Hey ya'll!

So I finally got these chapters out, woo. After this we're gonna cut back to Irina. I'm aiming to finish at least half of the first part of the Haven saga by Friday. I've been making good progress honestly, and am excited to upload what I've got. I'm thinking that part of the journey is going to be at least 14 chapters long, with an interlude afterwards so stay tuned.

Tell me what you think of the chapter. Comments and favorites are always appreciated! Love ya'll.

(Also I just figured out that uploading docs through a file is su much easier than copy and paste, lol)

Tomorrow came quicker than the Duchess expected. She adjusted a small pin on her gown and watched raptly in the mirror as Anya adjusted the headpiece she had chosen for tonight. She brushed a stray curl behind her ear, looked at it momentarily, and then took it out.

"And done, my lady!" Anya said. She looked down happily at her handiwork. "Do you like it?"

"It is suitable. You have done good work, Anya." Verona said.

Anya jumped and clapped in delight. "Oh, my lady. How your very praise brings me such joy—"

"Yes, yes. So you have said a thousand times before," she said. Her fingers fumbled with the lack of jewelry on a pearl bracelet. She spotted a male Mazken in the corner. "You there! Fetch me my coat."

The guard hurried to obey, ignoring the vengeful looks he was receiving from his female counterpart. He unhooked the cloak (from its hanger and eagerly went over to the Duchess, who was now clipping her earrings in her ear as Lady Anya fussed with the ends of her skirt. He held up the garment in front of her. Verona took a look at the article of clothing and then glanced up at him with an expectant look.

The Mazken stood stock still.

"What are you waiting for? Put it on me."

"Ah! Yes, my Duchess," he draped the fine garment over her shoulders, being careful not to interfere with the delicate curls Anya had so painstakingly made. The thin strings that connected the sides of the cloak were grabbed by shaking hands, which Verona pretended not to notice as she moved from her earrings to muss with the headpiece. By the fifth time he'd attempted to make a knot and failed, however, the Duchess sighed and brushed his hands away.

"I shall do it. Back to your post."

The Daedra restricted his fingers immediately and gave a deep bow. "Yes, my Lady. I apologize for ineptness."

"It is of no worry." Verona responded.

"My Lady, if the incompetence of this lowly life form is bothering you, might I recommend execution?" said the female Mazken.

She'd had about enough of all this— the time was almost to midnight. "There will be no execution tonight. I do not have the will, nor do I have the time."

The female Mazken bowed. "Apologies my Lady. I seem to have upset you."

"There is no apology needed," Verona said. She dipped her finger into a container of rouge and dabbed a little on her cheeks. She stuck her hand out, and Anya quickly handed her a brush, which she used to even out the powder. "Where is the Duke?"

"He said he is on his way," said Anya. Verona clicked her tongue, her grip on the brush tightening.

"Go get him. I have no desire to put up with his insistent foolery tonight."

Anya nodded. "As you wish, my lady."

"If you see Haskill on the way, ask him where mother is."

"It will be done."

Verona dropped the brush she had and picked a smaller one with a thinner tip. "Good. Off with you then."

The doors opened and closed as Anya darted out the room, her small heels clicking along the floor as she went. Using a small palette knife, Verona scooped up some on the rouge and mixed it into a clear liquid with the consistency of that of a balm. She then mixed the brush around within the liquid and efficiently applied a thin layer of it to her lips. Her reflection smiled back at her.

"How do I look?" she asked the two Mazken.

"As gorgeous as the two moons rising above the ocean."

"You look very pretty!"

The female Mazken side-eyed the male with a particularly annoyed look, but she said nothing.

Verona breathed in deep. "Then I'm ready. I'm ready." She repeated this phrase more to herself than she did the others in the room. A glance towards the clock hanging on the wall next to the window made her face morph into that of displeasure. "Now, where in mother's name is Samael?"

As if on cue, the door opened and in strode Samael, looking every bit the part of Cyrodillian beggar. Verona shot up from her chair. She gave one good stare at the patchwork shirt he wore, and all of her goodwill went out the window.

"Tell me, you are not wearing that to the Capitol theater?"

Samael tilted his head. He looked down at himself, then back up at her. "What else am I supposed to wear Verona, my smallclothes?"

"You know what I mean, you stupid drunk," she hissed. "Thousands of finery in your closet, and you still manage to choose the worst ones."

Samael wasn't going to take the insult lying down. "Well, immortal hagraven, at least I'm not dressed like I'm going to a funeral. It's mother's birthday night, yet you couldn't produce not even a dot of color besides black and purple and depression." He crossed his arms. "Typical."

