Revenge art done during artfight of @larkscribbles's character Cyone. Probably the piece I'm most proud of out of all the artfight stuff I did this year.
A dunmer seeks Azura’s guidance after the horrors of the oblivion crisis, instead she must deal with an unexpected and uninvited guest.
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The dunmer’s forehead presses against the cobblestone floor of the basement. Fingers interlaced tightly. Desperate pleas and prayers spilling from her mouth. Glow dust presented on a tray below a statuette, surrounded by spluttering candles. The date, 21st of the First Seed. The woman continues fervently, with such devotion she is unable to hear the thunderstorm that has rolled in overhead.
She watches in awe as the glow dust begins to rise. The telling hum of magic in the air. A sparkling, swirling vortex slowly growing in size and magnitude. Soon the dark elf is scrambling back on her hands and knees as the gale effortlessly picks up the flames from the candles, incorporating them into its now blinding shimmering mass. She covers her eyes. Between the cracks in her fingers she sees a figure emerge as the light dissipates. It worked. It actually worked! She feels the world sway like a ship underneath her. Her heartbeat in her ears. Only now the exhaustion in her bones. She closes her eyes, trying not to weep.
“Lady Azura-“ she croaks, voice strained from overuse.
Step. Step. Clack.
The distinct noise of dress shoes and a cane.
Her red eyes shoot back open, lip beginning to quiver. No, this was wrong. She had done it wrong. What had she done wrong? She considered not looking. Not raising her eyes to meet the Daedric Prince’s - for she had successfully summoned one, just not the right one. She desperately tried to calculate if this was to be considered offensive or the right course of action. Then concluded it didn’t matter. If He wanted her dead there was not all that much she could do.
“Azura,” The Madgod clicks His tongue. “Explains the glitter.”
The woman inhales and shakily looks up, finding her mouth dry. The gentleman with a cane - the Madgod, Sheogorath - leans forwards grinning widely, now He’s done scanning the room.
“What’s your name, little mortal?”
Naturally, she hesitates. He places a hand to His ear and leans in on the balls of His feet.
“Vermonah.” She answers slowly, carefully. He doesn’t seem to mind the lack of ‘my lord’.
Sheogorath nods affirmatively. “And what do you desire, Vermonah?” He puts on emphasis as He echoes her name.
Anticipating this, the dunmer shakily gets to her feet, swaying precariously. The Daedric Prince watches, intrigued. She extends a finger.
“We- we can g- would- wait-“ She splutters before making an effort to regain her composure. “Would you like some tea?” Her voice still wavers.
Vermonah bets on the fact that something so unexpected, foolish and frankly trivial will appeal to the Madgod’s nature. Appease Him. And maybe, maybe, if things go according to plan - well no plan per se, more go well - she may be able to convince Him to leave. Sanity still intact. Make it into a sort of game and He just might…
“I accept!” He laughs, grin somehow continuing to grow. His voice drops from the shout to something a little more akin to an inside voice. “Travelled a long way to be here, you know. My feet are killing me.”
Vermonah turns on her heel, jaw set and storms up the stairs with purpose. He follows unhurried behind her.
“That was a little joke.” He clarifies. “I teleported.”
Vermonah hopes she doesn’t audibly roll her eyes.
“Feel free to take a seat, kitchen is around the corner, if you need me.” She says in her best business tone, lingering by the doorway to ensure He is seated and doesn’t just wander about; or even worse follow her. Fortunately He seems to respect the rules of the arrangement for now and sits down, scanning the room with an amused grin.
As soon as the woman is out of sight she buries her face in her hands, trying to suck in lungfuls of air as quietly as possible. Only now the raging storm is audible. She kicks herself. Her face burns and tears prickle at her eyes. Why did this have to happen to her? Today of all days? No, now is not the time for such thinking. She has this under control. Under as much control as someone could have in this situation. She pauses. Has it been too long already? Shit. Her hands hurriedly worked to assemble the components. Pot. Water. A flick of her wrist igniting a small flame. Boil. Cups. Leaves. Steaming. Pour. Tray. Don’t spill it. Wait. She hesitates by the doorway, eyes flicking back to the counter. Lord Sheogorath… does He take sugar? A foolish, fleeting thought from a frazzled mind. Best not to ask. Best to talk as little as possible, in fact. She adds it to the tray regardless, she might need it herself.
Vermonah perches herself across from Him, setting the tray on the table. They both take their cups. He raises His in a brief toast, she mirrors it out of courtesy. She then spares a glance at the very-much-not-there-before cheese wheel. She swallows her tea.
“A gracious gift.” The elf acknowledges it with an incline of her head.
“Only sporting since you’re hosting! I mean, you tell the people you have an affinity for cheese one time and suddenly that’s all your offerings!” He snorts. “But, ah, perchance you have someone other than me to share that cheese wheel with?” He cocks an eyebrow.
The mood instantly sours. She stiffens in her seat. The Daedric Prince seems oblivious to her plight, unless this is a cruel ploy. “Small table, only really two cups. Not a bad thing, nice and cramped and homely! A house for two, I should think.” He concludes.
