Bard of the West

@bardofthewest

Camille Allard, at your service messere and madame. Shall I carry a tune, write you a poem, or shall my company be well enough for you? an independent Skyrim RP blog NSFW // 18+ // No crossovers or AUs

2,036 posts

It was a small, tiny accident.

Camille had been lazing in the solar, strumming his lute, humming a tune. His brothers were back, and safe, just as the Madgod promised. Letters and gifts were opened, and for a while, everything started to look up.

A servant came in, wheeling a tray of cakes and tea, and Camille thanked her, dismissing her. Lazy as he was, he wouldn’t get up and fetch it himself, he would, as always, depend on his magic.

A wave of his hand and a faint green aura at the tips of his fingers willed tea into a cup and cakes onto a plate. But when Camille wanted to bring it over to him, everything came crashing down onto the floor, a fine mess.

Camille looked horrified, and his heart beat quicker. He had been careless, he thought, distracted. But the more he tried to will his magic, the more he realized how futile it all was.

A dark realization crept up in his throat.

themadgodspeaks

His quill had barely left the page, the ink barely dry before the parchment tore itself away as though afraid Camille might have second thoughts. It rolled itself up, then flew into the Madgod’s hands. He caught it, examining the rolled sheaf before spitting on it. Not saliva, but a gob of hot wax landed on the seam, pressed into shape by a ring bearing his many faces.

“Now. I’d like a closer look at me new addition t’the collection, lad.” He stood, moving smartly to Camille and placing two fingers to either of his temples. A flash of a grin. “This’ll sting just a tad.”

Sting, of course, doesn’t describe it. The pain is torrential, all-consuming, drowning like a flash flood. But just as quickly, it’s over, and the Madgod holds a light in his cupped palms. He inhales of it deeply, making a contented sound as it passes into his lips and nares, devoured.

With it, of course, more than the boy has realized. Sweet little bard - oh, anyone can live without a soul, but without his magicka? He might miss those little spells. Ah, but he’ll learn, in time. A low chuckle. “So it is, lad.” The scroll tucks itself onto a shelf, and they are returned without spark nor ceremony to where they began.

The pain, though all-consuming, was bearable. It lasted seconds, moments, but the exhaustion when something was drained from him... it was unlike anything he felt. He felt... heavy, as if he had to consciously move and breathe and see. It was too late to turn back now, but this was what he had to live with. His soul is gone, of course, to his Prince. No one would have to bear this burden but himself.

With great, trying effort, Camille lifted himself off the floor, trying his hardest not to topple over onto Sheogorath.

“My Prince, thank you,” the sincerity in his voice almost caused tears to spill forth, “Thank you.”

#themadgodspeaks #THOSE POOR UNFORTUNATE SOULS

You know that's not the way Bretic families work. Your shame is their shame, and every noble family will remember yours as The Ones Who Gave Themselves to Sheogorath. You've doomed them.

We’ve already given ourselves to Hermaeus Mora, to Clavicus Vile, it is not uncommon. You do not know who I am, who the Allards are. Saint Jacqueline amassed her army from Daedra she summoned before men succumbed their loyalty to her.

Of course it's easier to sell your soul! Now it's somoene else's fault if you can't help your brothers. Now you don't have to do any work to help them, you've already given up your soul! After all, why work at being a better, more reliable person when you can just cheat? If they don't appreciate you, well, you're free to resent them for not knowing this stupid, foolhardy thing you've done.

You haven’t the slightest clue have you? The days I’ve spent trying to find them, speak to them, help them. Hours I’ve spent being yelled at by Alrek, being looked down upon by my entire family, my entire society.

It doesn’t matter.

This doesn't seem like the best way to help. This is an easy solution, and easy solutions are never as easy as they appear to be at first glance. You don't even know if it'll work.

Doesn’t it? Who else could help? Who else could see that my brothers live through their stupidity. They don’t even have to know what I’ve done. If I’m wrong it’ll be my shame to bear, not theirs.

Always the easy way out, hmm?

If that’s what you think.

Maybe selling your soul is frowned upon for a reason.

No one else wants to help.

Camille doesn't Sheogorath already have your soul? Or did you just forget to give it to him last time you met?