Her nails dug into the palms of her hands as she resisted the urge to pommel him. Everything simply needed to go as planned. Simple. It was very simple. She waved a dismissive hand. "Nevermind. Dress like a bum, a beggar, or a skooma den resident— it matters not," she said. "Anya, did you see Haskill?"

"Yes, my Lady."

"And?"

"And he said the Lord is ready and awaiting you in the throne room."

"Shall I escort you?" Asked the female Mazken.

"No, none of that is necessary, though I do thank you." Verona said. She looked at Samael. "Anya, while I am gone, make sure my side of the realm stays together. I'd hate to come back to a mess."

"Yes, my Lady."

"Also, keep an eye on the grummites, they've been getting bold."

"I shall."

"And finally, keep Spots company and do remember to feed her her nightly meal. I'd hate for her to starve."

Samael snickered, Verona ignored him.

"As you wish."

Another deep breath of air filled Verona's lungs. Finally, she looked at Samael, who looked back at her with nonchalant eyes. The only thing that gave away that his face was a mask was the insistent bouncing of his right leg. She stuck her hand out.

"Shall we go?"

He took it and nodded.

"We shall."

The capital city of Cyrodiil was just as Samael remembered it.

Same cobblestone streets that stretched on endlessly— wounding around shops, businesses, and warehouses to form a maze large enough to rival Xedilian. Same expensive hotels and Taverns that didn't give you a single septim of what you paid for in terms of service. Same assassins and thieves hiding around dark corners, congregating in the dead of night. Same bored guards, some more tombstones in the royal graveyard, and the same oddly pungent odor that he could never properly place.

The only difference was is that it'd been a grand total of one-hundred and twenty years since he'd last seen it.

He plucked a nightshade growing along the fence and smelled it. He then tapped his mother on the shoulder, and when she'd turn to face him, he placed the flower within her hair. She smiled. "Thank you, my dear."

He offered a grin in return, somewhere off in the corner of his eye he could see Verona huff in annoyance, though this time not at him, but at the line. The building they were currently waiting outside was Cyrodiil's very first theater, built sometime around the beginning of the 4th era— he wasn't exactly too sure on the date as he'd had to have been a toddler when they did their first stage production.

The play they were putting on tonight had to be their most popular, not only in Cyrodiil but also in all human-dominated countries in Tamriel. Titled Chanson du Troisième Temps, as it had been created by a Breton man, the play told the heroic tale of the triumph of Cyrodiil during the Oblivion crisis, however that grand historical event was only the backdrop to the play.

The focus lay between the tragic romance of the two main leads; Martin Septim, a (relatively) young priest who, by a twist of fate, learns of his royal origins after his home city of Kvatch was destroyed by Daedra aiming to kill him under the command of Daedric Price, Mehrunes Dagon and assistance of the Mythic dawn. And, of course, the titular heroine of the story, Miriam Toliar, a prisoner tasked with rescuing the prince and defeating Dagon by the late Uriel Septim VII. A tragic love story for the ages, so the critics say.

Samael wanted to barf.

"Can this line move any slower?" Verona muttered.

"You know, the Arena is still open…"

The Duchess's piercing gaze was now directed towards him. If she gripped that pamphlet in her hand anymore, it'd turn to dust. "We will leave this line over my dead body." The couple in front of them took a peek at the woman and noticing her rage, quickly faced forward once more.

He knew better than to poke a hornet's nest, so he merely crossed his arms and chose to keep quiet.

Sheogorath hummed a bit, her eyes vacant. "It's been such a long time since I've walked along the streets here. Its…"

"Nice?"

"Familiar. Delightfully decrepit and the turmoil resting just beneath the mind of the way-ward and pathetic makes my heart shimmer with joy," Sheogorath sighed wistfully. "It almost makes me fall in love with the city all over again."

"Whatever you say, mother."

The couple in front turned around once more. Samael stared at them for a bit to get them back to their own business.

Verona looked to be at her wits end. If her expression soured anymore, she'd turn into a citrus. "Should this keep up, I will storm up there myself."

"We could just sneak in," Samael said. "It's not particularly hard for us."

"It's the novelty of the experience Samael, you wouldn't understand."

"You're right I don't. This 'novelty' is pretty stupid if it requires you to wait eons in a line."

"That because you have no taste for finery, you cumberworld—"

"Now, now children. Keep arguing and I will make you stay with your grandfather for the next decade."

It was almost eerie with how fast they shut up.

