You are now imagining Sheogorath as a member of KISS.
Chapter 4: The Forsworn Conspiracy
After Sheogorath's… visit, Mohamara put off opening the gift to help set up the shrine to the Mad God and prepare an offering. Ri'saad laid out many fine furs before the rudimentary shrine hidden behind the wagons. It was important that no one from the road be able to see the shrine or risk Vigilants of Stendarr being sent after the caravan.
"The Skooma Cat likes pelts for his offerings." The eldest Khajiit informed Mohamara as the shrine was done and the furs arranged like a selection from which a choice would be made. "And it is not difficult for us to obtain them for him."
"Meridia doesn't really ask for offerings," Mohamara responded. Unconsciously he reached for the amulet that up until recently he would have constantly worn. "Just that we destroy undead where we find them."
"Perhaps that is her offering, then? Destroying her enemies, like the Dunmer's 'Good Daedra' would ask?" Ri'saad led the way back to the primary camp, and on the way, they passed Ma'randru-jo eating large pink and white blocks out of a bowl-moon sugar. "Not too much of that, or you'll be too lazy to get up and sell to customers."
The braided cathay made a distant grunt of acknowledgment, but said nothing and avoided Mohamara's gaze.
"I'm guessing the whole Sh-... Skooma Cat thing was something I ought to apologize for?" Mohamara rapidly changed to using the cathay's title for the Mad God, rather than risk him popping in a second time. What if he found his present unopened?
"Attacking a Daedra so close to camp? Yes, an apology would be desired." Ri'saad gestured flippantly over his shoulder while he led the tojay to a small tent with only a patch of straw out front for sitting on.
"Alright-I'm sorry. Won't happen again. Won't summon Daedra on their summoning day without your say so."
Atahbah walked up, holding Sheogorath's present with two rakes-like an improvised reach-grab, and placed it in front of the small tent then dashed off.
"This is where you will sleep and work. There is paper, ink, quills, and charcoal so that you can use your slate to draw pictures for customers as they come by-you will charge a septim per person. Do not shout too loudly when you advertise your service." Ri'saad turned to regard Mohamara in profile, before listing off instructions by counting off on his fingers. "Open the present-but do it away from the caravan, but within Khayla's sprinting range in case you need rescue. My joints are not so good for running anymore. Your fancy clothes are here too but do not wear them often. This one will adjust other clothes to your size."
"Something with trousers would be nice, thank you," Mohamara noted that Ri'saad did not accept or reject the apology he gave, but quickly picked up the present and started walking off down toward the river. His leg didn't give out as much during normal walking, but he still couldn't put his entire weight on it. Would really put a damper on catching up on exercise, but if it meant he could put off dancing until he had trousers, it could be tolerated.
When he was at the river, he sat down and attempted to prepare himself for what a Mad God would consider a suitable present for a mortal. It was then that he noticed a tag attached to one of the box's colorful ribbons. 'To Ungrateful Mortal#73, From Daddy.'
"I swear by the Blue Room if this thing's full of moon sugar or something…." Mohamara looked over his shoulder to see if the 'Khayla' was watching for things like Ri'saad said. He spied a cathay woman in Nordic steel armor casually watching him while leaning against a wagon. She waved, and he responded in kind before turning back to the box.
On a mental count to three, Mohamara opened the box. There was a rush of air as if to fill a vacuum, and Mohamara heard three notes of music. Inside was a plain white cavity in which a folded piece of paper stuck up. After he retrieved it, he gave it a read. 'I've had this picked out for you since before you were born. Couldn't risk you ruining my reputation as the Lord of Music. Enjoy! -Anne Marie.'
"Did he really just give me the most metal gift possible?" Mohamara tipped the box upside down and shook it. "Does he even listen to metal music?"
Meanwhile, in Solitude's Blue Palace a cacophony of unnatural music and lyrics no one could understand rang out through the halls from the Pelagius Wing. Priests from the temple of the Divines had been called, and the Court Wizard was forced to enclose the wing in bubbles of silence so that court business could continue.
