A/n: This chapter contains descriptions of drug use and sexual violence, as well as some non-violent sexual content. NSFW. Just a heads up.
Corrections include the usual. Also correcting Miraak's time in Apocrypha because I can't math and overestimated it by double... uh...
"Asking Vehk to speak without riddles is like asking a snake to please stand up and walk, just this once." – Hasphat Antabolis
He died when it happened. It ought to have surprised him that the Void didn't take the opportunity to snatch him before the ritual was complete, but at the time, he was terrified and in pain to think of it.
The moment Erich dipped his new staff into the Font of Madness, all of the blood in his body seeped out and his heart stopped. He remembered, vaguely, gasping for air and tumbling face-first into the water. He was dead, cold, and terrified.
Then, the blood of Padomay seeped in through his skin, filing him with divinity. He'd forgotten what it felt like, and what the ritual did to him.
Perhaps, picking up Vivec from Molag Bal reminded him. He wondered if the Tribunal died for their power as he did, but –
It was highly unlikely.
And it was unlikely that the other Daedric Princes knew how Erich became Sheogorath, and they didn't have to know.
Sheogorath sighed and glanced around the room. He was trying, oh so hard.
The preparations hadn't taken much effort, but he checked and rechecked them thoroughly until he was certain that he'd go insane –more than he already was – from obsessing over the details.
Rose petals lay scattered around his bedchambers. The scent of incense was heady throughout the room, and a pipe with skooma, a tray of greenmote, and a bowl of moonsugar rocks lay in the center of a cluster of soft, deep floor pillows. He even went so far as to have the gold sheets put on his bed.
His prize was healed, cleaned up, groomed, and wrapped from head to toe in finery that accentuated his exotic beauty: gold, pearls, gems, a tiny bit of silk to cover the exciting parts.
There was nothing left to do now but wait, and he was never good at waiting.
"You're nervous. Why?"
Sheogorath glanced over at Vivec and bit his lip.
"Did your age catch up with you?" the mortal asked.
Erich frowned and narrowed his eyes. What did he mean by that?
Other than Mehra, everyone he knew in his mortal life was long dead. He'd live on, eternally youthful, while the mortal plane scarred and aged with each passing second.
But even with that, he felt like an infant compared to the other Daedric Princes. After all, they were there since the beginning of time.
So yes, he supposed that in many ways, his age did catch up with him.
"More importantly," Vivec pondered, "Who is coming to visit? You wouldn't have me decorated so nicely if you didn't want to show off your new captive."
Then, in a quiet mumble: "You're not going to show me off to the Three, are you?"
Sheogorath chuckled. "I ought to," he admitted, "but I don't want them attempting to steal my things. No, tonight, you'll have the pleasure of meeting –"
The door swung open to reveal Haskill. Stepping into the room, he bowed. "Lord Sheogorath, your esteemed guest has arrived. Shall I show him in?"
He shook his head. "No, I'll go to meet him."
"As you wish, Master."
Erich walked toward the door quickly, then turned back toward his new –
Prisoner? Captive? Shivering Islander?
Whatever.
"Don't be nervous," he said. "This is a nice surprise."
Quickly, he disappeared through the door, half-listening to the mortal's comment about having his doubts. Sheogorath wound his way through the palace and stopped in the empty throne room to see Sanguine standing in the middle of the two-toned carpet. He was dressed handsomely for the occasion in a long, red, belted loincloth and intricately embroidered cape. Long strands of jewels and gold adorned his neck, and the large, golden rings in his nipples were a nice touch.
Mm.
"What's that look about?" Sanguine chuckled.
He shook his head. "It's impolite."
"Tell me," Sanguine purred, sauntering over to him. The wide swath of skin he showed revealed black skin striped with red, a detail he forgot during their first, drug-induced coupling.
How could he have forgotten the devil, of all things?
"I want to choke you with those necklaces," he admitted.
"Sounds nice," Sanguine replied. "You gonna have your way with me?"
His eyes closed as Sanguine wrapped his arm around his shoulder and turned his chin with his other hand to kiss him.
As Sheogorath opened his eyes – his vision was growing dark – he realized that perhaps, this wasn't a good idea. He already so close to–
"Now, what's this call about?" Sanguine asked. He took a lock of Sheogorath's hair in his hand and twirled it around his finger.
Sheogorath shook his head violently, forcing himself out of the strange spell. "I have something to show you."
With that, he took Sanguine's arm in his and led him through the palace, back toward his bedchambers.
"I like your surprises," Sanguine chuckled. "Let me guess: You're going to let me have your ass?"
He blinked in shock. Erich was always forward with what he wanted when he was younger – still was, to some extent – but he never met anyone quite like Sanguine who said exactly as he thought, with absolutely no repercussions.
