And soon enough, there is nothing left of it but insensate meat and twisted metal, broken and bleeding on the same stonework it dashed the skulls of half a dozen adventurers against just a little while ago.
Jayred gets to his feet, shaking, bleeding, but as soon as he realizes the Gatekeeper is down, he takes a knife from his belt and immediately moves to open up its chest.
"Good work, friend! Now, the keys should be in here somewhere."
"That depends entirely on how you wish to meet him." It's not Jayred's voice that answers, but Haskill's. He's appeared out of nowhere, as if bidden by her question.
"A pity you've managed to kill the Gatekeeper. I imagine Lady Verenim will be positively bereft. How troublesome. Well, now that you're able to enter the Realm proper, you'll notice there are two doors. One leads to the lands of Mania. The other to Dementia. You may enter through either one. The lands are quite distinct, but both are Sheogorath's domain."
"The lands of Mania are bright, vibrant, and full of color. You'll find its inhabitants reflect the land itself. If you wish to meet the residents of Mania, you'll find them in the settlements of Hale and Highcross. Take care, though. Though the citizens and creatures of Mania are colorful, they can often be quite deadly."
"The lands of Dementia reflect the darker side of its residents. It is easy to get lost among the tangle of roots growing out of the ground. If you wish to meet Dementia's citizens, seek them out in Deepwallow or Fellmoor. I'm sure they'll welcome one such as you with open arms."
She greets him when he speaks, startled by the approach but letting him speak.
"I need to meet him soon, face to face, as myself. For that is how I entered these lands. And truth be told, I cannot tarry."
There is only so much time before she wakes. There is only so much time, only so many sleeps, before she'll start to remember. These are not her lands, after all.
"Of course. My lord has plans for you, and to delay until his whims might have changed would be to your detriment. Well, as I have already said, there are two doors. Either one of them will lead you to Lord Sheogorath's city of New Sheoth in the east. Which route you choose to take is up to you, of course, though I would suggest you not trouble yourself too terribly over the choice."
She thinks only for a moment before the right answer comes to her.
"Dementia, then. And eastward, until I get there."
Looking back at Jayred, she gives him a smile.
"Bones are all yours, friend, as promised. Take care, wherever you may go."
With those parting words, she's off, heading east. East, and nothing can stop or waylay her. She needs to see him - this world's version of him - and see if there's any understanding to be had.
"Thank you, my friend! May your bones always be rich with blood," Jayred says cheerfully. He offers his bow out to her.
"Take this. I have another. I hope it brings you the bounty it's brought me. I will see you beyond the wall."
"Very well then. I shall inform my lord that you are on your way," Haskill comments, before vanishing into smoke.
--
The lowlands of Dementia are full of traps and pitfalls. The ground is soft, the mud hungry, and the swamps full of dangerous creatures. The fog hangs thick and heavy over the land like a burial shroud, though not so heavy that the shimmering sky-fractures are entirely concealed from view. Many of these creatures, Fever can easily identify from Sheogorath's stories: the insectoid Elytra, with their sweet blood-ichor; the pup-like Baliwogs, clumsy and foolishly aggressive, lurching forward on meaty legs; the Scalon, hulking fish-men with powerful Chameleon magic; and Gnarls, the many-eyed, root-legged tree sentinels.
Beasts to avoid, or send a message to if they decide to cross her path. The land feels like an unpleasant trek, but she prefers it, though she thinks on departed fellows more than once. Jayred's bow becomes a trusted ally instead of new work, and she remains eastward, until New Sheoth finally comes into view. Past swamps, past the clinging fog, past the places that want to snare her and pull her down and past the countryside - it can't distract her, much as she wants to soak in the beauty. A thought rings in her head like a bell - there's only so much time.
Though she does pause every now and then, asking the scenery to stay in her head. She can't forget it - she may never come back here again.
In the city proper, and she has to keep going, following the roads and indications to the Palace. It looms large over her, and perhaps one cannot simply walk into the Prince of Madness's seat of power, but she's sure going to try.
As she nears the palace, trudging through the mucky streets of Crucible, she's approached by a particularly small, slight Bosmer, dressed in roughspun.
