Summary: Snippets of the vestige being Sotha Sil’s apprentice before the vestige became the vestige, because being Seht’s apprentice is the dream.
Fun stuff: As always, vestige is gender neutral and not described, however they are a psijic.
The clockwork god's apprentice watched him carefully with something akin to reverence. They must have let their nixad out to wander because he was not interrupting the apprentice's intense concentration. The god set a tiny gear in with a click before quickly retracting his brass fingers. In a miracle, the skeevaton rolled to life and the god's apprentice broke out into a huge, beaming smile. They followed the sporadic fabricant with their eyes as it darted this way and that, speeding off through the dark corners of the god's room.
"Can I let it out?" They asked, tearing their attention from the creature to match the god's ruby eyes.
"You wish to cause mischief among the psijics?" The god could already anticipate the psijic's relicmaster in his routine stumbling across the fabricant in the dark, mistaking it for something of greater import, and chasing after the creature in what could be described as "a wild guar chase".
His apprentice's smile shifted to something scampish in nature; something innocently guilty. An expression that seemed familiar from a past long, long gone. They must have been able to anticipate exactly what he had.
The god, despite himself, said, "Do as you wish."
His apprentice brightened even more at the god's acquiescence, their eyes twinkling like starlight. They began to corner the skeevaton as the god's gaze was glued to his apprentice. Seht had found himself doing more and more to make his apprentice smile; he noticed it objectively. He was going to return to his city soon—he must. Perhaps his attempts to delight his apprentice were a gauche apology born of past mistakes of abandoning those he cared about for his work, though he was certain his apprentice wouldn't need one. More likely, he wanted his apprentice to think of him fondly and anticipate his return, and that didn't have as clear of an answer for any question regarding it.
His apprentice gently lowered the frightened skeevaton onto the portal's dais. When the skeevaton vanished in an aerosol magic, his apprentice then returned to the clockwork god's side. The action left the god with a muted warmth.
"You don't wish to follow the creature?" He said, though he could see there was a question in his apprentice's eyes.
"I would get blamed for the skeevaton if I was around it." They said, hopping up on the god's desk and leisurely kicking their feet absently.
"You are to blame for it."
"Yeah, but Glenadir doesn't know that." They grinned.
"He will reason it out."
"Really?" His apprentice exhaled, pulling a knee to their chest and leaning their head against it. "Will he believe me if I say it's an accident?"
Ruby eyes flickered with the lightest touch of amusement. "You would have your god—who can devise the future—scry for whether you can lie to your superiors?"
Their smile widened in that scampish fashion again, "What else should I ask you?"
The god tilted his head at a slight angle. "Perhaps what was on your mind as you watched me work."
The god's apprentice looked at him in surprise for a moment, but it quickly subsided as they lowered their leg and leaned toward the god. "Can you feel in your fingertips?"
The god stretched one of his brass hands, metallic fingers oscillating in movement. Even after so much time with his apprentice, they still occasionally asked the questions he anticipated the least. "Yes, but not the way that you feel."
In an action even less anticipated, the god's apprentice took his bronze fingers into their own. To say the god was surprised would be wrong, surprise wasn't a luxury he could enjoy. However, the warmth of his apprentice's palm against the cool of his brass was enough to bring the god as close to surprise as one could. In a moment of oddity, the god was transfixed with the feel of his apprentices fingers, the feather-light touch of warmth as they examined his hand.
They looked up at him, "Is it like the fabricants?" They were studying him purely analytically. They didn't understand the intimacy touching him; of him allowing them to touch him. The clockwork god chose not to tell them.
"Similar," He answered. "But not quite."
"You're not warm." They separated his fingers and looked at them more closely. Seht gently tapped his brass fingers against theirs, and their eyes were drawn to the god's body. "How much of you is flesh and how much is metal?"
"I am more metal than flesh, and more animus than metal."
They brightened inquisitively at the god's comment, "Is that how you can feel? Through magic or your deific abilities?"
"Among other things."
"How appropriately vague for the father of mysteries." They said, as if they weren't the creature the god had chosen to reveal his mysteries to. "Are... Are your organs...?"
"Reconstructed? Mostly."
They looked at him in awe, not as an acolyte to their god but as an artist to a masterpiece. "Fascinating! Do they function like a mortal's would?"
"No," He responded, and he didn't like how his apprentice looked disappointed after.
"Your heart doesn't beat?" They asked as they tore their eyes from his body to look him in the eyes. The god could see a sudden realization cross his apprentice's expression as his ruby eyes met theirs of starlight, they realized they weren't studying an artifact but instead a cognizant being. They furrowed their brow as they were torn between alternatives, and the god could predict them: satiate their curiosity or respect personal boundaries.
The god relieved his apprentice of their dilemma, "Would you like to hear for yourself?"
Their eyes of starlight widened in astonishment, before they nodded their head. The god didn't move, so they scooted closer to the god. They tentatively placed their ear against his chest. Their frame was small in comparison to the god, as nearly all tamrielans were. Their gentle motions were soft. They smelled of sea salt and dwarven oil. The god's hand came above the back of their head, out of their sight, unable to decide whether to caress his brass fingers against their crown or to just let them be. His indecision chose for him.
His apprentice pulled away from him and beamed in that scampish way again. "Your heart sounds like a clock."
They were still close to him. They hadn't scooted away. The god held his hand behind his back. "That wasn't intentional."
They laughed, and their laughter was a melody of magic. Perhaps he didn't seek their delight only for their fondness, but also because he liked to see them happy.
The Thorn in my Side, the Pebble in my Shoe: Ch 12
Summary: The main quest line in Mannimarco’s perspective, except that he falls chaotically in love with the vestige just as much as he chaotically hates them.
Fun stuff: As always, vestige is gender neutral and physical features are not described.
The vestige waved at a bosmer working the vineyard, who gave a small confused wave back. "Are you sure you don't want to stop just for a quick wine tasting? I've heard good things about the vinery."
I pulled my lips up in a sneer. "If we stopped at every passing fancy you had, the war would finish before we reached Alinor."
The vestige's smile grew just a bit at my quip. "There's so much to do and see, can you blame me?"
"Yes."
The vestige laughed and it startled me. I supposed it was a good thing they seemed to like my thorny nature, because I couldn't pull myself to sweeten it even in deceit. "No time to enjoy things, only time for work then?"
My eye twitched, "I enjoy my work."
They hummed as they held their arms behind their back in a way that was both irritating and endearing (as were all things with the vestige), "How lucky for you."
I nearly laughed. Yes, it was quite "lucky" for me, thought quite "unlucky" for the denizens of Nirn.
"Tell me about your work." The vestige said.
"Wouldn't you like to guess?" I said, a smirk on my lips. "You seem the type to like such games."
The vestige's eyes sparkled and my non-beating heart froze, "Maybe so." The vestige tilted their head as they thought, holding their chin and humming. "You're obviously a mage."
"Obviously." I mocked their tone.
"But you're not in the mages guild," The vestige continued. "And you look way to fancy to be a contract mercenary, but not fancy enough to be a sapiarch."
"Ah, yes," I rolled my eyes. "The quantifiable scale of "fanciness". How astute."
The vestige wasn't hurt by my barb, to my disappointment. "Hmm... My guess is your undercover."
I faltered for only a fraction of a moment. How did I keep underestimating the vestige? I didn't let my expression shift, saying cooly, "And what's your reasoning for that?"
"The vagueness in your "business in Alinor". My guess is you might be some secret psijic or agent for the queen, or maybe you're apart of the dark brotherhood." They said with confidence, before their expression paled just slightly. "Uh, if you're apart of the dark brotherhood, you can pretend I never said anything."
I couldn't help the smirk on my face, "If I was undercover, don't you think it would be unwise to accuse me of it? What if I was meant to kill anyone who found me out?"
"I'm realizing that now. But!" They grinned, "I was just taking a guess. So if you are undercover, your cover technically isn't blown. And I'm great at keeping secrets."
I rolled my eyes again. This was the obstacle of Molag Bal, the hindrance of domination, and they're brashness was grating. "You are living in a fantasy."
They chuckled at my annoyance, which only made me more annoyed. They leaned closer to me and my mind was wiped blank. I didn't need to breathe, but it still felt like I was holding my breath. "Is there a place to stay on the way to Alinor?" They asked, innocently.
I couldn't move away from them even though I knew it would've been better to do so. "Rellenthil. We should reach it by nightfall."