"You're welcome to," he mumbled. "I mean, that is, I rarely let it happen before but I made exceptions."
Xedilian's sirens! Why was he letting Sanguine fluster him? He was Sheogorath! He was –
Really lonely at the top.
Oh.
"Who did you make exceptions for?" Sanguine asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Never anyone whose name I knew," he replied. "And never anyone I'd call on again."
Mostly, that was.
They stopped in front of the bedroom door and Sheogorath gripped the handle. Sanguine leaned in and cupped his chin in his hand.
"Did you fantasize about someone?" Sanguine asked, his voice dark.
Erich closed his eyes and let his back thump against the door as he sighed.
"My boss," he admitted. "His name was Lucien. He was tied up in work so much that he didn't care about sex in the least. I always liked –"
Older men, at least, when he was on the bottom.
Sanguine closed the distance between them and pulled him in for a passionate kiss, bringing the scent of roses and smoke with him. As Sanguine dominated him – temporarily; he'd get the upper hand soon – the hand that rested on the door handle pushed down with a mind of its own.
They tumbled through the door in a tangle of passion, a pair of feminine giggles snapping Sheogorath out of the moment. He cleared his throat and stepped away from his guest.
Good; they were already there.
Sheogorath turned to the two women who entered the room after he'd left and motioned toward them.
"My esteemed guest," he announced, "I have the pleasure of introducing my generals to you, in no particular order."
Sheogorath motioned toward the one closest to him, a statuesque beauty of a daedra. Like other Golden Saints, her skin, hair, and eyes were all of a similar golden hue.
"This is Staada," he said, "General and Commander of my Golden Saints, Defender of Mania."
She bowed before Sanguine in reverence. His unique appearance gave away his identity without a word.
His other general quickly bowed as well, dark purple hair tumbling over the plum skin of her shoulders.
Sheogorath motioned to her. "And this is Dylora, General and Commander of the Dark Seducers, Defender of Dementia."
Sanguine grinned at the beautiful daedra before him. "Well, this is a nice surprise."
"Oh, that's not your surprise," he laughed. "That's your surprise." He pointed toward the bed, where the terrified mortal knelt.
Sanguine peered over at the bed and gasped in shock.
"Want to borrow him?" Erich chuckled.
Sanguine nodded. "Now this is one hell of a present," he whistled. "If I weren't so greedy, I'd be embarrassed by all this attention!"
He stalked toward the bed, stood over the mortal, and gently lifted his chin with a clawed finger to stare into his two-toned eyes.
"Do you know who I am, pretty thing?" Sanguine murmured.
"I believe you may be Sanguine," the mortal replied, his voice meek.
"Correct."
Sanguine let go of the mortal, who immediately slumped. Shaking his head, he turned to Sheogorath and gave him a nod.
"So, where did you find him?" he asked.
"Molag Bal had him in his dungeon," Sheogorath answered.
Staada and Dylora both scowled while Sanguine shook his head. Everyone knew what Molag Bal was about.
"And," Sheogorath chuckled, "I got him through a wager. The idiot thought that I'd be some fool and underestimated me due to my age. Out loud even! He told me that I was new to this so surely he'd win!"
Sanguine threw his head back and howled in laughter, and his generals joined in. Even the mortal had a small chuckle at his abuser's expense.
Sitting down on the bed with a flop, Sanguine turned to the mortal again, wrapped his arm around him, and drew him in closely.
"Given where you've been for the past two hundred or so years," he murmured, "you don't have to touch anyone you don't want to tonight, alright?"
He turned to pin Sheogorath with a serious look. "Right?" Sanguine asked.
Sheogorath held his hands up in defense. "I figured it was a moot point, given that you're irresistible."
"Oh, stop! I am not drunk or high enough for this talk!" Sanguine huffed. "You don't have to seduce me; you've already got me."
Sheogorath laughed and motioned toward the area of pillows. The daedra present made their way over, while the mortal looked on in trepidation.
"Come join us, mortal," Sheogorath called. "Smoke a pipe; ease your mind a little."
Vivec visibly steeled himself before standing and padding across the floor to join the daedra who had just taken their seats. Staring at what was available, he seemed to think about where to sit for a moment, before making up his mind.
He stepped across the pillows to sit on Sheogorath's lap, most certainly attempting a survival tactic of sorts.
And while he wished that the mortal paid attention to their guest, he didn't mind his decision; it was a wise one, after all.
Sheogorath leaned over, keeping one hand on the company seated on his lap, and grabbed the tray of greenmote. He sat back up and brought his mouth down to the mortal's ear.
"Don't do this green one," he said. "It's greenmote, and all the legends about it are true. Do you want some skooma instead? Moonsugar?"