Time seemed to tick by as slow as a horker on land. Samael busied his mind with ideas of new melodies and tapestries he could make once he got home, but as they'd finally reached the middle, his supply was running thin. He gandered a look at the folks in line— there were people of different races dressed in their finest clothes and jewelry. A couple people ahead of them were two particularly annoyed-looking Argonian women with crossed arms and silver scales staring down at a Dunmer man trying to talk them up. Even further ahead was a Redgaurd woman and an Imperial woman leaning lovingly on each other's shoulders. Behind them, a lonely Breton man stared longingly at the display of affection.

I feel you, brother, he thought.

After another couple of minutes, they were finally nearing the ticket collector in front, which had Verona almost vibrating in excitement. Sheogorath shifted uncomfortably and looked somewhere in the distance. Noticing this, followed her line of sight but saw nothing that would catch her attention.

"See something?" He asked his mother.

"Hm, perhaps I'm merely feeling ghosts," Sheogorath replied. She glanced at her son. "Did you know that this used to be a hotel?"

Samael glanced at the building. He could almost see it from the structure of the building. "No, not at all."

Sheogorath hummed to acknowledge his answer, but her memories obviously took up her mind. Memories of a man he'd never met. He braced himself for the ensuing conversation. "Your father and I stayed here once."

"You did?"

"Third room, the suite. He was tired from horseback riding and, well… everything that was happening at the time, and I wanted to indulge his whims. I suppose I wanted a break from everything, too." She looked towards the sky. "I remember the night was as clear and cold as this one. Starlight guided us as we ran around the empty street, laughing and twattling away about everyone and everything—his hand warm in my palm as he pulled me around. I wanted to say something; I should've said what I thought when he asked me…" She straightened suddenly and then looked at Samael. The man wore a deep frown on his face; he couldn't help it. "Oh, I'm sorry dear, I've upset you, haven't I?"

"No, mother. I…Did anything happen?"

"What could you possibly be talking about?"

Gods, he hated this conversation. He hated the way she would dance around this topic, and he would let her lead the waltz. "I know it's getting close to that time in the era, with the whole Dragon Crisis over and everything."

"Samael, stop it."

"Mother, if you need anything—"

"I don't."

"— then I will help you. We can help you if you'd just let us," Samael said. Sheogorath opened her mouth to say something, but he knew if he let her get a word in, he'd never get his in. "I know you still miss him, I know you still love him, but you can't let him control your life."

"Samael, be quiet." She hissed. He took a cautious step backward at the viciousness laced within her tone. Seeing her son's reaction, though, all the fire left her. "Please."

He bit his lip in order to prevent himself from saying something smart. Neither of them needed that right now. If Verona turned around and saw or heard Divines above, it'd be a shitshow.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Sheogorath shook her head. He felt her arms wrap around him as she pulled him into a tight hug. "No, I'm sorry, my dear. I need to get a grip on myself."

He hugged back in earnest. The scent of heady perfume brought him back to simpler days. "I'm always there to help."

Sheogorath pulled back. "I know, my dear."

It was, by all means, a sweet moment between mother and son. That was until a loud, slurred voice destroyed all the sweetness in the air and replaced it with the pungent odor of sex and alcohol.

"Theodore Gorlash! My friend, how are you?"

Verona's neck almost broke with how quickly she turned it to stare wide-eyed and horrified at the source of the voice. Samael sucked his tongue and cursed. The worst case scenario was strolling down the street leisurely towards them, alcohol bottle in hand.

What's worse, he was using that appearance.

"Sam Guevene?" Sheogorath asked as the man came up to her. "I thought I felt you. When did you get here?"

"More like how did he figure out we were here," Verona muttered, her eyes roaming over to Samael, who was greatly offended at the assumption.

"Don't look at me. I haven't seen Uncle Sam since last Monday."

Sanguine smiled his obnoxious smile. "It's true. I just happened to be in the area and picked up on your mother's… scent, we'll say. I figured, why not come over and give my best buddy a birthday gift," he presented the bottle to Sheogorath with all the extravagance and flourish a Daedric Prince of Debauchery could muster. "Happy mortal birthday, babe."

If looks could kill, Verona's would've ended Sanguine on the spot. Sheogorath carefully inspected the bottle in her hands, Samael peeking over her shoulder to study it as well. It was an intricately carved piece of glass that had been shaped into a heart, with gold accents and a rouge diamond encrusted on the plug of the bottle. Inside seemed to be some sort of glowing red liquid. Sheogorath uncapped it and smelled it, then looked at Sanguine inquisitively.

"Did you put Felldew in this?"