"That soon?" They furrowed their brow just slightly, unaware of their presence, their heat so close—so close—to me. "Isn't that where the House of Reveries is?"
I tore my eyes from their neck. I hadn't realized I was staring at their neck, but fortunately they didn't either. I narrowed my eyes at them, certain where they were leading with this.
"We should see a show."
"Did you just ignore me when I spoke about your passing fancies?" I snapped.
They laughed. "We're already going to be in Rellenthil, it's not like we'd be wasting time."
"Nobles wait weeks to attend a show, and you believe they'll just let you attend without any notice?"
The vestige grinned and leaned in even closer to me, their warmth emanating from their skin. "I bet I could sneak in. I'm pretty sneaky." They teased.
Their expression was that of a conspirator. As if I was in on something secret. As if we shared a secret together. The thought threw my mind and heart into a frenzy, that they would give me something so hidden from the rest of the world. They didn't, they only shared a bit of fun, but the very fantasy of their secrets being mine pumped the venom that was my blood through my veins. I wanted every last one of them. I wanted no soul or being on Nirn, Oblivion, and Aetherius to know the vestige like how I did. I wanted to use a scalpel on their soul and extract the secrets the vestige refused to share with me. I wanted the vestige vulnerable with transparency in front of me.
This time, the vestige didn't miss my expression. Their eyes widened, but they didn't pull away. I was glad they didn't. If they had, I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from grabbing them. Then, after my madness, my mind began to race. Were they repulsed by my hunger? Confused by it? Impressed by it? Did they gain further insight into me or were they enraptured with me? Did they recognize me? With all of my years in imperial politics, the vestige's true thoughts were hidden from me, and the fact that they were hidden from me filled be with an undeniable rage. Rage that I swallowed.
"I have no interest in attending such frivolity." Somehow, in an act with the strength of a deity, I was the one to pull away. My voice didn't sound like my own.
"I..." The vestige reluctantly pulled away as well, eyes still trained on me. Their attention soothed my anger just slightly. "..."
They were at a loss for words. Because of calculation? Fear? Longing? Confusion? I wanted to strangle the truth out of them. Instead, I just snapped at them, "You what?"
"I don't mind seeing the show alone, but you'll be missed." They smiled, and it was as if I hadn't stared at them as if I wanted to eat them alive. For some reason, I found myself growing annoyed that they moved on so quickly. It was better for me, but it left me uneasy. Were they going to try to escape from me the first chance they could? Or had they thought they just imagined it? Or perhaps they hadn't thought anything of it at all? I felt I was going mad. "But do you want to get dinner together?"
What? "What?" What?
"I don't know the cuisine here very well, so you'll have to decide what we get." They said, and I didn't trust them for a moment. "I imagine the seafood here must be divine."
"I didn't say yes." Were they going to attempt to poison my food? It wouldn't work, I was dead, but I would still be offended by the action.
"You don't have to if you don't want to." They said simply, and I was frustrated they didn't push harder. Weren't they at least going to ask again?
"Well, I didn't say no either." I sneered through gritted teeth.
Summary: After losing their family to a harrowstorm, the vestige becomes obsessed with finding Rada al-Saran and killing him. Just as Verandis is obsessed with saving the vestige from their own depressive spiral. And just as Rada is obsessed with convincing Verandis to join him.
Fun Stuff: Round 3 here we go! This is definitely darker, longer, and less fun than my other stories. Love triangles, unrequited love all the way around, and angst. As always, vestige is gender neutral and not described, and bonus! their family is also not described so you can put your own ideas there. Vestige chapters are in 2nd person, Verandis and Rada chapters are in 1st person.
You stared at the papers scattered across your desk, willing them to give you answers, like forcing a puzzle piece in a place it doesn’t belong. Maps detailing gray host activity, stolen letters between battles, orders and documents that only speak in vagueities, notes—some your own, some from Gwendis or Fennorian—jotted down incase something gets lost; all this and still you were left frozen, unable to find out what the gray host was doing and subsequently unable to do anything.
You stared at the witch pike fragment and the prepared ashes that had been set aside for further study, as if you could glean anything more from them that you didn’t already know. The witch pike fragment encased your vision. Your jaw locked tight. Your grip on the back of the chair tightened. Your knuckles with white.
The gnarled wood was nothing more than that: old, rotten brown wood. But you could see the red drip from it as clear as you could the first day you saw it—the red sweat from the fetish in beads like blood.
☾
You hummed as you picked the blue entoloma and set it in your basket. How lucky you were to find this! Mixed with butterfly wings, you could make a healing tonic. But if you wanted to get creative, you might be able to mix it with some nirnroot to make an invisibility potion. Whatever you decided, you were sure it would be helpful for you and your caravan.
Speaking of your caravan, you had been foraging for quite a while now, you must have been pretty far from them. Though, you were sure a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, and with a cluster like this, there was sure to be more close by...
A wicked CRACK of thunder startled you to your core. Shivers traveled the top of your head to the tips of your fingers. You stood, your basket long forgotten. It was a cloudless, noonday sky. How could it be thundering?
For a brief moment, your heart quickened at the thought of anchors falling once again to shatter the ground. The logical side of you shook your head at the thought. That threat was over.
Another CRACK. This one broken and not quite as spine-chilling, and yet your unease didn’t leave you. The wind started to pick up speed; first a gentle guide through your hair, then an insistent push, as if ushering you forward.
You didn’t believe Kynareth guided these winds, but you didn’t hesitate when you realized which way the wind was beaconing you to. It was rushing towards the direction of your caravan.
You ran. You ran so fast, you didn’t realize the cruel wind cutting at your cheeks. Thump after thump after thump—of your feet across the ground and of your heart against your chest. Trees and brush faded past you in a blur. Your own fear kept you from seeing the ash in the air and the darkness that crept.
Your caravan—your only family left. Those who took you in when you were alone and lost, emerging from coldharbour without even a name to call your own. You hadn’t known if you had such a family—if you had known kindness and love and friendship—before your soul was stolen from you, but your family now taught you what a family was. Showed you what it meant to rely on others. Gave you a reason to fight, to love, to live.
You shouldn’t have strayed so far. The words in your mind shook you more than the raging wind and warped lightning. But certainly it was just paranoia, you had to repeat to yourself. They weren’t helpless. They could hold well enough on their own.
You stopped when you realized it was no longer a cloudless, noonday.
The air was crimson and ash to breath. The sky was a black sickness. The trees and grass had been stripped of life, something unnatural and twisted even in the harsh unforgiving cold of Skyrim. No animals were in sight or sound; none that weren’t corpses.
And this—! This looked like the aftermath of something great and terrible!
You called out to your family. Your caravan was empty. Things you held dearly were torn apart and cast aside. You called and screamed as you searched, your voice going hoarse. Tears streamed down your face, but no matter how much you tried to catch them, more kept falling.
Then, you saw him.
Red eyes met yours stained with tears. They were cold and perfect, and somehow stood more vibrant and rich in color than the red that seeped in the air all around him. His gaze was cruel and apathetic and beautiful, but with all your strength you couldn’t tear yourself from it—as if it was your last lifeline.
The man with crimson eyes wasn’t alone. He and another figure stood in front of a wicked, wooden crook that spilled blood from its bark as if it was sap. The other figure, a woman completely obscured with reach-witch regalia, spoke to him in harsh shrill tones, but you were too transfixed with the man to pay her words mind. He also wasn’t paying her any mind, instead staring at you with an idle and heartless curiosity—the curiosity one has for a passing butterfly drowning in a puddle.
He had the strength you didn’t, and he pulled his gaze back to the reach witch and said something your grief-ridden mind couldn’t understand. Shattering your attention, he dissipated in a cloud of bats, blood, and ill mist, the reach witch along with him.
You stared at the bleeding wooden crook. It looked... broken. Wrong.
And then, your family emerged from the shadows. Broken and wrong.
☾
Your breath was labored through clenched teeth. Your head ached. You could hear your own pulse through your skull. You needed to understand what move the gray host would make next. What move he would make next. You must.
“Staring daggers into your notes won’t pressure them into revealing any more than you already know.” A calm, familiar voice called out, “And last I checked, that wasn’t a gray host chair, you needn’t grip it so hard.”
You cast your eyes up to meet Verandis’s. His were never so vivid in red as the man you saw on the day you lost your family. The count’s eyes were a strange soft red; muted like a beloved red quilt washed too many times or snowberries just a few days before ripening. It was as if his eyes were tempered by his compassion, so different from those cruel crimson eyes.