"Sugar's fine," the mortal mumbled.
He couldn't help but turn his head to kiss Vivec's golden cheek. Surprisingly enough, he didn't flinch away from the touch.
Maybe the mortal liked him? He found the thought odd; he was, after all, a daedra in a 'Northern Barbarian' skin.
Shrugging it off, he focused on having fun and showing his guest a good time. They drank, smoked, and told stories – some of them downright raunchy – as the night wore on.
Sheogorath even told them one of his more embarrassing stories from when he was a mortal.
"I knew something was off about it," Erich admitted. "I mean, here's this woman telling me to come to an abandoned farmhouse so I can fuck her and all of her friends. But she had her hand on me under the table – stroking me – and my brain was completely dead because I hadn't been fucked in at least two weeks."
"And you really fell for it?" Sanguine snorted.
"I was suspicious of it," he shrugged. "Especially when I got there and the one girl was the only one there. Told me to take off my clothes and wait for them to join me in bed. No offense to your pals, Sanguine, but I've never needed to visit brothels to get laid."
Sanguine shrugged and motioned for him to continue.
"Turns out that they were running a robbery ring," Erich explained. "They'd get the guys there, tell them to strip, take their stuff, then send them packing. The guys were too embarrassed to make a fuss over being robbed. They picked people of status or married men. Unfortunately for them, I already had a nasty reputation in some parts."
"How so?" Sanguine asked.
Erich shook his head. "I extorted the Skingrad Mages Guild hall leader into giving me a recommendation. I was a filthy, untrained Gifted, and here I was attempting to seduce her daughter. I told her I'd leave the girl alone if she wrote me a recommendation. Of course, too bad for her that I already de-virginized the poor thing by the time she wrote it. So, yeah, I had a bit of a reputation."
Dylora grinned and turned toward him. "Cunning and cruel even as a mortal, Lord," she purred.
Staada narrowed her eyes at her rival. "Defender of justice" she countered, "A muse of song and art for centuries for his deeds of heroism."
"And terror," Dylora hissed.
Sanguine laughed and wrapped his arms around the women. "A scumbag and a saint, eh?"
"Quite accurate," Sheogorath nodded. "I've proven that it's possible to be both at the same time."
Leaning over, Sanguine captured his mouth in a quick kiss. "Which one will you be tonight, I wonder?" he murmured.
"Equal parts naughty and nice, naturally," he chuckled.
He leaned more toward naughty, if he were honest with himself. Sanguine prodded him the entire night with bawdy questions, constant caresses, and multiple propositions so explicitly stated that they'd make anybody blush.
Vivec twisted in his lap – and he knew damn well that the mortal felt his 'problem' – and reached his gray arm toward Sanguine. Cupping his cheek in his hand, the mortal leaned in to Sanguine for a tentative kiss that was so shy and sweet that he found himself enraptured from the sight of it. When they parted, Sanguine took the mortal's hand in his.
"Curious, then?" he asked. "I'll be as mild as a kitten, promise."
"I will as well," Staada declared.
Dylora turned her bright blue eyes to Sheogorath and licked her lips. "If my Lord wishes it," she purred, "he may crush my neck with his fangs."
He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. He'd done that many times before with her; killed her physical being outright on a few occasions. Their coupling was always violent.
It was part of the perks of being immortal, he supposed. The consequences of anything were minimal at best. When he was with either general, the respective side of madness that they preferred was always brought out in him.
But with anyone else – with anyone sane, especially – it was a tossup as to what he'd do. Demented blackouts were a problem when he wanted to keep his partner alive.
But Sanguine! Surely Sanguine would aid him into gentleness, given how he desired to treat the mortal.
So he joined his two rival generals, another Daedra Lord, and a mortal who was once a god in bed. Quickly, clothes and armor were tossed aside; the mortal appeared awestruck – entranced, even – at the sight of the Gods before him, and to some lesser extent, the exemplary daedra women. Everything went swimmingly, until Sanguine decided to needle him in a very specific way.
"What's it going to take for you to savage me?" Sanguine purred.
Bliss preserve him, he already had one foot in Dementia the moment Sanguine showed up. But now – now he wasn't so sure if he could keep his grip on his gentler, non-savage side, not with Sanguine suggesting these things to him and keeping a firm grip on his –
"You're," he gasped, "you're going to turn me. Watch it."
His eyes slid shut as Sanguine planted a kiss next to his ear. The hand that stroked him did so in a way that made him want to scream.
"Maybe I want you to turn," the devil whispered.
And that was all it took.
When he came to, there was blood in his mouth, running down his chin. Bright red stained the white hair that trailed down the lower part of his stomach, leading to a lap covered in blood.