"Frem! Frem is callycack, and whipple in strom. Drose you craff the findoo?"
Of all the times to be amnesiac and devoid of any fluency in anything but Common. It had to be when she was going through the maybe real maybe dream of a butterfly.
"Fie. Fie is frelfing," he seems disappointed, but not angry. He waits for a moment, then turns to leave, if she lets him.
There's some interesting-looking shops along the way. A taphouse... a couple of general stores... a blacksmith... and of course, there's the road ahead, leading up to the Palace.
She lets the stranger go, watching him for a bit before letting her eyes go back to the road. And true, there are shops that draw her eye, causing her to linger at the window to peer in. The chatter of the taphouse, what's on display at the stores, whatever can be glimpsed at the blacksmith's - what, she can spend a moment to admire a good weapon's looks.
But the path calls, calls, tugs on her collar and has her not losing track of time. The Palace waits, growing ever larger as she draws near. Up and up, up and up. She stops about halfway, both to give herself a small break and to simply gaze at it all. Really grand. The sort of place to get lost in, if there was enough time for it.
Later. This place might decide to reject her at any minute. The butterfly might wear off or she might fall through the wrong part of the ground.
Up, until she faces two doors with two guards, and picks the left simply because she took the right the last time. If none will block her path, she's headed in.
Here, at last, is the source of the water that flows through the capitol, and out to the lands beyond the city walls. Twin cascades pour down on each side of a carpeted stone staircase, which leads up to a throne embedded in the trunk of an immense tree. Braziers burn in flames of green and blue, orange and red, but much of the light in the room comes from the glowing fruits that hang from the tree’s branches.
And seated in that tree-bound throne is a figure that is both a stranger and so very, very familiar.
Lord Sheogorath seems so small against such a grand backdrop, even dressed in the extravagant finery that he is. He’s a little old man, wrinkled and skinny and smiling like a dotty fool. Fever knows better, though. That being said, something is amiss- there is the shadow of another person’s face that is absent in Sheogorath’s countenance.
It's the change in him that sparks her formality, the difference between this one that she knows and the one she speaks to in person. But she knows he is only small because he wishes to be small, and if in an instant he wished to tower and impose he would.
She smiles, and she does not bound over to him as she might in the world she knows, because she has come a long way to find him. Chasing his presence across the Isles, until she's standing right here. Just walks, until they're close enough to speak.
"Ah! So you know who you're addressing! Good, good! Means you at least had some idea of why you wanted to get through those Gates, when you killed my poor Gatekeeper. Shame about that. I'm so happy, I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them."
His expression seems to change every sentence, from happy, to sad, to furious.
"At least, let's hope you actually have some idea, or we're in trouble. Real trouble... and out come the intestines. And I skip rope with them! But, perhaps now's not the time. You've made it this far. Farther than anyone else. Well done! Now... here," he extends his hand, and from it dangles a golden pendant.
"A little trinket of mine, a gesture of things to come. Might serve you well. Or at least, it'll look lovely on your corpse."
She'll take the pendant from him, slipping the chain around her neck - why not, she likes it - and feeling the magic in it. It does something, but she'll have to look at it later.
"What things are to come? Or are they already en route?"
"I don't put stock in trying to tell the future. Can't abide the idea, if I'm honest. Except, sometimes I do. They're hunches, earnest guesses, loose plans. Take yourself, for example. I've been waiting for you, or someone like you, or someone other than you, for some time. I need a champion, and you've got the job. Time to save the Realm! Rescue the damsel! Slay the beast! Or die trying. Your help is required. A change is coming. Everything changes. Even Daedric Princes. Especially Daedric Princes."
She feels like she does. Or she might. Or something between the two of them that is not yet settled. Untethered - and for a moment, she turns away back to the water, checking to see whose face she is wearing. It should be her own, but something squirms up and fills her with doubt.
"You've known a surprising amount so far, mortal! Perhaps you should be the one telling me what it is I'm going to have you do."
As far as she can tell, it's her own face, though perhaps there is the shadow of someone else behind it. It's hard to tell in the ripples, whose perception of the world may be distorted and mad.