It’s on paper, now.

#themadgodspeaks #Anonymous

themadgodspeaks

The moment Camille agreed aloud, the shelves around them seemed to shift - shrinking and growing, parchment shuffling as though they searched themselves for the right document. A sheaf came free and flew towards the desk, fluttering to lay before Camille - all Daedric script, with a clear indication of where to sign at the bottom.

“Good, good lad. Really, I’m getting a raw deal. Yer soul was practically mine already.” A flash of teeth. “But I’m just that kindly, you see. As fer what I’ll do with yer soul, I’ll need t’chew on that, fer a time. Souls aren’t just something ye put in a pie, or pin on yer wall. But I’ll take a closer look in just a moment. First…”

Sheogorath grinned, and offered a quill.

His breath hitched when the parchment came before him, he could read some of it, he needed time, but he knew what he wanted, what would happen. One cannot trust to make a deal with a Prince, but Camille was a lost, desperate soul, eager to keep his family together no matter the cost.

He was the spare. He wouldn’t be missed. He knew what he was doing.

He took the quill, and as large as he could, signed his name.

“It’s done.”

#THOSE POOR UNFORTUNATE SOULS #themadgodspeaks

themadgodspeaks

For a moment, madness is silent.

Sheogorath’s eyes halve as he regards the boy, fingers arching to meet under his chin, head slowly tilting. Regarding him - no, scrutinizing him.

“It is a lot ye ask of me, laddie, and I don’t make these deals lightly. Why don’t we go somewhere more - businesslike?” On the last syllable, their surroundings changed. The room resembled that of a banker’s office, flanked by shelves of documents and scrolls, smelling of ink and the hard tang of coin. He seats himself in a green, high-backed chair behind an imposing wooden desk, leaning back and gesturing for Camille to sit before him.

“Yer soul, for the love of yer brothers. Aren’t ye a sweet thing? Now, I’m not one t’grant immortality all willy-nilly!” He briefly makes a face, as though biting into a peppercorn, before chuckling. “But to protect them, I can do. No arrow will meet their heart too deep, no sword’ll separate head from neck.” Of course, that didn’t mean swords and arrows wouldn’t penetrate flesh, tear apart muscle. Oh, they’d know pain. It simply wouldn’t end their little, mortal, mayfly lives.

Not that the boy needed to know that.

He was desperate, and he knew that His Prince would know. He didn’t flinch when their surroundings changed, did as he was told when the Prince offered him a seat.

It wasn’t what he wanted, not quite, but protection? That could do, that would, so as long as they lived, as long as they were his brothers in the end, that’s all he wanted.

“So you’ll... you’ll do it then?” He smiled, relieved, “My Prince, please, have my soul, let it serve you when the time comes, give you its power, it’s all I can offer for such a gracious act.” Camille, of course, was very much a talented Conjurer, a conduit, a link to the Daedra, he knew his soul was worth more, it had to be.

“We have a deal.”

#themadgodspeaks

themadgodspeaks

My Prince, I am never sure how to offer my prayers to you, but would you spare a moment of your time to listen to your child?

“Why, sweet little Camille, ‘o course I can spare a moment. After all, I’ve an eternity, and so very little t’fill it! Ye know how rare it is for me children, selfish little things, t’write me? One letter! I just want one little letter from me darling little sprogs!

Ah, but you’re a good lad, aren’t ye? Come here, tell me yer troubles.”

“My Prince, I... I want to make an offer. My brothers they... well, you know how nobles are like, we think we know what’s best and then they get killed. It’s all stupid, really,” he braved looking up to Sheogorath once more, the black veins, the sickly air of Oblivion in his lungs, all familiar, all comfortable.

“My Prince, I want to keep my brothers safe. They’re all I have. I know it’s a very... very burdensome thing I ask of you, so I will give you something in return,” and here, he paused, frightened, almost, but there’s a look of determination in his eyes, “My soul, for yours to have, to do as you please.”

#themadgodspeaks #DESCENDING INTO MADNESS

An Encounter (Bjarne/Camille)

“Of course it’s a Nordic name,” Bjarne commented, torn between amusement and incredulity. “What did you think I’d be called?” He was willing to let that matter go, however, and shook his head in answer to Camille’s question.