Ashamed, he glanced around at the bed's occupants, wondering who he ought to apologize to. As a mortal, he was a consummate gentleman with each of his lovers. This violence certainly was a byproduct of the demented side of his madness.
His gaze landed on a series of oozing bite marks dotting the back of Sanguine's neck and shoulders. If anyone could handle him at his worst, Sanguine could. Still, he wished it hadn't happened that way.
"Sanguine, my brother," he murmured, drawing closer to the weaker Prince.
Weaker.
That was the problem; even though Sanguine was immortal, he could accidentally destroy the form he inhabited and banish him back to his realm to recuperate. And banishing him by accident would have been a grave mistake.
Sanguine moaned quietly and shielded his eyes in the crook of his elbow.
"Lord Sanguine is resilient," Staada purred. "A God among the immortals."
"He certainly is," Sheogorath confirmed. "Most lovely and excellent. Wonderful parties and wonderful times."
Despite his condition, Sanguine grinned and moved his arm to wrap around the Staada's shoulders.
"The mortal cowered in the face of your prowess, Lord Sheogorath," Dylora chuckled. "That serves him right, pretending to be a god for as long as he did."
Erich nodded and turned his eyes to the sleeping Chim–Dun –
Whatever race Vivec was, anyway.
"He's a pretty thing, isn't he?" Staada murmured, her gaze drawn to the exotic mortal asleep in the bed.
He nodded in agreement. "A little treasure. Uh, nobody hurt him, right?"
"No, Lord," Dylora confirmed.
Sanguine turned to him with a concerned look. "He cried most of the time."
"Molag Bal certainly did a number on him," Sheogorath said, noting how the unconscious mortal shivered at the sound of his former captor's name.
Staada's brows furrowed in worry. "We must teach him passion and song again," she whispered. "He's a poet, yes? Mania would love to have him."
"And his temple hunted down anyone who spoke against him," Dylora countered. "Dementia could use his tactics."
The generals sat up in bed and glared at each other, ready to start a fight.
"Ladies," Sheogorath sighed, "he is free to explore both sides of madness as he chooses. Of course, I will keep an eye on him, given his past. But I am certain that Molag Bal nearly ruined him. It is my hope that Lord Sanguine would help me in rehabilitating him to some capacity."
"I – hm," Sanguine mused. "That would be interesting."
Sheogorath leaned over to heal the deep punctures he left in Sanguine's skin, but the other daedra waved him away.
"I like them," Sanguine explained. "I survived one hell of a wild ride. Should show them to Mephala."
He pursed his lips. "Mephala?"
"Yeah, we're close. She's absolutely captivating," Sanguine nodded. "You should come meet her sometime. Really, you've got to meet everyone in some capacity sooner or later. Get the easy ones out of the way first. Maybe I should host a party."
Sheogorath nodded in agreement, but wasn't sure about the idea. Of course, he would have to meet the other Daedric Princes. It just seemed so sudden. He'd only been himself for two hundred years!
But, he supposed there was no way out of it, not if he wanted to keep up his – whatever this was – with Sanguine.
In all his years on the mortal plane, Neloth was certain of one thing:
Honesty was a rare trait.
There was a time for one to use it, and a time for one to guard their secrets. Were he in the same position as Mehra, Neloth wouldn't have mentioned his affiliation with one of the most dangerous and powerful Daedra Lords. But hearing the words come from Mehra made him greatly appreciate her candor, given what she had at stake from telling him. While he did prompt her with a question of sorts, Neloth didn't want to cause a confrontation over the entire thing. Rather, he wanted it to be her idea to mention it, after a fashion.
He also appreciated her honesty because it put his mind somewhat at ease as to the reason behind Sheogorath's visit to his tower some time ago:
He assumed that Sheogorath wished to protect and care for the girl, in his own twisted way. Neloth respected that; regardless of her daedric affiliations, he had no improper or ill-willed intentions toward her.
As far as her past relationship with a man who was so young and dashing at one point – still was, if one discounted the insanity – he'd write it off entirely, so long as the young Sheogorath allowed them to go about their business as they pleased. He'd go so far as to even share, so long as he wasn't privy to the particulars of said sharing. He didn't own the woman, after all.
Neloth found himself curious as to what that man had to do in order to attain such a status. Likely, it was a dark and profane ritual.
He walked down the path that led out from his tower, and his gaze landed on the ancient obelisk off to the side. Apparently, Raven Rock was still having issues with their people coming under control of theirs.
He wondered what could have caused such a thing. After all, he hadn't heard reports of similar occurrences elsewhere on Solstheim, but the barbarians who lived toward the center of the island didn't speak with outsiders, though they were known to be quite hospitable to visitors.
