It was terribly easy, really, to throw off the shackles of binding the pathetic little hedge-mage had tried to leash him with— him, the Daedric Prince of Madness! Oh, how he'd gotten a laugh of it as he'd sent the little worm's head flying. He'd asked for the crown of Solitude; the Prince had, by his own estimation, done the province of Skyrim a service by offing the lout. But his 'good deed' did, however leave the once-mer remarkably alone. Damn it, he should have asked questions before ridding the world of the fool! The year, the exact location... if the fellow had seen any other Altmer— or, half-altmer— recently.
So the Prince walked. He passed through forests and along roads, every now and again pausing to watch the goings-on of the little people who'd decided to carve out some kind of life for themselves in the frozen wasteland of the northernmost province. It was almost admirable. Almost mad. The sort of dogged, insane stubbornness the Duke of Mania and Dementia could get behind!
He'd almost moved on, made his way toward a city ('Riften', he'd heard passers-by speak of it), but a broken cry caught his attention. A pointed ear flicked, and his usual wicked grin fell for the slightest of moments. Worry pulled a knot in his throat; it did not sound like his grandson, no, but someone was in trouble. Alandil would have wanted him to stop. Martin, damn his eyes, would have wanted him to stop. With a sigh, Rurelion (or was he Sheogorath? Both? Neither?) picked his way through the bush, staff whacking at plants until he found the scene.
This couldn't stand, not at all. With only a wild, vile cackle to announce his presence, he waved his staff. A crack sounded over the young mer's attackers, and they were enveloped in a cloud of violet smoke. There were a few strangled cries, the sound of fabric tearing, then... nothing. A 'plop, plop, plop' later, and three little ragamuffins fell to the ground— a plush cat, an indrik... and a boar, their ringleader.
Rurelion stepped into the clearing, his mis-mached suit glinting in the light; a wild grin pulled at his lips under his beard, and he offered the end of his staff to help Amrûn to their feet. "You, my friend, seemed like you were in a spot of trouble." He bent with a swiftness that didn't quite match his apparent age, and brushed off the once-brute. "I found them rather boorish." He gave another howl of a laugh, then turned his wide grin upon the younger altmer. "Now, who do I have the pleasure of rescuing, hm?"
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