"I… guess he did. Huh. At least it wasn't cabbages. Or socks and underwear." With no harm in sight, Mohamara took the box and lid in separate hands he walked back to camp. Khayla met him at the edge of the camp and inspected the empty box and the note it came with before letting him go to his tent.
Inside he found his clothes, neatly folded on top of the same quilt that Ri'saad had used to wrap Mohamara in days prior. Both were rather stained, his clothes with some fluorescent blue stuff and the quilt with a large red patch that could have only been faded blood. To his surprise, he found his slate wrapped up in his jacket, no worse for wear!
"Guess he thought it was just a drawing slate. Not even any cracks-Yagraz was right, buying Telvanni brand really is great for durability." The only thing missing was the earpieces, but he found that he'd been wearing them the whole time. The two clips of thin ebony probably resembled earrings to those who didn't know better. "Now, if I remember I have the print screen servitor installed… oop, gotta recharge."
Mohamara placed his hand on the screen and let the tablet start to leech his magicka supply to replenish its own. The method wasn't as efficient as plugging it into a Welkynd port at home, but it made due in a pinch. A full recharge would take all night through this method, but Mohamara only needed a fraction of a full Welkynd stone to check if he had re-installed the servitor.
"Who needs to draw when you can print screen?" The tojay used the built-in occulory to snap a picture and unrolled a piece of paper which he then pressed to the screen. A line of blue light passed from the bottom of the slate to the top, and when he pulled the paper off it had a fully colorized image of his self-portrait printed there. "And the best part is they can't even tell how bad the picture quality is because they haven't seen better!"
"You know we can all hear you, right?"
Mohamara was interrupted in his small moment of triumph to look up and see several female cathay gathered around his tent. "Oh. Hey ladies."
"What you did there… you created a perfect portrait in seconds!" Atahbah was among the small group and seemed positively stunned by the miracle of techno-magic.
"Um. Yeah. Telvanni's Chiaroscuro slate. Cost an arm and a leg, and it's sorta old, but it's got loads of features." A more sensible man would have worried about polluting the timeline. A wiser man would have seen the danger of telling people about a powerful magical item in their midst. And a more intelligent man would have realized that he was still in the Reach where safety was an illusion. But none of those occurred to Mohamara, who just wanted the other Khajiit to like him. He looked at the cathay women, unsure of what they were trying to convey through body language and unable to articulate confusion without his tail. "... Do you want portraits of yourselves, ladies?"
"You will charge them like they were customers." Ri'saad's voice carried over the wagons. "This one pays them enough to afford that."
Mohamara had substantially less paper to work with and more septims piled in front of him when they left. He realized that he couldn't just leave the coins on the ground-they'd get dirty. So he put them into a wooden bowl and set it aside.
There was… actually, very little happening after the ladies got their portraits. Mohamara sat and let his slate leech his magicka for the charge, and counted the birds flitting between bushes on the road. He vehemently wished his Meridian amulet had been among his clothes, but one missing item out of an entire outfit was unpleasant but acceptable. Prayers could still be had without the amulet-and even if he did have it the connection was broken. But he'd always had some physical connection to the faith he could find security in.
Perhaps that was why Sheogorath had cruelly decided to cut the connection. For the sake of forcing him to have 'fun'.
Rather than pointlessly brood, Mohamara pulled up the hood on his robe and curled up around his slate with one hand on the screen, and took a nap.
Days passed, and Mohamara found himself adjusting to living communally with other Khajiit even though it had been unpleasant at first. Once there was a bit less tension in his presence, the cathay were positively mother-henning him to make sure he was checking his bandages, eating and drinking enough, or if he needed help with customers. The last item did come up sometimes, as was expected of ancient Nords.