He'd have to ask when he arrived at the Skaal village, he supposed.
A faint glow near the obelisk out front of his tower made him pause. It looked a bit like smoke or ash drifting in the wind, but the light that emanated from it was quite abnormal.
Neloth sighed from beneath the silken scarf wrapped around his mouth. This was a trap, wasn't it?
Unfortunately for whomever was powering the stone at Raven Rock, Neloth was much more than a mere wizard: he was the world's master enchanter, and a master of schools of magic and spells the number of which he'd forgotten.
He trudged over to the stone, stopped at the short step in front of it, and crossed his arms.
"Well," Neloth groused, "What do you want, then?"
The wisp of light grew in brightness.
"Your mind," it replied.
Old Atmoran-barbarian accent. Male.
It figured, really. How droll.
"Everyone wishes they had even half of my mind," Neloth said. "I'm a powerful wizard; I am Neloth, Telvanni Master."
"Telvanni?" he replied. "I have read of this clan. You are a descendant of the Velothi dissidents. Your daedra overlords changed the color of your skin, marking your race as their own."
"The color of my skin does not dictate whom I serve," he snapped. "I do as I please."
The man behind the mist chuckled, a most irritating sound.
"Then we have something in common, Master Wizard," the barbarian replied. "Let me introduce myself: I am Miraak, first Dragonborn, rebel against the dragon overlords, and Champion of Hermaeus Mora."
Hermaeus Mora? Then this man was a slave in fancy trappings. And the name –
Miraak. Yes, the name was familiar. Supposedly, he'd been dead for thousands of years. But, given that Hermaeus Mora had him, it was certain that the Daedric Prince kept him alive at his whim.
"I have been in Apocrypha for some five thousand years," Miraak continued, "at least, as far as I can calculate it. I am certain that you've seen my handiwork in Raven Rock."
Five thousand years in Apocrypha; this man had all that time to read from Mora's library.
"It is an interesting trick," Neloth shrugged.
The wind picked up around the stone. "Do not patronize me," Miraak hissed, "you know that it is impressive. I will speak plainly, Wizard: My wish is to return to the mortal plane."
He uncrossed his arms and shifted his weight. "No women in Apocrypha, I take it?" Neloth chuckled.
"None."
Neloth nodded. Fair enough, he supposed. And Hermaeus Mora likely didn't care for such things; that was the stuff of Mephala, Sanguine, and Molag Bal.
"That is not why I want to leave," Miraak said.
He raised a brow at the spectral mist. Other than knowledge, what else was there worth in existence? Apocrypha had endless knowledge.
In fact, his original plan was to locate Black Books to see if they had hidden knowledge of where Elder Scrolls were located. It was worth a try, at least.
"I figured," the barbarian continued, "that since your power is great enough that I cannot control you, that you may wish to work with me. Certainly I would have knowledge of interest to you."
Neloth frowned. Absolutely not. Unless –
Yes, this could work perfectly. Neloth changed his mind.
"I want an Elder Scroll," he said.
"You– surely–"
"I want an Elder Scroll."
There was a long pause.
"You have expensive taste," Miraak grumbled. "I can look for one, but I cannot guarantee–"
"No scroll; no help," Neloth said.
"Then consider it done," he replied. "Your intelligence and cooperation are very valuable to me. I shall speak to you again once I locate one."
Neloth nodded. "Excellent."
"Until later, Master Neloth," Miraak said. The glowing mist around the stone shimmered for a brief second before disappearing on the wind.
Neloth shook his head, stepped away from the stone, and continued down the road. He lived long enough to know when someone was being dishonest, and this Miraak fellow sounded greasier than a Hlaalu council member.
As soon as Miraak was back on the mortal plane, he'd immediately betray him. And Neloth wasn't about to give him the opportunity to do so. He had no intentions of helping him in the slightest. Once he had the Elder Scroll he needed, he'd sever his ties. And, he'd get the scroll through the best possible means:
Delegation.
He didn't have to put in the effort, and Mehra would certainly respond with gratitude.
Not that he needed her gratitude; they worked well without having to answer to each other. Neloth wanted to keep it that way. Women lost their enthusiasm when they felt as if they owed something.
He didn't want that enthusiasm to go away anytime soon; she was a gem of a young thing. Oh, how she begged the other night. Somehow, their second meeting was even better than the first. And, she called him 'Master' the whole time.
Neloth certainly didn't object to that. He was a master of many things, after all.
He'd have no trouble keeping her secret from Aryon. If the upstart Archmagister truly thought of Mehra as his adopted child as he so claimed, then Neloth didn't want to start trouble by letting him anywhere near where he could discover the intimate nature of their acquaintanceship.