You hadn’t told Verandis the difference eased you so much. And you also hadn’t told him that there were moments, brief glimpses of the count’s inner thoughts, that his eyes betrayed which followed you. An expression of... something you didn’t know and would just as quickly forget, save for the first time you saw it. The night he died.
☾
Your breath came in heavy, weighted pants. Blood soaked your weapon, your attire, and the floor. Everything had happened so fast, you couldn’t believe you’d done it even as the Baron Montclair layed dead by your hand. But he wasn’t moving. It was over.
You took a deep breath in. It was over.
The Remnant CRACKED loud enough to startle you. That was good, right?
“The Remnant... it’s cracking,” Verandis’ voice shook you from your stupor. “You did it!”
Okay, it was good. Good.
“The power threatens to break free.” Something washed over Verandis as he stared at the Remnant, transfixed as Gwendis had been when she felt the pull for blood of your allies. It was the Remnant. You didn’t have to have ancient vampiric knowledge to know that. “I can feel it … the power. I could consume it. Become stronger than I ever imagined ..."
You held your breath.
“No! I can't give in to this temptation.” Verandis shook himself. “I must remove the Remnant from this place, I—”
Without saying a word, you took Verandis’ hand in yours. Those muted red eyes, those which were sporadically searching the Remnant over and over, were drawn to you. You were tired, beaten, hurt. He was tired, beaten, hurt. You stared at each other, and he seemed to lose his words in his throat. Then, he cast his gaze down.
He found his words, but you knew they weren’t the ones he was going to share, “Time is against us, my friend. I must remove the Remnant from this place before it's too late.” He held your hand up, placing his other on top of it and clasping it tightly. “I … I need you to do something for me first, though."
“What do you need?” You asked.
Verandis breath left him in a weak, palsy laugh, “Even after all you’ve done you’re still so willing to aide me...” There was a feeble look of slight mischief in his eye as he smiled at you, “But I promise this won’t be nearly so daunting.” His humor fell into a melancholy expression, “Adusa … Tell her that House Ravenwatch is hers now. She must carry on our work …”
Your brow furrowed. Your eyes scanned Verandis for understanding, but he simply bowed his head under your scrutiny. “I don't understand. Why are you talking like this?”
"Because I need to take this relic out of this realm. I have made a deal with my master. Molag Bal has agreed to take me and the relic to Coldharbour."
You pulled your hand away from his, and he cringed from the lack of contact, as if it was the only thing holding him together. “You're giving the Lightless Remnant to Molag Bal? He has my soul, we’re at war with him!”
Verandis looked at you with utter anguish and desperation. You couldn’t help but swallow your anger at the expression, the face of a man who has sacrificed and will keep sacrificing everything for the safety of others. A man who has fallen apart to rectify his mistakes and it was taking everything to keep him from giving up.
“It is the only way to make certain that Rivenspire is saved. Molag Bal will take the relic into his realm,” He swallowed. “Rivenspire, all of Nirn, will be safe."
He looked to you in a desperate plea, a beg for hope, as if your next words could crush his spirit as he walked into damnation or give him the strength he needed to hold onto his conviction.
You thought of your family. Their lives were at stake just as much as anyone else's. They were your reason to fight. Verandis must do this.
You took hold of his hand, and for a brief moment you saw something beautiful spark in his eyes. “Do what you think is best.” You said, sure that would give him the strength he needed.
Strangely enough, while Verandis did look relieved at your reassurance, there was also something else in his expression. Disappointment? Longing? Something... lost? You couldn’t place it, but it didn’t matter because it was gone in an instant. “I thank you for your trust. Rivenspire will be safe and life will go on. Farewell, my friend.”
Verandis loosely held onto you even as you pulled away from him, his eyes following you even as the light of magic encircled you. You closed your eyes. Verandis was a good friend. His sacrifice would be remembered...
☾
You looked down. The chair looked close to crumbling under your tight grip. You let it go with a humorless laugh. “I... I feel I’m close, Verandis.” You wiped your face with the back of your hand. “If I could just—”
“Just what? Commune with the divines to unravel the gray host’s plans?” He set down a wooden cup of coffee for you. “If it were that easy, I would’ve called for a priest.”
You sighed and picked up the cup, “You’re right. I should be out there, hunting for—”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” He chided, and you nearly rolled your eyes. The man loved interrupting you.
You took a sip of the coffee. It wasn’t coffee. “What is this?” You asked.
“Tea.” He exhaled, putting a hand over your notes and calling your name, gently. “You need to rest. When was the last time you slept?”
You set the cup down, “Thank you for the concern, Verandis, but I’m fine. I can sleep when the gray host is defeated and...” You swallowed as a fire flared in your chest, licking your veins with action. Crimson eyes, cold curiosity, cruel stare—“...and Rada al-Saran is dead.”
Verandis clenched his jaw.
You grabbed your weapon in hand and downed the rest of the tea. You would have to pick up some coffee from The Hunter’s Repose on your way out of Markarth.
Just as you reached the doorway, Verandis called out, “It might be difficult hunting any gray host members, considering it’s morning.”
You stopped. It was morning already? When was the last time you slept?
Crimson eyes, cold curiosity, cruel stare—
“Good,” You said. “Then they’ll be easy to catch off guard.”
Summary: Snippets of the vestige being Sotha Sil’s apprentice before the vestige became the vestige, because being Seht’s apprentice is the dream.
Fun stuff: As always, vestige is gender neutral and not described, however they are a psijic.
"I don't know why Azura is the anticipation of you, you're nothing like her."
The god's ruby eyes followed his apprentice where his head did not. He slightly lowered the metal tablet he was reading as his apprentice fed their nixad a golden berry. Their nixad gobbled it up in one snatch before looking to his apprentice for more.
"Boethiah for Almalexia seems somewhat appropriate. Mephala for Vivec feels like a bit of a stretch. But you? Azura?"
"You have been reading the sermons," The clockwork god mused.
His apprentice held up a book with the title The Anticipations. "It doesn't make sense, any of them really."
"No?" The god asked, "Boethiah welcomes bloodshed and the overthrow of authority, and who better to anticipate the Warden of Morrowind, the insurrectionist of Daedric worship? Or what of Vivec, who weaves many secrets throughout his poetry and lessons not unlike the spinner of whispers?"
His apprentice looked at him skeptically, "Okay. Then what about you?"
"Azura might fit my anticipation the best of all. She is the prince of mysteries and magic, her domain of flawless beauty. What is beauty if not invention perfected?"
The god's apprentice set their book down and fed their fabricant another berry. "I don't believe it."
The god hummed at that. "Then you are wiser than most."
"Azura would fit the anticipation of Vivec much better, I think." They said, "Isn't that the point of all those poems? Beauty? Dusk and dawn would be his two halves."
"Perhaps," He responded. "And who would you assign the others?"
"You'd be anticipated by Hermeaus Mora, obviously."
The god almost almost smiled at that. "Hermeaus Mora isn't one of the Good Daedra."
"No, but it certainly fits more than anyone else." His apprentice tapped their lips in thought, "And then Meridia would anticipate Almalexia. Not for any particular reason other than that feels right."
"What complicated tangles you would put the acolytes through, making them justify such things."
"What about you?" They asked as they leaned their chin on their hand. Their nixad prodded them for attention, and when the fabricant didn't get any, he sat and yawned. "Who do you think would anticipate the three of you the best?"
"None," The god answered. "The Daedra were never anticipations for anything other than their own domain, and to think otherwise is to deny the nature of Daedra."
The god's apprentice stretched slowly with a yawn, following their nixad's sleepiness. "I thought you might say something like that."
Seht knew his apprentice would soon retire. Ironically, the clockwork god wasn't as deft with keeping time; it being so easy to get lost in his own work and his divine lack of needs. His apprentice's schedule was his personal clock. And yet, despite the hour, the god wanted to extend his time with his apprentice. How strange it was, to want so simply.
"Will you read to me?" The clockwork god said, his ruby eyes still on his own work, and his apprentice's heavy eyelids blinked back to life.
"Why?" They asked, and it was a reasonable question.
"I find it... smoother to work with ambient noise," It was both a truth and a lie.
His apprentice thought carefully, before holding up The Anticipations, "Do you want me to read this book?"
"If you wish it."
"Because if you don't mind, I would rather read something more interesting."