The Lord of Debauchery winked. "Sure did. It's a new brew I've been making— it's strong enough to get even Meridia off her high horse for a bit and mingle with us," said Sanguine. "I was going to give it to ole' Mara as an apology, but—"

"She threw it at your head and cursed you for eras to come as she banished you?"

Sanguine snapped his fingers. "Spot on, as always. So I figured the next best person to give it to would be you, my buddy, old pal." He put his arm around her shoulders and grinned wide. "What're you doin' here anyway?"

Verona hissed. "None of your business—"

"Going to a play with my oh-so-delightful children."

"Which one?"

Sheogorath smirked. "You know the one."

Sanguine thought for a moment, face scrunched in contemplation before his eyelids popped open wide. "Oh. That one," he said. "I'm surprised you wanted to see it, considering."

"It's good to reminisce sometimes."

"Guess so." There was a worryingly familiar expression on the Daedric Lord's face, one Samael knew quite well. Sweet Talos, please let him not ask what he thinks he's going to ask. "Got room for one more?"

The paper in Verona's hand suddenly lit aflame. She turned around slowly to face Sanguine, who looked to be only amused at her apparent bout of madness, in contrast with the bystanders who watched in either excitement or worry.

"No," she spat. "We don't."

"Aw, c'mon little imp. Don't be such a downer. That's your uncle Jygglag's job."

Sheogorath smiled. "Sam, I would advise you not to call my children that. I would much rather their names."

"Got it, babe."

Verona laughed, though the cause of said laughter was the farthest thing from hilarity. Samael kept quiet and happily observed the closest thing he'll get to real entertainment tonight. He could always step in if things got too out of hand. Sheogorath looked impassive, if not a little concerned.

Her finger found itself in the Daedra's face, the black tips of her nails lightly kissing the man's nose. "You, of all people, are the last that should be let into a theater. When was the last time you actually enjoyed something other than wine, sex, and pranks?"

"Honestly, probably never in all of my life. And it's been long," said Sanguine. "However, I am willing to make an exception for an old friend." He pulled Sheogorath in closer. "And if things get a bit rowdy, what's the trouble?"

"The trouble is it's the theater, not one of your degenerate parties."

"Psh, anything can become a degenerate party if I show up." He tilted his head upwards proudly. "I just have that effect."

Realizing that trying to reason with Sanguine was the equivalent of trying to chat up a statue, Verona turned to Sheogorath in desperation. "Mother, please."

Sheogorath tilted her head. "What's the matter with Sam attending?"

"It's Sam, that's the problem!" Verona shouted.

"I am right here, you know."

"Plus, I only got three tickets for myself, Samael, and you." She emphasized her point by point to all aforementioned people. "Therefore, there's no room for him."

Sanguine chuckled lowly. "Not a problem. After all, I'm a… great sweet talker."

"Mother." The group was inching closer and closer to the ticket collector.

"I see no trouble in him coming dear. At least for us."

Sanguine placed his hand over his heart. "I promise, little Daedra, that I will be on my best behavior," he said. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"Lovely," she spat.

It was finally their turn to present their tickets. The ticket collector sat behind a glass box and was dressed in a uniform similar to the ones you may see at a high-end clothing store. He greeted Verona, and she slid the tickets underneath the glass.

After the man counted the ones in his hand, he frowned and glanced back up, and then glanced back down. He then looked at her, a polite and apologetic smile on his face.

"It seems you're one short, madam."

Verona shook her head. "Oh, I only bought enough tickets for myself, my brother and my brother." She made a point to gestured at each person with her hand. Then she finally turned her head towards Sanguine. "He's on his own."

The man frowned once more, but he told them to move on ahead, which they did. Samael watched with great interest as Sanguine sauntered up the ticket collected. He could practically read the human man's thoughts as he tried to repress a sour expression.

"Do you have your ticket, monsieur?"

Sanguine tilted his head. "Do I need one?"

The man's irritation was finally starting to visibly seep through his mask. "Yes, you do, monsieur," he said. "If you don't have one, then…"

Sanguine knocked on the glass, causing the man to jump. His face became bright red as he realized he'd recoiled at the noise. He straightened himself up in his chair and stared at the Prince. "Monsieur, if you do not leave, then I'll have to call the guard."

"Look at me, mortal."

"What are you talking about—"

"I said, really look at me." Suddenly, the man's eyes became glassy as he gazed upon the Daedric Prince of Debauchery. "You're gonna let me walk through, right?"

The man nodded. "Mhm."

"No issues?"

"None."

Sanguine smiled. "There we are," he said. He waved at the dazed ticket seller and gave him a little blow-kiss. "Thank you, mortal."