Perhaps, once this was sorted out with Alduin, he'd take her to Nchardak to aid him in recovering the Black Book hidden away inside the ruins. Surely, she knew her way around Dwemer ruins, and had the athleticism to do some of the more difficult tasks.
In the meantime, he figured he ought to visit one of the other standing stones on the island to see if there was more going on. And, given that the stones were sacred to the Skaal, they were the ones who would likely know the most. They might also know the location of more Black Books, which could be of benefit.
He'd be careful, of course; he took Sheogorath's warning about the books causing insanity seriously. His mind was his most precious possession, after all, and insanity would ruin it.
Neloth trudged through the ash and the remnants of snow toward the northeastern end of the island, huffing with each step of rough terrain. While exertion never bothered him much, he was admittedly not used to hiking through icy hinterland.
Vvardenfell was so warmed by the volcanic climate that one often hiked half-naked – according to Western, human standards – to keep from overheating. At least, that was as he remembered it thousands of years ago. As soon as his research on the heartstones was done here, he'd move back to Vvardenfell and enjoy paradise once again.
He continued onward. The realization that he could recall back to his tower at the end of his trek motivated him forward one cold, irritating step at a time.
Hours later, he climbed the steep hill that led to the Skaal Village and stopped at the top. There were a few dozen buildings of thick timber, practical and unornate. At the far end lay a smithy of sorts, and not far from it, a thick-walled stable. They were impoverished peasants, certainly, but what they lacked in wealth, they apparently made up for in cleanliness.
Villagers paused in their work to stare at him. Likely, they hadn't seen such finery before, nor had they seen a Dunmer who stood tall enough to look them directly in the eye.
"You there!" a woman called. "What brings you to our village?"
Neloth turned to see a pale, blond Nord woman in heavy plate armor approaching him.
"We are welcoming to visitors," she said, "but we are on hard times, and it is very unsafe around the village."
"Ah," he said, "so it is happening here, too. Fascinating."
"Too?" the woman repeated, "it is happening elsewhere? My father, Storn, our shaman, says that this is Miraak's doing. But that is impossible. Is that why you are here? To look into this evil?"
"Somewhat."
"Then I must take you to speak with my father," she said. "I am Frea. Who are you?"
She was much too casual with him, but he figured this was simply a peasant way of speaking.
"I am Master Neloth," he replied. "I built the mushroom tower to the south, and I live there."
The Skaal gasped and backed away, her eyes wide. "You're the wizard," she whispered, as if she couldn't believe it.
On occasion, he saw some of their scouts come down from the north and stop at the border to his tower. None of them dared come close, superstitious as they were.
"Frea, do we have company?" a man called. He stepped out of a nearby building, tottering on feeble legs toward them. The man was in his twilight years – a mere seventy or so as a human.
Neloth couldn't fathom such a short life. He was thousands of years old, yet through magic, only looked to be about one-hundred: middle-aged and definitely not old, according to Dunmer standards.
"Ah, yes, Father," she replied. "This is – this is the wizard who lives to the south, Neloth."
"Indeed?" the shaman said. "Come inside and warm up. Have some tea."
Tea?
Well, alright.
"We probably do not have the kind of tea you are used to," the elder admitted. "Mostly sagebrush."
The door closed behind him as he followed them into their home. In comparison to his tower, it was a mere shack. But, if he compared his current tower to his old tower in Sadrith Mora, he too, lived in a shack.
A downsize made it difficult for him to store all of his things – had to get rid of the plan for the dungeon below the ground and use it instead for storage. Political intrigue and the like was much less common nowadays, anyway; there was no reason for him to capture Redoran councilor's daughters in order to have said councilors do his bidding.
Still, a dungeon added a bit of spice to life. Once the tower grew more, he'd have to relocate the storage and get the dungeon going.
"Sagebrush tea is very bitter, father," the girl mumbled.
"Excellent," Neloth interjected.
Bitter was good; if a tea fought its way down, then it was worth drinking. Otherwise, it was merely hot water.
Neloth tugged the scarf down from his face, grateful to be rid of the thing for a few minutes.
Quietly, the girl set about her task, her face growing worried until she couldn't hold her words in any longer.
"Father, he says that he knows of the mind control," she blurted.
Ah, to be young and impulsive.
"Do you?" the Shaman said. "Would you agree, then, that this is Miraak's doing? That is, if you have heard of him."
The girl placed an earthen saucer of tea in front of him. "I can confirm it," Neloth said.
"I do not doubt you," Storn replied. "How did you come to know this?"
Neloth took a sip of the tea and felt warmth seep back into his body. It was appropriately bitter.