“Was just out checking snares. Doesn’t matter if you scared ‘em or not; Caught is caught. I could use the company, though,” He offered, “If you want to make up for it. The noise, that is.”

Camille looked to Luca, and he had a little knowing smile, “Luca could use the exercise,” and then, after a moment of thought, “Walk with me back to the city then, at least to the gates, I’ll buy you a drink.” A smile, bright and cheery.

An Encounter (Bjarne/Camille)

“If I wanted to kidnap you and sell your ransom, I could have already done it,” He points out. “Not like you were trying to be discreet. How do you think I heard you in the first place?” Still, he can understand being suspicious. That was the kind of attitude that kept you alive. He shifted his weight and crossed his arms.

“Name’s Bjarne. Hunter. Smith. In a manner of speaking, anyway. Don’t mean you any harm. I’ll leave you be if that’s what you want.”

“That’s a very Nordic name!” He smiled, beaming, “Ah! No, no, I don’t want you to go! That’d be rude, I think. You were just trying to be friendly!” When he mentioned that he was a hunter, Camille had to wonder, “I didn’t scare any of your quarry away, did I?”

An Encounter (Bjarne/Camille)

“Solitude,” He repeated, voice flat. “Sure.” He didn’t believe him, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t his place to try and uncover other peoples’ secrets.

“I’m concerned because I’m tired of scraping people like you out of the road. Bandits aren’t the problem here. You still didn’t answer my question, though.” He stepped closer. “If you’re in trouble, there are answers other than running away.” He paused for a beat.

“You need a place to stay?”

“And you still didn’t give me your name!” Luca barked, punctuating her master’s point, “Really? You scrape people off the road? With a chisel or a shovel? That’s awful work!

But I digress, if you’re offering a place to stay, it’s awfully kind of you. But wouldn’t it be suspicious? I mean, I already told you I’m noble, how do I know you’re not just being nice because you won’t sell me to your bandit friends later?”

An Encounter (Bjarne/Camille)

“Or else they don’t give a shit who your brother is and would be happy to pick you up just for the clothes off your back and the money at your waist.” Maybe he shouldn’t have been so dramatic, but something about this boy’s manner was careless. Well– Maybe not careless. Naive. He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

“Where are you traveling to?”

“Solitude.” He answered with a smile, entirely too cheerful for his own good, a clever lie for the woodsman to buy, “And anyway, if I get robbed, that’s the least of my problems. I know I don’t look like it, but I can take care of myself.”

He looked the fellow up and down though, “You’re awfully concerned with my well-being, messere. I haven’t even gotten your name yet! I’m Camille!”

An Encounter (Bjarne/Camille)

“Why’d it be surprising that my hounds are well behaved? Not many bretons who know how to train dogs where you’re from?” He figured that the boy’s comment shouldn’t have rankled him, but it did. At his command, both of his hounds lied down on the ground so he could hear what the lad was saying a bit more easily. And, unfortunately, he didn’t have much of what Bjarne wanted to hear.

“Wolves are a bigger problem out here than soldiers,” He admitted. “The woods here are a bit wild. Why would you need to worry about a soldier coming after you?” He asked, and lowered his gaze to stare at Camille long and hard. His voice remained soft and even.

“You in some sort of trouble?”

“A lot of people like the idea of hounds but haven’t got the patience to train them, nor the money to hire a proper trainer. Lots of stories about poor frightened hounds mauling someone,” a sigh, “You’d think people would be more responsible.”

He shrugged, “I’m noble. Well, not an important one, my brother is. Someone would try and get to him through me.” The way Camille had said it, it was as if it was nothing to be worried about, a small hinderance, “Animals don’t care for titles or whatever bit of fluff the courts try to sell you, they’re a lot easier to predict that people, I find.”

house-gardinier

Adelein. I am not from Solitude either but unfortunately I am here because I want to meet someone again. [She pauses] That sounds quite terrible and over-complicated, doesn’t it? I spent the last two hours ruminating that.

No, that sounds like you want to meet that person again. That doesn’t sound bad at all, that sounds lovely, in fact.

#adeleingardinier

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