inspect the axel under the wagon itself, unsure of the damage done and if the wagon could be fixed at all. His lips twitched as she said nothing further for over a minute, knowing fully well his gaze could be felt, like a flame left alight in a wall sconce- the wall unaffected, but an involuntary victim to a terrible burn.
A scurrying noise could be heard, and soon she reappeared from underneath, "You should speak to Loreius." Lour'ek suggested with a point over her shoulder to the farmhouse on the hill, "He's got a wagon or two himself, and I bet he could fix yours in a couple of hours. I'm sure he'll help you out."
Cicero's downtrodden countenance brightened considerably, "Could you go with Cicero?" He questioned in the third person perspective, a trait Lour'ek found somewhat delightfully different, as comical as it was.
When she looked back, many of her conversations involving such ways of speaking included, usually, large, muscle lined Nords who spoke in a similar fashion… though their impediment was more out of lack of intelligence rather than having a quirk.
Denizens of both Mania and Dementia possessed their own unique quirks, and so Cicero's eccentricities were welcomed and largely accepted.
Cicero placed a hand to the center of his chest, his other gripped around the handle of his ebony dagger, "If he goes alone, Loreius might refuse to help the poor Fool of Hearts! He's not been treated with much kindness since his arrival."
With a hop, Cicero slipped from the wagon's side, fully prepared to meet the ground with a plop. But the tails of his over-shirt billowed behind him, becoming stuck against the splintered wood, hanging him upside-down like a field-dressed deer. The rolling hills and distant tundra of Skyrim met his gaze from a different scope, his vision black for a moment as hands brought him to a sudden stop.
The blood rushed from his toes to his cheeks as his vision cleared, only to find that Lour'ek held him in place, her hands on his shoulders with more than a bit of hesitancy, his hat on the ground at her feet. A whine escaped his lips at the sight of mud on his hat, newly formed stains soaked into the already blotched fabric. Copper orbs traveled up to the face of the Half-Elf, her lips drawn with his added weight. A grin stretched across his pale smile, coy and playful, as if he meant to put himself into his current position. "Hello…" He drawled, his smile still wide and gaily innocent.
"Hi, Cicero." Was her reply. Dry, it was the only response found on the tip of her tongue. "Just… hold on." Past her lips a sigh escaped to the wind, Cicero left below to hang whilst she clambered topside to release him.
Cicero tilted his chin to his collar bone, his neck craned uncomfortably to peer up the slope of his chest to watch Lour'ek scramble about the top of the wagon, her muddied boots dug into the moist wood of the large crate therein. "Careful!" He warned, though his tone of voice suggested he did not speak of her safety, but of the safety of his parcel.
A loud rip sounded from the tail of Cicero's over shirt as Lour'ek pulled upward, her face contorted in exertion. With a shriek far too amusing to the Half-Elf the Fool fell, head first, to the ground. He rolled over himself with a grunt until at last he sat upright, his hands pressed firmly to his temples, his teeth gnashed and his face flushed. His auburn hair laid a mess, his eyes veiled under a furrowed brow.
"You okay down there?" Lour'ek asked, her interest in his well-being feigned at best.
She sat her chin against the palm of her hand, her lips pursed in a hidden amusement.
Cicero let his mind settle after the painful jostling, the redness from his face diminishing to a pale blush. Lour'ek leapt from the wagon down beside him, amused as he sat in a shallow puddle, snow gathered on his auburn locks in a messy pile. "Get out of that water before your bottom gets frozen in it." She laughed, extending her hand for him to take- a kind gesture from the Half-Elf not normally given freely.
Fortune and luck had not been on Cicero's side that day it seemed, from his venture in Cyrodiil to the plains of the Nord homeland. Far colder than any place he'd been, in terms of both company and environment, Cicero stood in hesitation with the help of Lour'ek, his pants and shirt laden with water and slightly ice bitten.
His teeth chattered noisily as he and the Half-Elf strode up the hillside, his arms wrapped about his chest, his hands frigid as he rubbed away at his sleeves to keep warm. Lour'ek noticed his hunched form- curled into himself from the biting cold- and pulled off her cloak. Handing the furs to him, he gladly accepted without trepidation.
In the eyes of the Fool of Hearts such kindness seemed uncommon for the Half-Elf, her face stern, eyes narrowed at was most likely nothing in particular- except for maybe the cold weather. And yet, there was a hidden warmth he'd seen for but a moment as she draped her cloak around his shoulders in a motherly fashion, a flash of sincerity. But as soon as it appeared it vanished, the stoop of the farmhouse at their toes.