As he walked back up to Sheogorath, Verona clicked her tongue. "You could not be more obvious."

"Little Daedra, If there's one thing we both know about mortals is that they're the type to excuse what they see," Sanguine said. "To most of them I'm either a good sweet talker, or a powerful mage."

Verona sighed. "Let's just get on with it."

"As you wish." said the Daedra.

The box Verona had gotten was as luxurious as a prince could get— thick red curtains hung from the ceiling, hiding behind them a small room with three plush chairs. In Between two of said chairs sat a small fine wooden table, which atop it had two bottles of spiced Argonian wine as well as a couple of doublets. The wallpaper was crimson, with portraits of some important men and women from the theater hanging upon them.

The servant boy pulled out a chair for Verona and gestured for her to sit down, repeating the process for Sheogorath and Samael.

"Do you require anything else?"

Verona looked at the still standing Sanguine and sighed. "Yes, another chair would be nice."

"Thank you, m'lady." Mara's grace, if it wasn't for the servant standing right there, she would've attempted to set his clothes on fire.

"As you wish, madam." The servant said as he hurried out the box with all the regality and poise befitting such a man. Sheogorath stared after him, yearning etched on her features.

Noticing this, Sanguine grinned slyly. "What? You want the mortal?"

Yearning turned to blatant disgust upon hearing the comment. "No, I should rip out your tongue for the mere mention. I'm merely thinking about poor Haskill. He's never that polite to me."

"Don't worry mother, I'm sure Haskill adores you, he's just got a funny way of showing it," said Samael. That funny way happened to be dead looks and thinly veiled sarcasm and insults. You had to hand it to the man, human to Divine to Daedric Prince, he treated them all with the same amount of contempt— his only real exception was Sheogorath herself, and even then his courtesy didn't extend too far.

"Oh, I care about Haskill's feelings more than a cat does the life of a starving rat," Sheogorath said. "I was just thinking about his work performance, it is quite abysmal sometimes."

"Then perhaps you should get another chamberlain," Verona said.

"And waste a perfectly good one? Never. Haskill will be sweeping the floors of Xedilian until I eventually cease to exist. And then I'll be eternally dancing in his memories."

Before Verona could remind her mother that Haskill wouldn't be caught dead nor damned with a broom or a cleaning rag, in came the servant boy with the chair and some programs that he had forgotten to give them in his haste. He placed the seat down next to Samael, who grimaced in dismay, and gestured for the Daedric Lord to sit down.

Sanguine grinned wide, sly and flirty— and of course, taking his beloved sweet time to put his butt onto the seat. He never broke eye contact with the poor servant, who looked like he wished to be anywhere but here at the moment. Verona could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he eyed the man like a piece of fresh meat.

When he finally did sit down and the boy turned to hurry and pass out the programs he'd been given, the Daedra stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You look stressed— work giving you trouble?"

Somewhere off to the side, she heard Samael audibly groan.

"Um," the boy stuttered. Verona could smell the sweat beginning to drip off his brow and also, regrettably, smell the pungent scent of arousal waft off the Daedra. "No, monsieur, just a bit tired."

Sanguine raised a brow. "Tired? Let me guess," he pretended to think, but never broke eye contact with the boy as he did so. "It's your mother, isn't it?"

"How did you—"

"You can hardly scrape by with the bills in the imperial city as it is, and the old woman is just adding more stress to the load. That's sad," said Sanguine.

The boy's lip quivered, and he bit in order to stop the motion. He yanked his hand away from the Daedra's grasp. "That's none of your business."

"But it is," said Sanguine. "You see, I can take a bit of stress off your load."

"I— you can?" He'd fallen into the trap. Verona sighed and observed the

"Of course, that's my job after all," He said, leaning in ever closer to the boy's face. "After all this is over, how about you and I meet outside?"

"Sam," said Sheogorath. "Let the human fly away."

Sanguine turned to face the Mad God, there seemed to be something like irritation in his expression hidden behind an exaggerated pout. "Aw, Theo, don't be a killjoy."

Sheogorath matched the look with a pitying glance. "Oh Sam, as much as I'd love to see you devour the human on the spot, I do think time before the play is running short and I do wish to get that lovely little piece of paper he's holding before it starts," said Sheogorath. She snuck a peek at the human. "You can put your tongue down his throat some other time."

And just like that, the man seemed to snap back into reality. He coughed lightly, apologized, and practically threw the programs down into their laps before running out the double doors that lead into the box. Sanguine's false pretense was dropped immediately, and his true feelings shined through as he leaned back in his chair like a lazy Jarl and gave a withering look towards the Mad God, who'd up a goblet and was currently pouring some wine in it.