Washing unmentionables and communal bathing in the river had been something he had taken almost a week to get used to. But he did adapt and found himself growing accustomed to having so many Khajiit around. Unfortunately, most of the clothes Ri'saad got for him were just robes cut down to Mohamara's size, as apparently the child-sized trousers had all been bought already. Ma'randru-jo eventually grew brave enough to try teaching Mohamara more spells though he was visibly hesitant about it.
The portrait making business was not as popular as the rest of the caravan's goods, but it attracted a fair number of the richer citizens of Markarth-to the point that Ri'saad considered raising the price.
And then one day, Markarth City Guards came down to the caravan and demanded Mohamara bring his slate and come with them.
"The Jarl wants a portrait," one of the green-armored guards informed Ri'saad when the elder questioned them. "Here's the money, now get the brat." Two golden coins were thrown at Ri'saad's face but the elder neither moved nor blinked from their impact.
"This one will find a chaperone to escort grandson, please wait a moment." Ri'saad's response was pleasant like he was talking to a customer. The coins that had been thrown at him, he bent down to pick up and played the part of a weary old man exerting himself.
Mohamara watched from behind a wagon and noted the sneer on one of the guard's faces. The man wore an open-faced helmet featuring corundum horns along its rim.
"Wrong, cat. The brat comes alone. Jarl's orders, he only wants one beast in his city at a time. Now fetch the kid, or we'll get him ourselves."
The tojay's ears flicked as he heard Khayla walk up behind him. Crouched down as she was, she still stood almost as tall as Mohamara standing straight up. "Ja'khajiit, this one will try to follow from the rocks. If you are in danger, Khajiit will attempt a rescue. But do not fight back." She emphasized the last part, and then stalked away into the sunset shadows.
"Fight back with what? Sparks? A bound dagger? Ice that the Nords grow up dealing with?" Mohamara asked the shadow that had been Khayla as he grabbed his slate from his tent. As an afterthought, he removed his good shoes and put on a pair of stitched fur ones that Atahbah had made for him. His experience with the modern police was that if they saw something they wanted, they'd take it quick as any thief. It would stand to reason that a boar would be a boar even thousands of years in the past.
At least, since the Nords saw him as a child, he only had to worry about being robbed by them.
With his slate held close, he made his way over to Ri'saad before the elder had to send someone for him. Even though both knew Mohamara'd heard the guards, Ri'saad explained the situation to him like it was an exciting opportunity.
As a bit of petty revenge, when the guards started to lead Mohamara up the path to Markarth, the tojay decided to skip around them because they walked too slow. He literally skipped circles around them for a while before switching to moon-walking.
"I get that you're excited to meet the Jarl." The guard in the closed-faced helmet, seemingly the more tolerant of the two, ventured in an attempt to stop the Khajiit. "But could you walk a bit more normally? You keep doing that in the city, you could fall down the stairs."
"Ah, a dent in his head will be good for 'em. Means he won't be able to go fiddlin' with any locks." The open-faced guard responded to the first, cementing Mohamara's dislike for him.
Regardless, Mohamara did not 'walk more normally', and had taken to sashaying when they got passed the great gates. Ancient Markarth still seemed… too small for Mohamara's liking. It seemed like one big fight would knock the city down to a village's worth of people.
And it was still absolutely filthy. Uneven streets, debris that looked hundreds of years old. One store had literal cobwebs across their Dwemer-metal doors.
However, Mohamara was more concerned with the knife-wielding Breton that came at him the literal moment he passed through the gates, well ahead of the guards sent to escort him.
"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!" The Breton with a closely shaved head and sturdy mining clothes swung a steel dagger downward in a stabbing motion to get Mohamara in the ribs.
But Mohamara wasn't less than an hour off a spinal injury any longer, and he'd had a week to let the regeneration effect work on his leg-and tail to a much lesser extent. So to a small, agile Khajiit a Breton with no combat training may as well have been a beach ball for how fast it traveled.