"He told me," Neloth shrugged. "He wants me to work with him, given he has been unable to activate the stone outside my tower with my magic in place."
"No!" the girl cried. "You mustn't work with him!"
Neloth sighed and peered at her from over the rim of his teacup. "Do I look like somebody's patsy, girl?" he drawled.
She furrowed her brow, the colloquialism lost on her.
"I've no plans to work for him," he explained. "I do not work for anybody, not even the Archmagister."
"I figured not," the Shaman replied. "Surely you must have sensed what kind of person Miraak is."
"I know of him."
"Not many do," he said. "It was a very long time ago. Thousands and thousands of years. Our people have passed his story down through the generations. He is the betrayer, and associated with Herma Mora."
"Now," the Shaman continued, "given that you are a man who works for himself, my assumption is that you are not here to check on us. What do you need?"
Neloth took another sip of his tea and placed it on the saucer. The man was astute, at the very least.
"Black Books," he shrugged.
Frea recoiled in horror, while her father held up his hand to motion that she stay silent.
"Surely you know that they are dangerous," Storn said.
"I do."
"Herma Mora created them. He is dangerous," the shaman emphasized.
"One of the most dangerous of the Daedric Princes," Neloth confirmed. "I seek knowledge. I also seek an Elder Scroll."
"I assume that you are old and wise enough to know that your very soul is on the line if you make a mistake," the village elder murmured.
"Over three thousand years, yes."
The old man shook his head in awe, and while Neloth didn't like to drop his age often, he needed their cooperation.
"You haven't lived so long that you would be intentionally foolish," he shrugged. "So I suppose I will tell you: there is one of these books, presumably, in the dwarven ruins known as Nchardak."
Damn.
"Found that one," Neloth sighed. "Any more?"
The shaman shook his head. "That is all I know of. You must know; we do not seek these things out. I am curious, however: Why do you want an Elder Scroll?"
Neloth downed the last of his tea and stood. "The fate of the world hangs in the balance."
Yuck. He didn't want to get involved with this, but truly, Mehra needed his help with this Elder Scroll. Being an important man was such a chore, sometimes.
"I wish you luck, then," Frea mumbled, her expression dubious.
With that, he left the Skaal village, quite certain that the lot of them thought he was a kook. Well, it was no matter; he had things to do that involved important research.
In the meantime, he'd keep this Miraak business to himself. He'd get an Elder Scroll out of Hermaeus Mora's prisoner, then he'd ignore any further requests for help.
Mehra didn't need to know a thing about it.
Miraak simply wasn't of her concern.
Carrying severed heads into Whiterun was one of the most ridiculous things Mehra ever dida, and that was saying a lot. She triple-wrapped them in whatever she could find from the witches' hovel, making sure she drained as much of the blood out of them as possible. After that, she took whatever herbs and flowers she could from their camp, as well as the surrounding wilds, and dumped them into the bag in an attempt to mask the smell of decay.
Mehra shifted the large sack of heads on her back and steeled herself as she approached the front gate to Whiterun. Ever dutiful, the guards at the front of the gate checked a line of people who waited to get inside. They looked up and saw her approach the back of the line.
"Hail, Companion!" they called, their eyes smiling behind their helmets.
Oh, she had to tell Erich about this. He'd roll on the floor laughing about the time the Whiterun guards caught her with severed heads in her bag.
From what she knew of him, he pulled similar kinds of stunts back in Cyrodiil. He told her stories of all his exploits: turning a castle party at Leyawiin naked through a spell at Sanguine's behest, taking the last known Great Welkynd stone from its crypt, of stealing an Elder Scroll from the Imperial Library, and of removing Talos' armor from his final resting place.
Bringing severed witch heads into a city that was suspicious of mages? Really, she could call the whole thing 'doing an Erich'.
Maybe, she'd be the one to make him laugh, for a change.
A man wearing bright colors – officer, perhaps – ran across the top of the city wall toward the front.
"Stop the line!" he shouted. "Don't let anybody in!"
The line of people murmured among themselves and cast a perplexed look up at the man on the wall.
"Companion!" the man called. "You'd better get in right away and go to Jorrvaskr."
Mehra frowned as the guards opened the gate to let her in, keeping the others back.
Something must have happened.
She jogged through the city, the sack of heads knocking into her back.
"Hurry, Companion!" a man called. "Have your blade ready!"
Swearing, Mehra broke out into a run and overtook the guards running alongside her. She ditched the bag of heads at the bottom of the stairs to Jorrvaskr. Aela and Torvar stood out front, their weapons drawn but at ease. At Aela's feet lay a slain enemy with a distinct silver blade.
Her heart fell.
Silver Hand. They got into the city and came after the Companions.