The god almost smiled at that. "What would you like to read me?"
His apprentice pulled up another book, one that was underneath their pile of academic tomes and instructional records: Investigator Vale and the Hounds of Black Moor.
"Have you ever read any of the Investigator Vale Series?"
"I can't say I've had the..." Sotha Sil was as stone, "...pleasure."
"Then you have been wasting your time with those ancient tablets of yours," They said simply, and it had been a long long time since Sotha Sil was reprimanded. "We'll start from where I'm at, since you'll probably anticipate everything about the series the moment I start reading."
"Astutely noted," The god remarked.
"I like to guess the mystery ahead of time," His apprentice said, and he knew that was true for more than just this book series. "So don't reveal the surprise to me, not even a hint."
"I wouldn't dream of it." The god said, just the slightest hint of amusement in his voice, as he returned to his work.
That was all the invitation his apprentice needed as they cleared their throat and began, "Investigator Vale, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon..."
Finding out Mannimarco eventually does become a god bc of the Warp in the West has the same vibe as the villain from the Princess Bride becoming super rich by the end.
Summary: Snippets of the vestige being Sotha Sil's apprentice before the vestige became the vestige, because being Seht's apprentice is the dream.
Fun stuff: kena means scholar in dark elvish, i'm not just slapping a name on the vestige ,':D. As always, vestige is gender neutral and not described, however they are a psijic.
The clockwork god liked to observe his apprentice work, perhaps more than his apprentice liked to observe him—which wasn't inconsiderable. Their approach to problem solving was unique, and even though Seht was able to anticipate their decisions more every day, he still found it somewhat transfixing. Their fingers moved clumsily to an unobservant eye, but their craftsmanship was never stunted or broken. Through irregularity and an organized chaos that only a god could follow, the vestige consistently proved their own competence and ingenuity. And when they failed, the clockwork god's apprentice was filled with even more vigor to try again.
Every mistake was exciting to his apprentice; a new avenue for discovery with every failure. It was a quality the god envied: that excitement. It was a hateless, melancholy envy, both muted and solemn, the envy a shackled prisoner feels for the birds who sing in the sunlight.
"What is your world like?" His apprentice asked, not taking their eyes from their work. The clockwork god was watching them from behind. Their nixad fabricant wasn't with them, they seemed to let the creature explore as it pleased. The apprentice's graceless attempts at coalescing two copper parts wasn't going as they planned, however the god knew that they would solve their own riddle in short time.
Sotha Sil and his apprentice didn't always talk as they worked, but they talked just enough for the god. It was likely this was because his apprentice only ever talked about things of importance. Idle talk wasn't in their nature. It wasn't as if others have attempted to make idle talk with the god of mysteries, but with comfort for many came idle talk. His apprentice was comfortable with the god, but they had never broached conversation without an objective in mind; without a weighty question needing answer.
"It is Nirn, but perfect." The clockwork god answered.
Their fingers stumbled and their brow creased ever so slightly. They didn't like his answer. "What does that mean?"
"It is as I said."
They chewed their bottom lip as they always did when they wanted answers. With their hands still focused, they asked, "What does it look like?"
"It is small enough to fit in this room."
"What?!" They nearly dropped what they were doing, whipping their star-blown eyes towards the clockwork god.
Brass fingers turned their head back toward their work, "Focus, kena."
The god's apprentice moved their fingers slowly, not focused in the slightest. "How do people live there?"
"How do you think?"
"They must be shrunk down, right?" They asked.
"In the simplest of senses, yes." He answered.
"Fascinating." To his apprentice's credit, they truly tried to continue working, however slow and distracted they may be. Sotha Sil could see the gears turning past their eyes as his apprentice must have been attempting to puzzle out even a broad idea of how the mechanics and magicka would work in tandem to create such a thing. They, like so many others, wouldn't be able to understand it fully. "Once your there, what does it look like?"
The god paused to ensure his answer would satisfy his self. "It is an oasis of bronze and copper. Trees fashioned from wire and cord. Bushes crafted from alloy and plate. Lakes of oil and a sky of clockwork. Fabricants of flesh and gear roam fields of gold, and in the center lies the Brass Fortress: a culmination of my greatest craft and the workmanship of apostles dedicated to learning all there is. It is Nirn, but perfect."
The god's apprenticed seemed torn between captivated wonder and... an expression that could have been any number of things, and though the clockwork god could have discerned it, he didn't. "What makes it perfect where Nirn isn't?" There was no accusation or anger in his apprentice's tone, only genuine curiosity.
"It is the redemption of Tamriel. The unification of competing forces. The destruction of the Daedra."
"And that's why you created it?" They paused there fingers a brief moment.
"No." The god said, "I create it because I must."
His apprentice stopped their work, this time thoughtfully. After a breath of silence, they turned toward the clockwork god. As he looked into their eyes of stars and questions, he saw their future in them, their soul, their very impression on the Mundus. However, in that moment, his apprentice saw something in his own eyes. Whatever it was, and Sotha Sil purposefully didn't dwell on what it was, it was enough to make his apprentice’s eyes dilate in concern, their brow slightly creased. They wanted to say something to him, but they knew not to, and Seht was grateful for it. Instead they turned around and continued their work, quicker and more focused than before.
"Doesn't Arteaum have all of those things?" They asked, still focused.
"Nearly." The god replied. "That is why I spend time working here, among other things."
His apprentice continued to work, almost finished with their coalescing having solved their own mystery, before a wide, playful smile grew across their face. "Am I "among other things"?"
"Yes." The clockwork god said, plainly. Had it not been for his apprentice, he would have returned to the clockwork city long before then.
They finished merging their two copper parts, and their smile as they turned to the god was a bird's song in the golden rays of sunlight. "I like working with you, too."
The Thorn in my Side, the Pebble in my Shoe: Ch 11
Summary: The main quest line in Mannimarco’s perspective, except that he falls chaotically in love with the vestige just as much as he chaotically hates them.
Fun stuff: The story is set before the whole clockwork city/court of bedlam debacle, so that hasn't happened yet. Nagaiaran means king of death in ayleidoon because neither I or mannimarco have any subtlety. And, as always, vestige is gender neutral and physical features are not described.
There the vestige was. Close enough to kill. Fresh off the docks of Shimmerene; purchasing an apple from a grocer and leaving them an ostentatious tip (because of course they did). Sunlight basked their silhouette in golden rays and a warm breeze welcomed them in a gentle ruffle of their clothes and birds sang their song just a touch lovelier as the vestige past and a single butterfly landed on their outstretched finger as if to bless their obtruding visit to Summerset.
By oblivion, I hated them.
As the butterfly flitted away (as if feeling my malice and making a run for it), the vestige—live and colorful and so so real—pulled out their map and looked at it, enthusiastic for their adventure to come. We were separated by a dozen or so steps, and yet I could feel their skin, their breath, their heart against my fingertips. My whole being itched to lunge for the vestige, to squeeze their throat in my fists so I could feel all three at once. I took slow, carefully controlled breaths. If I learned anything advising under Varen, it was control.
Ah, there it was. The gentle crease in their brow. Their prompt to my entrance: that endearing, stupid naivete. It made me want to tease them to a blush before sacrificing their soul for my dark enchantments. As I began my first few steps toward them, I caught myself in the reflection of a darkened window. I could have disguised myself thoroughly, taking the form of a Khajiit peddler or Argonian maid, but I didn't. I couldn't debase myself to become farther from what I am, which was Altmer, if not Aldmer. Or perhaps horrifyingly, there was some senseless scamp inside of me that wanted to be recognized by the vestige, that wanted to be fearfully discovered. To see the vestige's eyes tremble in realization, and then their bumbling attempts at feigning ignorance. How sweet that would be... And so there I was, a tall, handsome Altmer (though not quite as beautiful as myself), full of life and sun which was enough to veil my own eyes.
As I turned back to the vestige, a different Altmer saw their plight for directions and began walking towards them. In a moment of uncharacteristic panic, I cast a silencing spell under my breath, my hands moving in quick jerks. The Altmer tried to speak, and when no noise came out, he gently touched his throat in confusion. He looked around, searching for whoever hexed him, and since I was the only one there, I grabbed him while the vestige was still concentrating on their map and dragged him kicking and struggling into the shadow of an empty building. His eyes screamed where his voice couldn't as I stabbed him repeatedly in the chest.