"I know some things, and I also know that I don't know a great many others. I know that I do not know what you will ask of me, and I also know that it takes quite the fool indeed to tell the Madgod what to do in the first place."
It's unclear, and somehow this soothes her. A definite answer wouldn't have felt right at all, not in this place. Not where things may and may not be what they seem to be.
"Well, then, let's get you knowing a few more things. Daedra are the embodiment of change. Change and permanency. I'm no different, except in the ways that I am. Now, one of those changes is nearly upon us. The Greymarch is coming. And you're going to stop it."
This is not her story. This is the ripple across someone else's reflection. This is the story she put in her mouth and swallowed and said be part of me. Worm to caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly.
"The details aren't important. At least not right now. Eternity is on a rather tight deadline. We'll get back to that later. For now? You run an errand for me. An important one. Of course, anything I tell you to do is important. My Realm, my rules. You're going to Xedilian, one of my favorite spots in the Isles. It's a little place I use to take care of unwanted visitors. And some are more unwanted than others. The Gatekeeper takes care of most of the unwanted, but he's dead. We'll have to remedy that soon, as well.... Anyway... there are those that have other ways into my Realm, and they're on the move. We don't want them here. Trust me. So, you're going to get Xedilian up and running."
He scowls, then beams. There's a book in his hands where there wasn't one a moment ago.
"Here's a little book to walk you through it. And the Attenuator of Judgement. You'll need that, too. Of course, if you need it said in someone else's words, you can always get more details from Haskill. He's a detail-oriented type of person. A big help. And a snappy dresser. Now, get going. Before I change my mind. Or my mind changes me." And he gives her a gesture to run along, thoughts seemingly already elsewhere.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Jayred gets to his feet, shaking, bleeding, but as soon as he realizes the Gatekeeper is down, he takes a knife from his belt and immediately moves to open up its chest.
"Good work, friend! Now, the keys should be in here somewhere."
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She steps back, wiping her dagger on the leaves of one of the nearby bushes before resheathing it.
"Two doors, two keys. Which takes me closer to Sheogorath?"
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"A pity you've managed to kill the Gatekeeper. I imagine Lady Verenim will be positively bereft. How troublesome. Well, now that you're able to enter the Realm proper, you'll notice there are two doors. One leads to the lands of Mania. The other to Dementia. You may enter through either one. The lands are quite distinct, but both are Sheogorath's domain."
"The lands of Mania are bright, vibrant, and full of color. You'll find its inhabitants reflect the land itself. If you wish to meet the residents of Mania, you'll find them in the settlements of Hale and Highcross. Take care, though. Though the citizens and creatures of Mania are colorful, they can often be quite deadly."
"The lands of Dementia reflect the darker side of its residents. It is easy to get lost among the tangle of roots growing out of the ground. If you wish to meet Dementia's citizens, seek them out in Deepwallow or Fellmoor. I'm sure they'll welcome one such as you with open arms."
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She greets him when he speaks, startled by the approach but letting him speak.
"I need to meet him soon, face to face, as myself. For that is how I entered these lands. And truth be told, I cannot tarry."
There is only so much time before she wakes. There is only so much time, only so many sleeps, before she'll start to remember. These are not her lands, after all.
"I must make haste. He's waited long enough."
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"Dementia, then. And eastward, until I get there."
Looking back at Jayred, she gives him a smile.
"Bones are all yours, friend, as promised. Take care, wherever you may go."
With those parting words, she's off, heading east. East, and nothing can stop or waylay her. She needs to see him - this world's version of him - and see if there's any understanding to be had.
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"Take this. I have another. I hope it brings you the bounty it's brought me. I will see you beyond the wall."
"Very well then. I shall inform my lord that you are on your way," Haskill comments, before vanishing into smoke.
--
The lowlands of Dementia are full of traps and pitfalls. The ground is soft, the mud hungry, and the swamps full of dangerous creatures. The fog hangs thick and heavy over the land like a burial shroud, though not so heavy that the shimmering sky-fractures are entirely concealed from view. Many of these creatures, Fever can easily identify from Sheogorath's stories: the insectoid Elytra, with their sweet blood-ichor; the pup-like Baliwogs, clumsy and foolishly aggressive, lurching forward on meaty legs; the Scalon, hulking fish-men with powerful Chameleon magic; and Gnarls, the many-eyed, root-legged tree sentinels.