"Can't let me have a bit of fun, can you Sheo?"

"I'll apologize later," she said. When she had decided the wine within was a sufficient amount, she passed the goblet over to the Prince of Debauchery. "An olive branch, dear Sanguine?"

Sanguine snorted, but took the goblet anyway. "You know this weak shit could hardly get my dogs tipsy."

"It'll have to do." Sheogorath responded. The mage lights within the theater began to dim and the Daedra placed one long finger upon her lips while she looked at Sanguine. "Now, hush. Lest I have to pluck out your teeth."

Sanguine huffed, but otherwise did just that. It was always best to take Sheogorath at her word since it was always a wild coin toss on whether or not she would act on it. Verona offered her mother a glass, and when politely declined, began pouring one for herself as the sound of slow violins echoed throughout the theater. A bright light was cast down upon the stage as an actor dressed in all black walked upon it with a book.

The violin music stopped as the man reached the middle— an Orsimer of middle age from what Verona could glean. He opened the book and began to read. His voice was loud and strong, obviously experienced.

"Two realms, opposed in dignity and likeness, begin to war at the coming of the end of an era. Deep below the earth, in the belly of the brutal Imperial prison we, set our scene. A flight into the unknown of desperation untold, do a set of Blades lead Uriel Septim VII onto the path of fated destiny from land where savage hands bleed the pure blood of the dragons. From the forth, cruel hands of fate and the last breath of the late Emperor we, meet our fair heroine, and here she journeys into a life untold. Star-crossed lovers do we see embrace on a harrowing passage to save those of us when this land had been led astray. Friends and countrymen, I do implore you with patient ears to attend, what here shall miss, our toil strive to mend."

As soon as his speech ended, the man closed his book and walked off stage— the violins coming back in with a soft hymn. Verona snuck a peek at her mother. Sheogorath was idly flipping through the program, her face held no emotion. Verona leaned over and whispered. "Are you alright?"

Whatever trance the Madgod was in, she snapped out of it in a moment. She smiled at her daughter. "I'm alright, fair Verona."

The woman nodded and moved back to sit comfortably in her seat. She took a sip from the doublet as the play began and a tall imperial woman, one of black hair and olive complexion, waltzed onto the stage along with a much older man of the same race. The two began to address each other, speaking of the Amulet of Kings and Uriel Septim's death.

Mother and Jauffre, Verona idly thought. At least the costume looks nice.

Sheogorath hummed. "They found good actors."

"At least in terms of appearance," Samael muttered.

The woman on stage presented the actor playing Jauffre with the amulet, which had the older man jumping for joy and graciously taking her hand. Sheogorath chuckled, "I think the old mortal would've rather carved his heart out his chest before he did that."

Jauffre informs the woman of the location of Uriel's dead son and tasks her with retrieving him safely, which the heroine accepts. Then comes the heroine walking as the background scenery changes to that of a destroyed city, Kvatch. An Altmeri man runs up to the heroine widely, shouting for her to leave and forbidding her to go, which the actress valiantly tells the man she'll go on ahead no matter what. Then comes the meeting with the guard and the belated Oblivion portal, where the music ramped up greatly. It was formed through a mixture of actual material and Conjuration magic, Verona observed. Either way, it held an exceptional resemblance to the real thing.

"They didn't waste a septim, I'll say that," Samael muttered. Verona silently agreed. They had even gone so far as to summon actual imps and Daedra all for the sake of the show, though obviously they'd been told to imitate a fight rather than actually fight. It wouldn't do good to have an actual death on stage after all, much to the dismay of Samael.

Then came the fight for Kvatch and, finally, the temple of Kvatch. The violins came to a slow, and a harp joined the mixture as in walked Martin Septim, attending to the sick and injured. The heroine came up to him and told him of his royal origin. The man accepted it immediately, and together, the two rode off, not before the city proclaimed the woman the title of The Hero of Kvatch.

"That's not what happened at all," Sheogorath said. Verona looked at her as she spoke. "He was resistant, sarcastic, and overall very bad company along the road. I remember contemplating whether or not to tear him into pieces and feed him to the mudcrabs, Divine wrath be damned." Her hands dug into the grips of her armchair, leaving long marks on the side. "He was as terrified as a newborn pup is of thunder. Traumatized, sad, he assumed everything was his fault and his alone. I remember the first night on the road, he kept staring at his hands— his mortal mind was bustling with self-hatred and I…" Her words stopped as she finally realized that she had spoken. She straightened up in her chair and looked at Sanguine. "Give me your cup?"