I let out a huff of air. I hadn't meant to immediately devolve the situation to carnage, but it was my way so I wasn't surprised. With a simple wave of my hand and a few arcane words in a whisper, I raised the newly made corpse, fixed its clothes that its wounds wouldn't be immediately noticed, and then sent it off to wander into the ocean for the Sload to deal with. Divines know how much those slugs were endlessly frothing at the mouth for fresh corpses.
Fixing the lapel of my tunic, I turned back to the vestige only to find another Altmer attempting to help the vestige. Wasn't Summerset supposed to be spiteful toward newcomers?
I silenced, dragged, and killed that Altmer as well under the shadow of the empty building, and she was a bit easier to murder with her weak constitution. I sent her corpse off to the ocean as well, but this time a guard saw me.
Three corpses marching off to become the Sload's new plaything and I hadn't even spoken to the vestige yet. I groaned, dragging my hand down my face.
"Are you alright?"
I forced myself not to startle as I whipped toward the voice as lovely as a song. The vestige, all curious eyes and friendly warmth, was looking at me—at me, not through me or nearly at me, at me—with a gentle tilt of their head. My eyes were drawn to their parted lips for the briefest of moments as my mind flitted through countless fantasies of the vestige, each either horrifically violent or even more horrifically soft. Spilt blood mixed with soft touches mixed with severed screams mixed with sweet scents mixed with—and then it was all over in a fraction of an instant as I brought my eyes back to theirs. "Excuse me?" I asked.
"You seem stressed." They said.
Their presumption, however well-meaning, prompted a flare of rage under my skin. As if I was just another helpless bystander offering them a quest, pathetic and wretched and begging them to solve all my problems for me. I subdued it, however, taking their brass as an opportunity. "I am somewhat... lost." I cringed to myself. How demeaning.
Their laughter was light and melodious and it made me want to reach down their throat, rip out their vocal cords, and weave them in such a way that they may only ever sing songs for me. "We must be birds of a feather, then."
"Is that right?" I said, "I must have misplaced my map, but you appear to have yours."
The vestige didn't notice my subtle insult. "You're welcome to use mine if you'd like?"
"Please." I said, and the word was bile in my mouth. I took their map as they handed it to me and was careful not to touch them, afraid of how I would react if I brushed against their fingers.
"Where are you headed?" They asked.
"Alinor."
They brightened and it was like sun on my skin. "What a coincidence, so am I."
Of course it wasn't a coincidence. I saw them prattle on about it while they were on the ship through the visage. My grin widened just a touch. "How unlikely."
"What's your name?" They asked.
"Nagaiaran," I said. "And yours?"
They gave me their name freely, and I mentally compared their name with an impossible title: Consort of Worms. It certainly sounded right with their name, though such things would have to occur after the revenge and torture. I began to walk as I folded up the map and they walked with me.
"Well then, Nagaiaran," They said, "What brings you to Alinor?"
"Business," I brushed non-existent lint off my shoulders. "Just a small matter my particular talents acquire."
They eyed my staff, "Oh, are you a member of the mages guild?"
I looked at them with complete disgust.
They laughed, this time louder and less polite but just as overwhelmingly wonderful, "I've only ever seen Nords or Redguards look at me that way when I mention the mages guild."
"Perhaps Nords and Redguards are wiser for it." I almost laughed at the absurdity of Sai or the half-giant being wise about anything.
"Perhaps." They mused and their eyes twinkled in that mischievous fashion that I loathed to love. "Can I take a guess?"
"A guess for what?" I asked, and I knew what they wanted to guess but I liked making them do things.
"A guess for why you don't like the mages guild." They said.
I rolled my eyes and waved my hand dismissively. I knew I should've been more cordial to lower the vestige's guard, but something about the way they carried themself made me exasperated.
They put two fingers to their lips with their interlocked hands as they looked up in deep thought. Then they turned to me with a wry, annoying, rage-inducing grin, "You had a falling out with one of the members."
I was both astonished and furious that they were able to guess that. I was sure my face burned with heat and I stalled my reply just a touch too late.
"No way, really?" They said, their smile widening.
"No." I said, swallowing my frustration while swatting a butterfly away from me.
"Alright," Their voice was smooth as they straightened their back and their eyes hooded. It was clear they didn't believe me, the master of lies and deceit who fooled the emperor for years. "We don't have to talk about it."
My blood boiled at that condescending quip. I was quick to change the subject, "Then, why are you headed to Alinor?"
"Because I haven't been yet." They said, "I think."
"You think?"
"It's a long story." I didn't like how they gave me the same answer as the Breton man.
I couldn't help myself, "Can I take a guess as well?"
Their expression lit with a playful curiosity, "You can try."
"Hmm." I pretended to think, putting a finger to my chin in faux thought. "Amnesia."
They gaped at me and I could drink their attention. As their surprise subsided, their regard for me was marked with captivated fascination, one that scratched every itch, satiated every hunger that plagued me. "I guess it's not too long of a story." They said in a wide grin, and the tempting gleam in their eyes threatened my control more than any of their annoying quips did.
Summary: Snippets of the vestige being Sotha Sil's apprentice before the vestige became the vestige, because being Seht's apprentice is the dream.
Fun stuff: Vestige is gender neutral and not described, however they are a psijic.
There were many things Sotha Sil's apprentice did that the clockwork god found favorable.
As with all his previous assistants, it was simply more timely to have another set of hands at work. His current apprentice was quick to pick up on what he needed. He often didn't need to disclose his requests before his apprentice had already fulfilled them. It was convenient, but not unprecedented for the few company he kept.
Then there was also his apprentice's presence, which was... stimulating. Pleasant, even. They talked with him bluntly lacking animosity; a dialect rarely spoken to the clockwork god but one he preferred. They were endlessly curious and their delight in solution was infectious. They were cognizant without timidity, while still holding onto a vibrant wonder of things—a spark that could never be known to the clockwork god again.
"Vaireno says that you know everything." His apprentice said. The god didn't remove himself from his work, his ruby eyes briefly glancing at his apprentice. His apprentice was sitting next to Seht's work on his desk, jamming a fork into a locked dwemer chest. Their nixad had found a small cog to play with, occasional electrical currents sparking from the fabricant. His apprentice did not make any improvements on the fabricant by the time the nixad's flesh had grown in, but had instead impaired the creature in their attempt. They refused to tinker with the fabricant after their maturation, though the clockwork god surmised his apprentice loved the nixad all the more for their imperfections. Another quality the clockwork god valued but could not empathize with.
Ruby eyes returned to the god's work. "So she has."
His apprentice stopped their fork jamming and looked at him, skeptically. "That's impossible."
"Do you believe it is impossible for a god?" He asked.
"Yes." They resumed their fork jamming, "Even Hermaeus Mora searches for more knowledge. Why would he do that if he knew everything?"
"For confirmation. Collection. Avarice, even." A gentle click into place with small pincers came from the clockwork god's gentle craftsmanship.
His apprentice stopped their jamming once again, "If you know everything, then what am I thinking about right now?"
The clockwork god didn't even look up from his work, "Alessia and Morihaus copulating."
They dropped their fork and set aside their chest, "How could you know that?!"
"Do you truly wish to know? The truth is often less gratifying than ignorance."
They nodded, enthusiastically. Their nixad stopped playing with the cog and perched himself on the apprentices shoulder.
The god stopped to look at his apprentice, "Of every book on Arteaum, every tale spread among your peers, and every artifact tied with a story, you would have come across the Alessian Slave Rebellion most frequently save for those stories you would have considered too obvious for me to guess."
His apprentice continued to press, "Then how did you know I was thinking about Alessia and Morihaus specifically."
"That is the part the most outlandish and scandalous to you."
"...Alright, that was impressive." They said. "But that's still not knowing. That's just... guessing accurately."
"Correct."
His apprentice brightened with inquisitiveness. They were always delighted with how the god taught, and Sotha Sil found he enjoyed teaching them as well.
"I don't know everything, rather I can anticipate all things." He said, "My companions, Almalexia and Vivec, would lead all to believe it is prophecy, but it is simply possibility."
"What do you mean?" They asked.
"When you see your nixad hold a torchbug, what do you expect him to do?"
They smiled fondly at their nixad, petting underneath his chin, "To take a bite." They returned their attention to the clockwork god, "If you are able to anticipate all things then... you must know quite a lot."
"Quite a lot." He affirmed.
"Does it get boring?"
"No, but not for the reason you assume."