Aela kicked the corpse in front of her and spat toward another further up the stairs. "These two won't be a problem anymore. Good kill, Torvar."
She looked up to give Mehra a nod. "Got them all, I think," she said. "Let's go up and have a look, just in case. Get the bag, Torvar."
He didn't protest and leaned over to grab the bag of heads, just as a group of guards arrived on the scene.
"You're alright," Aela called. "We've got it handled. Thank you. Be ready to catch any if they run."
With that, Mehra and Aela jogged up the stairs and threw the door open to Jorrvaskr. Vilkas ran up to Mehra with a scowl on his face as soon as she entered, his blade dripping with blood.
"You!" he shouted.
Mehra looked behind him to see Athis on the floor in a pool of blood, moaning in pain.
"Where were you?" Vilkas seethed. "If you were here, then –"
"Later." She shoved past him and ran to Athis. He looked terrible; without magic, she was certain he'd die.
"T-they c-cut me down on their way to him," he hissed. "Stood in front of him to protect him. Outnumbered."
She laid her hands on his chest and directed him to lie down. Delirious, Athis fought against her.
"F-failed. Failed m-miserably. I'm so s-sorry, Lady."
Mehra blinked away the growing tears in her eyes. "Lay down, buddy," she murmured. "Let me heal you. You did your best, alright?"
What he said didn't make sense, but she supposed she'd know soon enough.
Finally, he rested back against the floor. Mehra put her hands on him again and whispered a quick prayer to Azura for guidance. Closing her eyes, she searched with her mind for the wound – wasn't hard to find – and concentrated on trying to knit it back together.
"You acted with honor," Njada said. "A true Companion."
Mehra nodded quietly in agreement. There was a commotion in the corner, but she couldn't look for fear of messing the spell up.
Slowly, she put his organs back in place and fused them back together with magic. Her body heated up with the effort, and a bead of sweat rolled down her brow. Then, she closed the muscles and skin up, leaving a faint scar on his stomach where the silver dagger pierced him.
Had he been a werewolf, he would have been dead in seconds. Maybe, the Silver Hand thought all the Companions were werewolves.
Mehra looked up to the corner of the hall to where Farkas and Aela knelt and –
Oh no.
She was too late.
The red-faced Aela shook her head. "They got him," she said, her voice breaking. Aela brought a shaking hand up to pull her hair away from her face. "By Talos, they got him."
Aela brought her fist down on the floor, a loud thump and crack resounding through the hall.
"God dammit! Not Kodlak!"
Vilkas ran across the hall to Aela and took her into his arms. She stood there and shook without making a sound, her face buried against his shoulder.
"Where were you?" Vilkas hissed, staring over Aela to glare at Mehra. "Where were you when we needed you? Kodlak could still be alive if you were here!"
"That's not fair, brother!" Farkas interjected. He stood immediately and stared him down, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Like hell it isn't!" Vilkas shouted. "We're orphans again!"
Mehra swallowed and glanced over at Kodlak's body. Maybe, it was better that nobody who raised her cared for her. Because maybe, maybe if losing a loved one hurt this badly, it was better that she never had–
The front door to Jorrvaskr opened as Torvar entered with the bag Mehra abandoned at the bottom of the stairs.
"Pardon," he coughed, "but why the hell do you have a bag full of hagraven heads?"
Mehra sighed, her shoulders hunching. "Those were to help cure Kodlak."
"Oh," he shrugged. "Well, I suppose –"
Torvar looked across the hall and dropped his sword in shock. "Arkay's asshole! They got Kodlak! Shit!"
Vilkas swayed on his feet as he rocked Aela in an attempt to soothe her. She mumbled something into his shoulder.
"I know," he murmured, "I know, Aela."
Mehra sighed and looked down at the floor. She was the eldest, now. Technically, she always was, but, given the circumstances, she had to take charge in some way. The remaining members of the Circle needed her.
Farkas turned toward his right and squinted. "Were uh," he mumbled, "were we putting the shards of Wuuthrad somewhere else?"
"No," Vilkas frowned. "Why?"
Farkas' eyes widened in shock. "Shit! They took them!"
Mehra glanced over to the display case to see that the fragments were indeed gone. It was one thing to perform an honor purging as a religious rite or the like. It was another thing entirely to steal the pieces of a famed, historical weapon on top of an attack.
"They did it to taunt us," Mehra scowled. "They want us to run on in to their hideout so they can kill us."
Vilkas turned to her and gave her a nod. "You and me, Dragonborn. We'll go there together, and we'll kill every last one of them. Let's go first thing in the morning."
"Done."
She fought hordes of ash creatures, and self-proclaimed gods.
A pack of scum with silver weapons didn't stand a chance against her.
And they would feel all of her rage.