Thrice Lour'ek knocked upon Loreius' door, a loud resounding echo heard within the farmstead. The inhabitants scrambled to the doorway and were unsurprised by her appearance, though the older gentleman eyed Cicero suspiciously, the bear-fur cloak dirtied and the fool's clothes terribly similar.
Mouth drawn and head high Loreius drew forth a smile, a joke at his tongue. "Didn't I just see you ten minutes ago?" He asked her, a letter still clasped in his hand.
"Yes." She answered shortly, her mouth pulled into a feigned smile, her head tilted in the direction of Cicero. Loreius closed the door firmly behind him, away from the view of his wife at the hearth, goose pimples gathering at the exposed flesh of his arms. "I was wondering, Loreius, if you could, perhaps, do me a favour?"
"And what, exactly, were you thinking?" He pried, his eyes stuck firmly to the Fool of Hearts, not seen minutes before with the Half-Elf.
"Cicero's wagon, just on the road!" Cicero began, cutting between the two, "It's stuck! He can't just leave her- it! - there! You must fix it. You must!" Slyly, he corrected himself before they noticed his wording, his body tense and tone terse.
The farmer's eyes shifted from the Half-Elf to Cicero, and back again, his lips puckered at the proposition. He ignored the strange comment from the Fool, and followed his line of sight. "And I take it the wagon blocking the path is the one in question?" He pointed yonder to the crippled wagon, the horse loose in the elongated grass. "Yours?" He questioned Cicero, to which the fool nodded happily, his hat fallen down over his eyes in excitement.
Pivoted on one leg, Loreius crossed his arms skeptically, "Look, Lour'ek, you and I have had business before. But do you even know this man?"
Lour'ek cut him off and stepped forward to put an arm over his shoulder. She led him away from Cicero for a moment, the Fool's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
He stood straight, tall against Lour'ek's five foot frame. "He could-he could be transporting drugs, Skooma, in that crate of his! I see it, sitting on the wagon… He could—"
"Look, Loreius, I know." She admitted once out of earshot of Cicero, who stood yards away with a sour look in their direction. "Think about it, though. You may not have seen it, but he's not right." She tapped at the side of her head for emphasis, "The way he speaks," she peered back over her shoulder to watch the Fool for a moment, "he's dressed as a damned fool, and he's got an 'oh-so-mysterious' crate in his wagon. Do you really want that hanging around? On your farm? Near your wife?"
Loreius' head shot up at the truth of her words, his brows knitted together. Heavy breaths passed his parted lips, the thought of an unfortunate event befalling his beloved wife abhorrent. "Yes… yes, alright." He proclaimed and let loose a heavy sigh, "But you owe me later." He added, rubbing together his thumb and index fingers.
"Fine, fine. Just get him up on his way, and we'll worry about the money later."
Meanwhile, Cicero stood patiently at the stoop, his eyes trained intently on the back of the Half-Elf and Loreius. He watched the curvature of her slender neck as she went to speak privately with the farmer, images of his knife, held tightly in his hand under the confines of the cloak, traipsing through his mind.
But the duo turned, the air about them cordial and light, the images of sanguine disappearing from Cicero's mind. Lour'ek grinned warmly at him as they approached, "Loreius has agreed to fix your wagon. It shouldn't take more than a few hours, maybe."
Cicero's face brightened, his cheeks drawn in an elated smile. "Ooh, wonderful!" he cried and burst into a clapping fit, dancing around the stoop happily. "The Little Elf helped poor Cicero! He'll never forget this."
Loreius cringed outwardly, Lour'ek patting his shoulder in silent apology.
She owed him a deep purse after this.
The Fool went to unclasp the cloak from his shoulders but Lour'ek stopped him with the raise of her hand. "Just keep it. I've got another back in Whiterun." She went to add, albeit in a whisper, "Or, at least, Farkas does…"
Cicero jumped forward and lifted her from the ground in a firm hug, her pauldrons dug into his shoulders and her cuirass pressed hard into his chest. He spun her around in a circle several times, her arms pinned uncomfortably at her sides, before he finally released her. Her vision blurred and spun before clearing at last, her cheeks a bright, involuntary pink. "We're even if you— never mind." She went to say, but stopped herself short at Cicero's unending smile.
Lour'ek cracked a lopsided smirk herself, the Fool's enthusiasm contagious.
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Next Chapter:
Journey to Falkreath