“Not anymore.” She doesn’t have the energy to play this out. “Not since the Oblivion Crisis.”
“I’m sorry. We’ve lost people. Doesn’t make it easier.” The sudden drop in the Madgod’s voice almost makes it seem genuine. Perhaps it is.
The hysteria of the situation mixed with adrenaline and caffeine from the tea all culminate into a very stupid question coming out of her mouth. She promised herself she wouldn’t talk. “We? You?” It comes off more incredulously than intended.
Sheogorath’s smile flattens slightly. He narrows His cat-like eyes. Vermonah briefly recalls the mountain lions that roam the wilds. “Even me.”
“Followers?” She says. Victims? She thinks.
The air suddenly cools. Vermonah feels her hair stand on end, limbs suddenly afflicted by pins and needles. The cold shock - the realisation that this was very much a mistake - holds her in place. The Daedric Prince bristles. He hadn’t been looking to continue this line of questioning.
“No!” A snarl through His teeth. “No!” His pitch rises, becoming a roar. His chair screeches across the floor. The storm raging behind Him, whipping and rattling the windows. Lightning arcs across the sky, silhouetting Him against the pane. She hadn’t seen the fork spring in to His hand either, but it was coming down with the same speed and ferocity as the forces of nature He controls. The table shudders, weakly protesting as it is stabbed. The elf exhales a shaky breath. The fork, bent at an angle, vibrates between her hands.
“Do I look like I’m thinking of the kind of man that an angry immortal who skips rope with entrails would think of?! No! Of course not! I am thinking of a man - a truly good man, now those are hard to find. The kind pathetic little mortals such as yourself will weep and feel lost without and tie yourselves in knots over when he’s gone! Which he is.”
With His rant over and hostess thoroughly terrified Sheogorath drops wordlessly back into His chair, nose wrinkled. The lightning has ceased and the hush of rainfall overtakes the room as the clouds burst anew.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice barely above a whisper.
Sheogorath hides His expression, picking up the now partially spilled teacup, pinky finger extended. “You couldn’t have known.” He says, voice low. “For all you knew I was talking about… a talking fruit- or-! Oh that’s good. I should make that happen.” He cackles, tone and expression bouncing back to the same glee and volume as before. That was quick. The dunmer visibly wilts as soon as His gaze is off her, wandering off into a thinking corner to ponder the viability of talking fruit, apparently.
“Right!” The Madgod claps His hands to regain her attention, seemingly aware at least to some extent of His effect on her. “Now your turn.”
Vermonah is forced to meet His gaze, full of apprehension. “I’m afraid I don’t-”
“Tell me about your… spouse? Child?”
“I… would not want to bore you with the details.”
He sits back, inclining His head at an angle, golden eyes narrowed, before leaning across the table. The dark elf’s breath hitches as her chair squeaks loudly, skidding an inch backwards across the floor. Mercifully, His intent hadn’t been directed at her, moreso at the fork. The table and silverware sway and jingle as He tries to wrench it from the wood, ironically matching the queasy feeling Vermonah is experiencing. The Daedric Prince presents the handle to her with a twirl.
“This is my first appearance of the era, you know.” He flashes her a toothy grin.
“First Seed?” She croaks. A quarter of the year almost gone.
“First seed? Already?” He whistles. “Been busy with the realm. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details. Or more like gore ya with the details. Was pretty eventful.” He winks. “Fortunately I had some good people to back me up. I don’t know if flesh atronachs count as people, a key member for certain, but-“
The hostess gags at the thought. A creature constructed from flesh and magic? A sickening form of necromancy, surely. The god laughs shortly and waves it off.
“And in your corner? Have you had anyone to… support you during this time?”
Now it’s her turn to laugh - it comes out as a choked bark. “Hogithum is a day where those who follow Azura seek guidance and support. What do you think?” Her facade of sarcasm crumbles slightly as her face heats and tears prickle at her eyes.
“Right.” He drums His fingers on the top of His cane.
“Well, try saying that a bit louder oh- and use the fork. Might help.”
“Is the Daedric Prince of madness trying to give me grief advice?” She laughs wetly.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I am no guiding light- no Azura. How about you take everything I say with more than a pinch of salt? Or I can certainly tell you what not to do.”
“Go on, then.” Vermonah mumbles from behind her teacup, wiping at her eyes.
The Daedric Prince looks slightly taken aback by this, eyes wandering as His mouth presses into a thin line. “Where to begin? Let’s go with an abridged version, shall we? Ahem. Don’t be a little mortal overwhelmed by grief to such an extent that you are completely directionless, cut yourself off from everyone you know and uh, throw yourself headfirst into the first very dangerous life altering adventure you come across. Or do! See if I care.”
“Not sure there’s a lot I can do on the mortal-front.” The woman decides not to comment on the specificity of the advice. Perhaps this was this alleged ‘good man’ he spoke of? Or related?
“Hm. Perhaps not.” The Madgod feigns mulling this over. “Have you considered leaving? I mean is there anything left for you here?”