"Woop! Almost got me there! Going to have to be quicker than that! Okay, I didn't even dodge that one, you just sorta missed." Mohamara let quips fly from his mouth while side-stepping, ducking, and jumping over the Breton's attacks. A tojay with their tail could jump six and a half feet straight up without much athletic training. Dagi were even better, they could jump so high it made it look like they were flying. So Mohamara without his tail but with some athleticism easily jumped bodily over the Breton and landed atop a jewelry stand awning where he spit-hissed down at the would-be assassin.
The closed-helmet guard finally appeared and tackled the Breton to the ground while the other stomped on his hand to force him to let go of the dagger.
"My heroes!" The tojay rolled off the awning, which drove the Redguard woman manning the stand to jump from surprise. Evidently, she'd been completely distracted by the Breton assassin she didn't notice her awning straining under thirty pounds of Khajiit weight. "Guards, I would like to report an attempted assault on my person."
The open-faced guard was about ready to backhand Mohamara for his cheek when another person entered the scene-Senna, the Dibellan priestess.
"Is everything alright? Does anyone require healing?" She asked around rapid breathing. It was clear that she had been running from the sound of things. "I heard the Forsworn and came as fast as I could."
"Everything's under control, priestess." The closed-face guard responded while he held the Breton's arms and forced the man to stand. "Just gotta pass this Forsworn filth over to another guard, and things will be good."
"Hey, Senna!" Mohamara waved to the Dibellan holy woman. "They let me back in town!"
The Breton woman was stunned by this development to the point where she, along with most of the other marketplace goers just stared while the would-be assassin was frog-marched away and Mohamara led by his sole remaining guard up the road to Understone Keep.
"Be respectful to the Jarl, and do what he says or I'll make a rug out of you, cat." The guard told Mohamara as he opened the doors to the keep.
"Will the other guards make a rug out of you if you disrespect the Jarl?" Mohamara played the part of a precocious child, while on the inside he treated the whole experience like going to the dentist's.
"If the Jarl said so, probably. But he won't."
Inside the Keep, the filth was even worse than outside. There was dirt in the air, not pretty dust that caught the light and danced in the air current. Dirt. The path to the Jarl's throne took them over debris from when the city still had Dwarves. It felt less like the residency of a king in all but name and more like a squatter's abode.
In a great room was the throne hall, up to a flight of stairs and in an alcove dead center. Markarth guards stood flanking the alcove and against each of the load-bearing pillars. Meanwhile, three golden-skinned High Elves patrolled the whole landing. Two in metal-feather armor, and a third in an oiled leather overcoat and hood. In the distance, Mohamara could hear the barking of dogs.
Three humans were in the alcove where the seat of Markarth, the Mournful Throne, sat. Being in this city reminded Mohamara why all the transfer students from Reach secondary schools had been so edgy. Everything in the Reach was edgy. Even the edges.
The humans were two men and a woman. The men, both Nords, were on in years and dressed finely. The woman was a Redguard, in steel armor, and had her hand in easy draw distance of her blade.
"My Jarl, I've brought the beast." The guard made the announcement from outside the alcove while Mohamara watched the High Elves watch him. They seemed particularly interested in his slate.
"I sent two of you, where is the other?" The younger of the two Nords, who sat the throne spoke up. Presumably, he was the Jarl.
"A Forsworn spy was discovered in the marketplace-Alois took him to get processed into Cidhna Mine."
This sparked a brief debate between the two elder Nords, but the guard turned and left the scene. Mohamara was left alone, in front of what passed for royalty in the Reach.
"You are the cat that does those portraits, are you?" Once their debate had finished, the Jarl spoke again. Mohamara had seen that disdain in many people. mostly politicians and the rich, back home. "I did not expect a boy. Approach me."
Mohamara entered the alcove and walked to the base of the stairs, noting how the guards turned their heads to watch him as he entered.
"I said approach me, cat." The Jarl curled his lip, clearly of the mind that he was debasing himself by merely speaking to Mohamara.