The Prince of Debauchery immediately relinquished the goblet. "You got it."

"Mother?" Verona asked.

Sheogorath took a sip of the wine and blinked three times. Her elbow found itself on the armrest, and she leaned her head upon her hand. "Nothing dear. Now be quiet."

Verona did as she was told, but not before exchanging a worried glance with her brother. The play had now moved on to Martin and the Hero arriving in Cloud Ruler temple, but Verona could no longer focus on the play. She took small peeks at her mother every so often to judge her temperament— if Sheogorath noticed such things, she didn't make it known as the knuckles were defined on her bony hands as she gripped the goblet for dear life.

Perhaps Samael was right. Perhaps the Arena was the better option. She should've known, she had known, but she had stupidly assumed otherwise.

As she was lost within her mind, the play had begun to reach its climax. Wth the amulet lost and returned, the only thing left to do was to return to Cyrodiil and light the dragonfires at the Temple of the one. Before that, however, Martin pulled the Hero to be alone on the bridge at the temple that overlooked Burma and there underneath the starlight, illuminated dimly by the two moons, the leads finally joined hands and shared a tender, but loving kiss.

And that was when she saw a quick flash of pale white jump up from its seat and briskly walk towards the double doors.

Verona got up immediately, cursing all the wall, and began to run herself in order to follow her mother. She heard Sanguine idly say, "There's about to be some shit," before she pushed open the doors and went out into the hallways. A servant with a tray called after her to see what was wrong, but she ignored them as she hoisted up her skirts and ran.

The doors of the theater busted as she met the cool breeze of the night stinging her cheeks. Frantically, she looked right to left, checking for a wisp of white hair on the breeze but she saw nothing. She looked at the ticket collector, still inside his box. The man seemed to be messing with some sort of puzzle when Verona knocked on the glass in order to catch his attention.

He looked peeved, but as he saw the disarray the woman before him was in, peeved turned into concern. He glanced at the doors and then back to Verona. "Are you alright? Do you need me to call the guards?"

Verona straightened herself out. "No, I do not," She said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "Did you see a woman run out of here by any chance?"

"Are you talking about the old lady that just ran out?"

"Yes. What direction did she go in?"

The man gestured with his head. "Right, towards the old Imperial palace, I think," he gave her a once over. "You sure you're alright, madam?"

Verona nodded. If she was heading towards the palace, that could only mean one thing. She lifted her skirts once more, "Yes, yes. Very much so. Thank you," she turned to go, but not before pausing and telling the man. "Oh, and if you see a man of my likeness walking out the theater, tell him I went to the Temple of the One."

The man nodded. "As you wish."

"Thank you," Verona said, already turning. "Thank you so much."

She walked briskly down the streets passing by the usual people who lingered after dawn— the drunks, the thieves, the lovers, and so on. Her mind was consumed with insults towards her own stupidity. By Talos, she should've known how this would've played out. She should've as soon as she'd picked up that damned flyer that her mother dropped. She'd thought a century would've been enough time to grieve, to accept, but she'd never considered the timeline of a century to the immortal— to them, a thousand years is merely a drop in a vast ocean, a star in the night sky.

She knew she was getting close when she heard some idle chatter with no respondent. As she rounded the corner, she saw exactly what she expected. There, upon the foot of the dragon, sat the form of the Daedric Prince of Madness in all her glory. Her hair and skin was as white as the stone she sat atop of, her eyes glowing like bright firelight. She pressed her face upon the statue and longingly looked up towards its cold face, a sigh coming from her lips.

"To think it's been so long, my love," Sheogorath said, she idly rubbed a hand down the leg of the statue. "So long, and yet I still do not see your face."

Verona had yet to make herself known as she walked quietly up to the large feet of the statue. She'd loved the city in her youth, but she always despised this place. It felt empty of everything— happiness, love, regret were unbound here.

She wanted to speak, but she couldn't bring herself to. Not when Sheogorath watched that face as one would stare upon a god.

"I search and I search and yet I'm left with nothing more than the phantom of your kiss. You haunt my thoughts even now, still laughing, still warm. Is that not pitiful, Martin? Do you not pity me?"

The statue said nothing in response.

"Do you still despise me so for my deception? I am so, so, so sorry, I would tear my heart out and serve it upon a platter if you would just tell me where you are. I'd snap my legs if you were to tell me. I'd tear my skin and fashion you a cloak if you were to tell me the place you now roam is cold. I'd rid myself of my eyes if you said you couldn't see, beloved. Just tell me, please, I beg— where are you?"