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Though she does pause every now and then, asking the scenery to stay in her head. She can't forget it - she may never come back here again.
In the city proper, and she has to keep going, following the roads and indications to the Palace. It looms large over her, and perhaps one cannot simply walk into the Prince of Madness's seat of power, but she's sure going to try.
Obligatory Bolwing Cameo
"Frem! Frem is callycack, and whipple in strom. Drose you craff the findoo?"
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She gives them the most apologetic face she can.
"I'm sorry, I only speak this language."
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There's some interesting-looking shops along the way. A taphouse... a couple of general stores... a blacksmith... and of course, there's the road ahead, leading up to the Palace.
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But the path calls, calls, tugs on her collar and has her not losing track of time. The Palace waits, growing ever larger as she draws near. Up and up, up and up. She stops about halfway, both to give herself a small break and to simply gaze at it all. Really grand. The sort of place to get lost in, if there was enough time for it.
Later. This place might decide to reject her at any minute. The butterfly might wear off or she might fall through the wrong part of the ground.
Up, until she faces two doors with two guards, and picks the left simply because she took the right the last time. If none will block her path, she's headed in.
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And seated in that tree-bound throne is a figure that is both a stranger and so very, very familiar.
Lord Sheogorath seems so small against such a grand backdrop, even dressed in the extravagant finery that he is. He’s a little old man, wrinkled and skinny and smiling like a dotty fool. Fever knows better, though. That being said, something is amiss- there is the shadow of another person’s face that is absent in Sheogorath’s countenance.
“Ah! Look who’s here! You! How about that?”
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It's the change in him that sparks her formality, the difference between this one that she knows and the one she speaks to in person. But she knows he is only small because he wishes to be small, and if in an instant he wished to tower and impose he would.
She smiles, and she does not bound over to him as she might in the world she knows, because she has come a long way to find him. Chasing his presence across the Isles, until she's standing right here. Just walks, until they're close enough to speak.
cw: casual threats of dismemberment
His expression seems to change every sentence, from happy, to sad, to furious.
"At least, let's hope you actually have some idea, or we're in trouble. Real trouble... and out come the intestines. And I skip rope with them! But, perhaps now's not the time. You've made it this far. Farther than anyone else. Well done! Now... here," he extends his hand, and from it dangles a golden pendant.
"A little trinket of mine, a gesture of things to come. Might serve you well. Or at least, it'll look lovely on your corpse."
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She'll take the pendant from him, slipping the chain around her neck - why not, she likes it - and feeling the magic in it. It does something, but she'll have to look at it later.
"What things are to come? Or are they already en route?"
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She feels like she does. Or she might. Or something between the two of them that is not yet settled. Untethered - and for a moment, she turns away back to the water, checking to see whose face she is wearing. It should be her own, but something squirms up and fills her with doubt.
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As far as she can tell, it's her own face, though perhaps there is the shadow of someone else behind it. It's hard to tell in the ripples, whose perception of the world may be distorted and mad.
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It's unclear, and somehow this soothes her. A definite answer wouldn't have felt right at all, not in this place. Not where things may and may not be what they seem to be.
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This is not her story. This is the ripple across someone else's reflection. This is the story she put in her mouth and swallowed and said be part of me. Worm to caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly.
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Fine. She'll go through it all. Somehow, there has to be time. Or she'll be thrown out in the middle of the process.
"Will it be apparent when I get there what the problem is?"
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"Here's a little book to walk you through it. And the Attenuator of Judgement. You'll need that, too. Of course, if you need it said in someone else's words, you can always get more details from Haskill. He's a detail-oriented type of person. A big help. And a snappy dresser. Now, get going. Before I change my mind. Or my mind changes me." And he gives her a gesture to run along, thoughts seemingly already elsewhere.
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Summarizing a lot because at this point you've watched a let's play
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cw: body horror (1/2)
(2/2)
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(Cutting Forward)
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