“I’ve fought to be here. Every second I left Morrowind. Even through the crisis. Leaving now would be…”
“Okaaay… well what about travelling? At least go to Azura’s shrine and call her up. Don’t let this little rain check get in the way.”
“Hm.” She smiles thinly. “Perhaps I will.”
“Bet you less people would be trying to invoke her then too. If she doesn’t show give me another call next thunderstorm and I’ll give ‘er what for.” He punctuates this with an uppercut.
Vermonah snorts, brow furrowed. How would that even play out? It wouldn’t, is the answer. Azura wouldn’t just abandon Her followers in their time of need, yet alone take orders from the Lord of the Never-There.
“I see. Well I thank you for speaking in my stead, in this hypothetical instance.”
“Speaking of, I’m giving Mehrunes Dagon more than one next time I see him.” The Madgod’s face is suddenly like thunder again, voice dropping low, barely containing a fury bubbling under the surface. “That is to say- I’ll add in a little something from you, I’m open to requests. Maybe I can use the fork, effective on tables and all.” He tries to cover it with a smile. She is thankful the malicious intent isn’t directed at her.
Is this an offer too good to be true? A devil’s bargain for all her troubles? Is this what he’s been building up to? It wasn’t Mehrunes Dagon himself who struck down her beloved… but it might as well have been… right? Her only chance to get some semblance of closure. Strike back. Something she oh-so desires. At the same time… Lady Azura would not shun her for accepting the offer, would She? She certainly wouldn’t offer. She wouldn’t be mad enough to offer. Surely a Daedric Prince turning on their own would warrant backlash. An offer like this would not resurface. But by accepting would she abandon her Lady, would her Lady abandon her? The only person she has left?
The dark elf averts her eyes into her teacup, observing her misery in a distorted reflection. Sheogorath leans back, flicking His cane up and catching it on His finger.
“It can just be one for the mortals.” He nods. “Miss Sun and Moon doesn’t have to know.”
“One for us mortals.” She echoes.
“And would you look at that!” He whistles suddenly, snatching his cane from the air. “I am out of tea!”
“Oh?” Vermonah tries not to jump from her seat. This might not be it. Stay on guard.
“Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome. I would invite you to my place next but I have a feeling the realm referred to as ‘The Madhouse’ - it’s the Shivering Isles, actually - isn’t particularly an attractive option. Maybe when the weather’s nice.”
“Perhaps not. I’m not sure Lady Azura would approve.” She stands and interlaces her fingers. To a normal guest you would say ‘it was nice having you’. This scenario… not so much. ‘You destroyed a lot less than expected’ would be more appropriate. She’ll make an effort anyway. “You were quite pleasant company for an unexpected guest.” A very unhinged unexpected guest who also happens to be a god.
“Ha! That’s a laugh. Good guests don’t ruin your table. But thank you for having me, truly, from the bottom of my daedric heart. I’m not usually a guest at a… I haven’t been to such an event in…! In a while.” He seems a bit out of it now. Or perhaps genuine formalities are a bit hard to choke out, assuming they’re genuine in the first place. “Regardless, I must insist. Vermonah, my dear, should you ever change your mind- or your mind changes you and you want to visit- you are very welcome in New Sheoth. Much more tea can be had in my palace! Bigger table too. So many forks you can dig into that.”
The Dunmer purses her lips, brow creased. “I thank you for the offer but-“
“Ok, ok. I’ll drop it- in a second. You have a favourite cake, at least?” He inclines his head imploringly, batting his eyelashes. Internally holding off a comment about brain pie.
She folds her arms. Whether this is decisive or an attempt at self comfort is to be seen.
“Strawberry torte.”
“You ever swing by New Sheoth, it’ll be there.” The Madgod jabs a finger in her direction.
The name of the location means nothing to her but she nods regardless.
Sheogorath nods decisively, with what now might be identifiable as a pleased grin. He falls into a bow.
“Ta ta, must be off now. Don’t want anyone getting any ideas in my absence!” He laughs, voice dropping to a serious tone. “Trying out my throne, or worse, my wardrobe.”
“I hope both are as you left them.” The elf supplies with a bow of her head.
“That would be awfully boring! I hope so too! Toodles!”
The Madgod’s exit is just as flashy as his entrance; dissolving into a kaleidoscope of butterflies which in turn melt into the air.
Vermonah feels her knees buckle slightly but remains standing, finding a shred of strength she didn’t know she had, allowing her to stagger to the kitchen. She locates her half empty bottle of sujamma, slumping into a chair. She needs something strong after that ordeal. All emotion has been wrung out of her like water from a wet sponge. She takes a swig and surveys the room anew. The windows are no longer being battered, the storm having died down, clouds parting to reveal a few sparse beams of sunlight. One of her forks discarded on the table, bent at an odd angle. The table, very much still bearing the wound from its assault and a good portion of spilled tea. The cheese wheel. The thing ontop of the cheese wheel. She cringes. He surely didn’t. He did. A slice of strawberry torte. Something nice. Something for one. One in a house for two. It is only then does she truly cry.