His apprentice bit their lip, obviously still anxious for the god to elaborate, but Seht didn't say anymore on the topic. His apprentice wisely moved on, sliding off the god's desk and causing their nixad to stumble into clumsy flight. "I'm going to grab more resin. You'll need more, right?"
The clockwork god watched as his apprentice left the room. He could anticipate many futures for them, each more grand and remarkable than the last. He knew they would not leave this world without leaving an impression on it. He knew before their accomplishments they would learn a great deal under him. He knew they would in turn become important to him. He also knew that in time they would leave him, and that it would be when he least anticipated it.
oh my god i absolutely ADORE The Thorn In My Side The Pebble In My Shoe!!! IMPECCABLE WRITTING!!! cannot express enough how i love it!!!! i am consuming it and it is delicious, slurping ever bit of it up!! amazing work!!👍👍👍🤩😍🤩😍🤩
Thank u and thanks for keeping up with it!! I'm so happy u like it :> You made my day! <3<3
The Thorn in my Side, the Pebble in my Shoe: Ch 10
Summary: The main quest line in Mannimarco’s perspective, except that he falls chaotically in love with the vestige just as much as he chaotically hates them.
Fun stuff: More small violent imagery warning. As always, vestige is gender neutral and physical features are not described.
My fists hammered my workbench. It's stone split with a loud CRACK. My fingernails dug into spoiled rock. My teeth ground tight enough to shatter. I wanted to break something else. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the vestige's eyes out.
They rescued Sai Sahan.
I slammed the wall with my fist. Dark blood trickled down my wrist.
I was there. I was there! I was in the Halls of Torment. I interrogated Sai moments before they could have rescued him. The sheer luck the vestige had was as infuriating as it was unbelievable. Had I dallied just a few minutes more, or had I kept my visage of the vestige up, or had maybe any of the daedra present stopped them the vestige would have been in my grasp.
My lifeless blood boiled as I stared at the visage, bearing holes into it hoping the vestige would catch on fire. They were celebrating the return of the redguard, their eyes alight with accomplishment and their smile bright with assurance. It was disgusting. I couldn't look away. I had to force my temper to cool, slowing my breath. When I was sane enough to think, I combed my hair out of my face with my hand that wasn't bleeding.
"Another meaningless victory, pathetic hero." Though I knew they couldn't hear me, I did gain some respite voicing my thoughts as if they could. "It would be more concerning if I hadn't planned for everything."
It was true. While the band of heroes enjoyed their petty victory, I had already prepared for the worst. As if I wouldn't have casted a tracking enchantment the moment Sai Sahan was in my captivity! And, of course, I could always follow the visage carefully if that didn't work. A wicked chuckle passed my lips as I imagined the vestige's anguish when they realize the being they saved would be their own undoing.
The vestige turned they're head. My desiccated heart skipped a beat. They were looking through me, obviously, but it almost seemed as though they were looking at me if I stepped slightly to the left.
I growled and shut down the visage. My face felt so warm, it almost felt alive. How utterly frustrating and fallacious. Ever since that damned dream I had been plagued with obsessive and contradictory thoughts. I wanted to burn the vestige and bask in that heat, but I also wanted to feel their warm breath against my cold flesh. I wanted to break their bones with their own weapon, but I also wanted to trace their veins with my feather-light touch. I wanted to strangle them, but I also wanted to hold their waist. I wanted to make them bleed, but I also wanted to make them blush. I wanted to see them cry, but I also wanted to see them smile—and so on and so on.
I wished I could blame my condition on the folly of a daedric prince, or even the last displays of influence of a dead, pathetic aedra. But I had too much respect for myself to lie to myself. And moving forward, if my plans were to come to fruition, I had to consider all variable factors of vulnerability or fallibility.
I was... somewhat enticed by the vestige.
Yes, their strength of might and ability to keep up with my power likely played a part. Yes, having to watch them day and night probably had a part to play as well. Yes, it may have occurred because the line between hate and love was so easily blurred and traversed. Yes, that damned dream ruined everything, and it was all Vaermina's fault.
I groaned. As much as I wished to keep my visage put away until this unwelcome attraction sputtered and died (not unlike how the vestige will when I kill them... that was still the plan?) me avoiding the visage was how I lost Sai Sahan in the first place. With a wave of my hand, the visage returned. I licked the blood from my bloodied wrist as my eyes rolled to the vestige.
The vestige was no longer celebrating with their band of fools—and thank oblivion for that, I might've gone nauseous if I had to watch them hold hands and give speeches of hope for one moment more—but instead was once again out on the road.
They weren't doing anything of importance. I could easily push the visage aside and finish my own work, and my sanity would be more whole for it. And yet, my eyes were glued to the vestige. Their gait, their posture, their skin, the way their attention was so easily picked up by the oddest of things. A hand came to my face, and I realized how warm it was. I wanted to watch them for hours.
It was an interesting thing: knowing your own folly and yet being unable to correct it. My mind understood completely the madness of my desire. Not just because of who I desired, but also the mania in how I desired. And yet, my very veins compelled me to obsess. Logically, I knew wanting both to wear the vestige's fingers as a bracelet—so that they may always hold my hand—and to have their warm hands full of life caress my neck was not only impossible but also insane. Regardless, I wanted both and I wouldn't be satisfied without both.
But I was rarely ever satisfied, anyway, and watching the vestige would be enough to scratch the itch for now.
The vestige approached a busy city, one close enough to the harborage that it hadn't taken long for them to reach it. They looked at their map, a slight crease in their brow, displaying how obviously confused they were even as shopkeepers and beggars called to them. How delightfully and annoyingly naive they looked, and how easy they would've been to take advantage of. It was no wonder I killed them. The vestige probably followed the first person they met in a city like that, only to get kidnapped and sacrificed immediately.
A hand clapped on the vestige's shoulder, startling them out of their stupor. A smile brightened over the vestige's face when they looked up at the perpetrator, "Hey, Darien."
"You lost there, friend?" It was a young breton man, the same one (probably? it was difficult to tell anyone insignificant apart) who listened to the vestige's dream. I squinted at the visage.
"Me, lost?" The vestige's smile was mischievous in nature, and their eyes sparkled in a way that made me want to take them and keep them in my possession, "Never."
The breton laughed, and a sharp pain came to my hands. They were bleeding. I had dug my nails into my palms without realizing. I groaned.
Great. Jealousy. As if my attraction to the vestige wasn't annoying enough.
"Where are you headed?" He asked. He leaned in too close toward the vestige as he looked at the map. I wondered if the vestige could feel the heat of life coming from him. I wondered if they could smell him, and he didn't smell of death and rot. I wondered if they liked it and wanted him to lean closer.
The vestige didn't look phased in the slightest by the breton, "Summerset. I'm trying to book passage there."
"Summerset?" The breton said, an eyebrow raised, "Why would you want to go there?" I wondered how easily I could kill him. I wondered if I would do it fast to get it done quickly or if I would do it slow to torture him. I wondered if I could force the vestige to kill him.
"I haven't been there, yet." The vestige stopped and thought for a breath, "Probably."
He laughed as he lowered their map, his fingers much too close to the vestige's, "Probably?"
"It's a long story," they put their map away, and when the vestige left the breton's vicinity, I could breathe again. "You wouldn't happen to know anyone who could book me passage?"
"I couldn't tell you." He tapped his chin in thought, "Summerset just barely opened its borders... Do you even know anyone there who could show you around?"
The vestige shrugged, "I'm sure I can find someone."
I thought entered my mind. A plan, even. An absolutely impulsive plan, but not an unnecessary one. If I were to meet the vestige in disguise, if I were to gain their trust, I could thoroughly ascertain their plans and motives against me. I could even plant the seeds of doubt, of which that could tear the vestige from Varen and the rest of those fools. And if it so happens that I can watch their sleeping form in person, that would just be an additional benefit that I just so happen to also receive from my brilliant plan.
I studied the vestige closer, a smile creeping on my face as my fingers curled around my cheek. I remembered our last in-person meeting. Their eyes ablaze with determination and trepidation. Their spellbound attention addicting. The challenge they presented to me like a gift to my power.
I wondered if they would look at me the same way when I'm disguised.
Summary: Snippets of the vestige being Sotha Sil's apprentice before the vestige became the vestige, because being Seht's apprentice is the dream.