Hesitant, Mohamara ascended the stairs until he stood three feet away from the Jarl. He was perilously close to being in a range of being decapitated by the armored woman with one swing, and the oldest Nord watched him appraisingly.
"I am Jarl Igmund, son of Hrolfdir. To have a portrait done for posterity is something I have longed to do for some time. But artists are expensive, and I haven't hours to sit still on my throne while my Hold falls apart around me."
"It would be… this one's pleasure to serve, Jarl."
"I'm sure it would please you more to have the chance to rifle through my cabinets, but if your method is as quick as I'm told you won't get the chance." The Jarl clapped his hands together, and a canvas in a regal frame was brought in by two guards, and set up to Mohamara's right, almost obscuring the oldest Nord man. "How is this done?"
"Just… strike a pose you would wish for posterity, Jarl Igmund." Mohamara held his slate out in front of him. "Move around as you like, just tell me when you're ready." The tojay went the extra mile to have the screen facing Igmund, and use the slightly higher-detail front occuluory, so the Jarl could see his pose for himself.
The Jarl took his time finding a pose he'd like, either not noticing or caring about the tension in the air from having Mohamara summoned like this. He was the one with the power, the one in control, why would he be tense? In the end, he settled on an overall reclined pose with his right arm bent back toward his face with the hand limply facing him. The picture taking and burning it onto the canvas was done in seconds, so the Jarl could review it.
"Excellent work, Khajiit. Guards, escort the cat back to his caravan." Igmund dismissively waved Mohamara off, too busy admiring his new portrait.
"There is no need for that, Jarl Igmund." Silent as a ghost, the hooded, leather coated High Elf had walked up behind Mohamara, driving the tojay to jump a little in surprise. His voice was soft, differential, and compassionate. "With a Forsworn agent in the city, there might be more. You need all your guards right where they are. My men and I have no pressing engagements for the rest of the day-we can escort this Khajiit back as a favor to you."
If Igmund had disdain for Mohamara, he had daggers for the High Elf. Mohamara looked between the two taller men and wished he had never taken to portraits at all.
"I… know the way back. I can go by… myself?" Mohamara tried to speak up but neither of the two men acknowledged him.
"...Very well, Justicar. See that the cat reaches his destination safely. I will not have it said that my guests are treated poorly." Igmund flippantly waved and began a conversation with the oldest Nord about where to hang his portrait.
The High Elf placed a hand on Mohamara's shoulder and gripped it like an iron vice. "Come now, little Khajiit. We mustn't dawdle." For being an elf, the 'Justicar' easily forced Mohamara to walk down the stairs and away from the throne through strength alone, though he relaxed it a bit as they started to leave the keep. The two armored elves soon joined him in marching Mohamara out. Things started to go badly when right out of the keep they took a sharp left turn rather than walk forward toward the marketplace.
"Um. This isn't the right way." Mohamara knew, in his belly, that something awful was about to happen.
"No, it isn't." The Justicar's tone mirrored what Sheogorath would sometimes do, a low tone with just an edge of malice. "You see… I'm so very interested in what a tojay is doing in Skyrim. Without permission."
"Oh." Realizing that doing nothing was going to result in something awful happening, Mohamara did was any sane person would do.
He tossed his slate into the air, slid out of the robe the Justicar was holding him by like a snake shedding skin, caught the slate when he was free, and jumped over the railless edge of the walkway to bounce between jutting rocks until he reached the path to the marketplace below.
"Seeya, suckers!" At least this time he still had his shoes as he ran away from danger in his skivvies. Maybe if he did this enough times he could escape with a complete outfit. By the time the elves had gotten down to the marketplace, Mohamara had already made it out the gates, had several women exclaim and children laugh at his situation and was on his way back to the caravan.
No, Sheogorath did not give him the most metal gift possible, but it won't be immediately noticed because it wouldn't fit the story narrative just yet.