The statue said nothing still.

"Answer me!" The words echoed throughout the broken temple. Verona flinched at the force put behind them. Her feet moved backwards for her.

The Mad God gave one more desperate look towards the face of the statue before her head hung low.

"Oh, sweet lover," Sheogorath whispered. "What have we become?"

Verona reached a hand out to her, forcing herself to move forwards. The words she wished to say were on the tip of her tongue, but before she could speak, a voice interrupted her.

"Come on down, Sheogorath."

"Sanguine," The Mad God hissed as her eyes found the approaching figure. Samael was on his heels. "Leave me."

The Prince of Debauchery laughed deeply. "What kinda Daedric buddy would I be, if I left you to your misery on your mortal birthday? C'mon, now." He stuck out hand towards the Daedra, which only caused Sheogorath to narrow her eyes.

"Keep speaking, and I'll rip out those pretty little horns from your head."

Sanguine rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips. "You've said that a million times in the past, and you only did it about a hundred."

"Shall we make it a hundred and one then?"

"I doubt it— you wouldn't want to do it in front of the children after all."

Sheogorath's eyes widened as she took in the presence of Verona and Samael, both staring at her in silent concern. She jumped down from the statue in an instant, straightened out her dress, and then walked up to Sanguine with all the poise and confidence a Daedric Prince could muster.

"What do you want?"

"Don't be like that Sheo. Just because I saw you moping about your mortal lover, doesn't mean I think any less of you. I wouldn't be able to pester you for Felldew if I did." Sanguine said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "But I gotta say, as your buddy, you need a night out. How about my realm?"

Verona sucked her teeth. "She doesn't need anything of the sort—"

"Alright." Sheogorath said. Verona looked at her shocked.

"Mother?"

Sheogorath looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry I ruined your play, but Sanguine is right, my dear. I'm not myself at the current point in time," she sighed. "I'm getting worse than Jyggalag."

Sanguine grimaced. "Don't put yourself down like that, bud. No one can be worse than him. Well, maybe Malacath when he goes on one of his 'I used to be a Divine' rant."

Sheogorath ignored him, as she grabbed both of her childrens' hands and clasped them within her own. "You two go back to the realm and tell Haskill I won't be back until much later," she said. She kissed both of them on the head. "Walk with my blessing and avoid any men in red robes."

She let go, but before she could turn away, Samael put a hand on her shoulder.

"Mother, if you need to talk—"

She took his hand and gently placed it at his side. "Now, now, dear. Your mother is fine, just a little hiccup in emotion. So we say." Samael looked like he wanted to say more, but merely nodded his head and squeezed his hand. She walked towards Sanguine and raised a white brow. "Shall we?"

Sanguine grinned and took her hand. "Let's go."

And with those words, two disappeared in an instant.

Verona sighed and sat down on a nearby bench, Samael followed her and did the same. The two sat in silence, before Samael leaned back with his hands in his pockets.

"Told you the play was gonna be boring as shit."

Verona laughed, dejectedly. "I suppose all that line waiting was for naught. A pity."

"Pity schmidy. At least we don't have to worry about money." Samael said.

"I guess."

"You know, I wonder how all those people can sit through that shite. Seems like a waste of time and money."

"As I said before, you don't appreciate the finer things in life."

Samael huffed. "I appreciate a lot of fine things. Wine being one of them," he said. "You know, the wine shop should still be open, huh?"

Verona shrugged. "I guess. It had been quite a while since either of us had even been around here."

"Even more reason to reason to get up and see," Samael said. He stuck out his hand towards her. "You got some money on you?"

Verona laughed. "You came to the mortal realm broke?"

"Well, I didn't think that we'd be going anywhere else besides the boring theater. Plus, I figured that you'd always have a septim or a hundred on you considering… well, you."

"You're a prick." Verona said.

"And you're a hagraven."

"At least this hagraven is not broke."

"Touche," Samael said. "But seriously, you got a septim on you?"

Verona sighed. She stood up and dug into the pocket of her skirt and produced a bag. She looked down at her brother while holding up the bag in one hand, the clinking of coins echoing throughout the street.

"This what you wanted?"

Samael got up. "Exactly what," He gave her a questioning glance. "You reckon the arena is still open."

Verona sucked her tongue as she thought. "I do not know. Shall we walk by and see?"

"Wine first?"

"Wine first."

And then the two walked into the night. They both knew that eventually, they'd have to face the coming of the sun and once again would have to hear a nightly cry.

But what was one night of fun?