Fun stuff: Vestige is gender neutral and not described, however they are a psijic. Also, sorry to anyone who’s waiting for the next chapter of the thorn in my side, the pebble in my shoe; instead I just wrote this tomfoolery.
The psijic, or Seht's new apprentice, watched his work carefully with captivated eyes. His nimble mechanical fingers, the celerity in his engineering, the clicking and gearing of a contraption being put together; all of it seemed to be absorbed by the apprentice even as ruby eyes briefly glided to the unaware apprentice. The clockwork god had instructed many apprentices, and though he was choosy with who he allowed to accompany him, they all shared a common attributed: curiosity.
Curiosity was, Sotha Sil concluded, the only valid motive to entreat him. Those who sought to learn under him without this trait were at best motivated by veneration (a trait, in all his "godhood", he had difficulty addressing) and at worst motivated by malice.
Most, if not all, of the clockwork god's apprentices had earned their place at his side. Proven themselves with monumental discoveries and an in depth knowledge of the known sciences of Tamriel and beyond, all of that before dedicated persistence in following him.
His current apprentice was not this way.
"Bring tempered brass and a regulus to me." The god commanded.
Quick to respond, the apprentice hopped off their stool and quickly rushed to where the god's components were located.
They may not have spent hundreds of years in rigorous study learning the systematic laws of this world like his other apprentices, but that didn't mean the god's new apprentice wasn't intelligent.
The apprentice returned with tempered brass, a regulus, and dwarven oil.
Sotha Sil took the oil. "What is this?" He knew what it was and why they brought it, but he found his pupils learned better when they explained their thought processes.
"Dwarven oil." They said, sliding back onto their stool. "You used it in the configuration sequence of your last creation. It looks like the fabricant needs..." They searched for the right words, "Sequenced configuratively?"
A smile almost breached the god's lips. No, his new apprentice wasn't unintelligent. In fact, they were very quick to learn.
The clockwork god went to work "sequencing configuratively", or rather in completing the last steps in creating the fabricant, and his apprentice's attention was once again glued to his work. Being so closely watched was not new to the god, but for some reason it was not as suffocating when the apprentice watched him. Perhaps it was because they were transfixed with his work, not himself.
At the last detail set with mechanical figures, the clockwork god set his hands behind his back and tilted his head, observing his own handiwork. His tiny creation, no bigger than his hands, stood up blinking. His attention was then drawn to the delight emanating from his apprentice.
"It's a nixad." They said, laying their head on their arm and using a finger brush the fabricant's tiny metal cheek.
The god had previously seen his apprentice bring the nixads of Artaeum berries. It didn't take a god's power to see that his apprentice liked the creatures. "It is a fabricant." He said.
Their brow furrowed ever so slightly, before his apprentice matched his ruby eyes. "A fabricant? Where's his flesh?"
The god didn't miss the charm of his apprentice already granting the epicene fabricant a gender. "It has not grown yet."
The nixad climbed onto his apprentice's fingers, the fabricant's wings not grown in. The apprentice was mesmerized by the creature. "Fascinating. Can I keep him?"
Many things were unpredictable about his apprentice. However, even a child could have seen that question coming. ""He" is yours." Sotha Sil said, returning to his work.
"Can I tinker with him?"
That question wasn't one as easily predicted. The god turned back to his apprentice, who still watched the stumbling fabricant on their fingers with soft adoration. Many of the god's followers considered tampering with his creations to be blasphemy. Others rationed that no improvements could possibly be made so there was no use in trying. "Yes," The clockwork god turned back to his work once again. "In fact, I'd encourage you to do so."
His apprentice hastily grabbed a myriad of delicate tools as they set the fabricant in front of them, but they stopped themselves before they got to work on the fabricant. They're brow furrowed in a way they always seemed to do before they asked a question. "Will it hurt him?"
The god hummed at that. "It will not as long as you finish your tinkering before the fabricant's flesh grows in."
(I write so much for Mannimarco, but Seht is my true love.)
Summary: Snippets of the vestige being Sotha Sil's apprentice before the vestige became the vestige, because being Seht's apprentice is the dream.
Fun stuff: Vestige is gender neutral and not described, however they are a psijic. Romance is there if you squint, maybe it’ll be more romantic later but for right now it’s a super slow burn.
The dim cyan light of Ceporah's fixtures illuminated focused ruby eyes and industrious brass fingertips. A dwarven box gleaming in bronze, beautiful and complicated in its fine details, clicked and reconfigured in mechanical deftness under the careful attention. The dwemer contraption was impossible in its intricacies to solve for the brightest scholars, but in the clockwork god's hands it was a mere toy. Sotha Sil had a fondness for the dwemer's craftsmanship; perhaps that was why he enjoyed solving dwarven puzzle after dwarven puzzle, regardless of how many or how trivial they may be.
A brass finger came to the tinkerer's lips. He had every possible solution and surprise mapped out and anticipated, which he acknowledged with a numbed acceptance.
He turned and went back to his workbench, retrieving an animo core—one he had previously fashioned to attune to dwemer relics. A faint but muted satisfaction subtly filled Sotha Sil, a feeling not uncommon for the clockwork god when he fit puzzle pieces together. As he returned to the desk he kept the dwarven box, somebody he didn't recognize, a psijic, was sitting on his desk.
They didn't notice him as they fiddled with the box, angulating the puzzle with a concentrated look on their face. Sotha Sil didn't recognize what pattern they were attempting, but his mind was quick to theorize every possibility.
The clockwork god approached the psijic carefully, watching them silently. Only after the psijic seemed satisfied did he make his presence known. "An interesting approach. I have my suspicions, but what inspired your method of application?"
The psijic looked up at him. They weren't alarmed or ashamed—common reactions the tinkerer received from those invading his study—as they blinked curious eyes at the god. Instead, they simple tilted the dwarven box, showcasing their handiwork. " I just wanted to make a butterfly."
Indeed, the bronze cube's mechanical intricacies did mimic the image of a butterfly.
" Aestheticism," The god hummed. "Not a common approach on Artaeum, and not often practiced by the Dwemer either."
The psijic handed the puzzle back to the god, "Was I close to solving it?" They asked.
"No." Sotha Sil answered. As he took the puzzle back, he inspected it more carefully. Regardless of how far they were to solving the puzzle, it wasn't a simple feat to configure the puzzle in such a pattern. " However, this does educe a second angle to be analyzed..."
The psijic brightened, they're smile almost childlike in their delight, "Really?"
Before the god could respond, a loud gasp came from behind the pair. "Lord Seht?" A dunmer psijic dropped his stack of books at the sight of the clockwork god. "I had no idea you had returned-Initiate! What are you doing?!"
The god's ruby eyes glided from the horrified dunmer to the passive psijic on his desk. The psijic didn't react much at all even as the dunmer began scolding them.
The dunmer gestured to the psijic apologetically when he turned to Sotha Sil. "Haha, I'm so sorry Lord Seht, you must forgive the child. They have a habit of interfering in affairs their not supposed to." The dunmer gave the psijic a pointedly stern look, which was only returned with a blank stare. "Initiate, leave Lord Seht to his work, you shouldn’t bother the Clockwork God with your shenanigans."
The psijic turned to the clockwork god, "Am I bothering you?"
The dunmer looked affronted that the psijic would ignore him so blatantly in favor of the clockwork god. However, Sotha Sil's mind turned with analysis and prediction. With their very brief interaction, the god calculated the psijic meddler's charismatic impressions, their benefits and deficits, their possible imprint on the mortal plane, and the very weight of their soul—all for the end of one question. Were they bothering him?
"No." At the god's answer, the dunmer's jaw dropped and the psijic smiled. "I believe a fresh set of eyes could be useful at this moment."
The dunmer cleared his throat, his eyes cast to the side and his fingers fidgeting, "If-i f it is a fresh set of eyes the Lord needs, then perhaps I could as well provide...?"
The god swiftly interrupted him, "The initiate will suffice."
The dunmer looked heartbroken, "Of course, my lord..."
As the dunmer left, the clockwork god returned to the psijic sitting on his desk. They were already eyeing the dwarven box.
"How would you proceed?" The god asked, lifting the device to their eye-level.
The psijic traced their fingers along the details of the box, "What if you changed the mechanism this way?"
Summary: The main quest line in Mannimarco’s perspective, except that he falls chaotically in love with the vestige just as much as he chaotically hates them.
Fun stuff: Small violent imagery warning, it gets a little gory in Manni’s head. As always, vestige is gender neutral and physical features are not described.
One of the many benefits of lichdom included sleep, at least not in access, was not a necessity for me. Though even when I was alive, I had cast a spell here and there to bend my physical limitations and wave off timewasting slumber. That fool, Trechtus, worried that the prolonged sleep deprivation—even by magical means—might have a negative effect on my psyche. But there was always so much work to be done, experiments to perform, ancient lore to study, unsuspecting victims to murder and then raise.
However, this didn't mean I couldn't sleep. Just that I didn't need to often and for much less time than a lowly mortal. But while sleep was more of a recreational pastime, dreams very rarely came to me. This, I assumed, had less to do with my status as a lich and more to do with Vaermina not wishing to catch the attention of Molag Bal.
As such, my confusion was appropriate when I woke up with a start from my dream. Details didn't slip from my mind, nor did I scramble to rack my brain for specificities. I remembered it wholly, vividly, and its' palpability sent chills dancing down my spine as I sat in my bed.
I sat on the throne in an empty hall of cold harbor. Only one other living being (if you could call them living) was in the hall with me. The vestige, flush with exhaustion and trepidation, gripped their weapon with spent desperation, their breath heavy and their legs trembling. Bones, rotten flesh, and all manner of decay littered the floor around them. I didn't carry the same exhaustion as they had. If anything, I was more bored than spent as I crossed my legs.
"Do you surrender?" I asked, inspecting my nails with passing disinterest.
The vestige swallowed and attempted to slow their breathing. I could see how their eyes wavered with uncertainty. They had resisted so fiercely before, but now, surrounded by fallen enemies and not having landed a single scratch on me, I could tell they were no longer so sure.
However, no answer was not good enough for me. I wanted an admission of defeat.
"Very well," I yawned with a flick of my wrist, and in a black swirl of flesh and bone from the vestige's fallen enemies, a great flesh atronach crawled from the remains and the mort. It let out a horrifying roar, its' whole face unhinging to bellow, and—as if they could take no more—the vestige collapsed to their knees, their weapon dropping beside them and the hands falling to the rot beneath them.
"I surrender!" Their voice was hoarse with exhaustion and stretched with desperation. They kept their head lowered, as if they couldn't bear to look me in the eyes as they succumbed to my power. "I surrender..."
A thrill of pleasure traveled my veins like lightning. What lovely words that would sound even better in a tortured chorus of agony.
I waved my hand and—to my delight—the vestige flinched when the atronach collapsed into blood, bones, and death. The vestige's breath left their quivering lips in relief, but the tension remained in their shoulders as I uncrossed my legs and stood. Step by step, I descended my throne, treading unconcerned through the carnage. When I reached the vestige, their form trembling in anxious anticipation, I circled their kneeling form as I inspected them. Their eyes unable to meet mine, the sweat of exertion trailing down their neck, their chest rising and falling in steady acceleration under my scrutiny.
To have the object of my ire in front of me so was sweeter than moonsugar and more intoxicating than skooma.
As I rounded about them, I straightened my back in a poise to feign indifference, "Again."
The vestige stuttered only for a moment, "I surrender."
"Again."
"I surrender!" Their desperation seeped into their voice.
I inspected my nails, "To whom?"
"To you! I surrender—" The vestige inhaled sharply, finally gaining the courage to meet my eyes, and I was filled with a familiar hunger to bask in that gaze. "Please, King of Worms, have mercy—!"
I couldn't help but laugh, "You level my armies, steal my chancellor, attempt to foil my plans, and you have the audacity to beg my mercy?"
The vestige opened their mouth, as if scouring their mind for an answer to respond, but ultimately could not speak.
"Are you too weak from my risen forces to respond?" I mocked as I knelt to their level. "Pathetic."
The rotten blood and flesh oozed between the vestige's tightened grasp against the floor as they looked away in shame, their brow knotted and their eyes cast down. I couldn't stop myself from grabbing their jaw and pulling their gaze back on me.
"Do not." My voice echoed in the hall, louder than I willed. "Look away from me."
The vestige's eyes flitted through a medley of emotions, each more tantalizing than the last. Visceral fear. Broken will. Reluctant obedience. And somehow, despite the thrill of seeing the vestige defeated and submitted, it was their look of captivation that filled my head with delirium. Eyes so trained on me, mesmerized by my presence—my power, that they couldn't pull away if they wanted. Attention entranced with deep, fervid interest restrained by tentative fear, the vestige was mine.
They were mine, and they did not have the will to oppose that.
What an exciting thought! The vestige, the unabashed nuisance in my machinations; the single obstacle between me and godhood, was mine! Mine to own, mine to maim, mine to torture, mine to kill, mine to resurrect, mine to mold, mine to command, mine to use— They were mine.
I suddenly became very aware of my hand holding their jaw. The warmth of their skin was radiant against my cold, lifeless fingertips. How strange it was that a soulless being could be filled with so much warmth, and that they could smell so sweet in a room full of corpses, and that they could look so tempting after being so irritating.
I loosened my grip to just a few fingers tilting their chin up, and they did not dare turn away from me. I forced my voice to soften, a voice I used often in my calculative manipulations, "I must admit, no being in Tamriel has bested as many of my forces as you have."
Their throat bobbed as they swallowed.
"Nor have any slayed foes as powerful as you have. Are you proud of this?" My eyes twinkled in a patronizing glimmer, "Be honest."
The vestige bit their lower lip, "Yes."
My eyes were drawn to their lips, "You should be. You will make a valuable tool..." My fingers lightly traveled along their neck, gliding to across their collarbone. "After I take you apart and reassemble you."
The vestige was shaking under my touch and I could feel their pulse quicken. I would enjoy draining the blood from their body, slowly, and making them watch as I replaced it with venom... But I enjoyed the warmth I could feel from their blush much more. "I— Please, King of Worms, there... there must be something I can do for your mercy? Anything!"
I laughed again. "I haven't even began your torture and you're already trying to bargain with me? How charmingly naïve..." I grasped their chin once more and they gasped at my abrupt movement. "Don't worry. You will have plenty to do once I am done with you."
With a snap of my fingers with my other hand, chains of magicka snapped around the vestige's wrist. A new and exhilarating panic swept over the vestige as they tried to pull from the chains in vain. The dread in their eyes as they looked at me made me dizzy and I was overwhelmed with the desire hold their heart in my hands; to feel the pulse of their heart quicken between my fingers and to see the horror in the vestige's eyes as I bring it to my lips to take a bite. I wanted to simultaneously hold the vestige so full of life, feeling their warm hand against my cheek and to bathe in their boiling blood, singing as I let their marrow sink into my skin. I wanted to swallow their cries in a kiss and lick the blood from their wounds and I wanted the vestige to love and hate every moment of it.
There would be plenty of time to indulge my madness later.
"Please! King of Worms, you don't have to hurt me! I'll do what you want!" The vestige cried, their voice taut with terror and their hands pulling at the chains.
"Oh, I believe you." I held the vestige's face in my hands and relished the captivation that never left the vestige's gaze. Even in their terror they couldn't resist me. "I want to hurt you."
With the vestige mine and their expression consumed with dread and panic, I pulled their face to me, pressing my cold lips against their warm ones, reveling in the taste of victory and the vestige's tongue. I could feel the vestige heat up beneath my hands, their warm blood a charming tell. I pulled away just as quickly, my smile as bewitching as the chains.
"Do try to last long." I cooed, "I don't want to fix your broken mind more times than I need to."
I downed three stamina potions in succession just to give me the energy to deal with whatever deranged dream Vaermina and Sheogorath must've crafted together as a sick daedric joke (surprisingly less violent than most daedric jokes go).
I leaned against my desk with one hand and rubbed my temple with the other, groaning low and exasperated. It was almost the perfect dream, and I would have even thanked the lesser daedric prince for what I would've assumed would be a glimpse into the future, save for the end.
How insulting! Degrading! To think I would lower myself so—so—low! As to kiss, or even to think about—!
I heard the vestige stir in their sleep through their visage and my head snapped to it. I watched them, holding the breath I don't take, with furious disgust. Then, the end of my dream began replaying in my mind and I could feel my face turning orange at the thought.
"Disgusting!" I said, not to anyone in particularly, but mostly to the vestige. I went to close the visage with a wave of my hand, but stopped when the vestige began to stir again.
Were they having a nightmare? Were they having the same nightmare?
My face burned brighter.
My eyes were melded to the visage as the vestige's brow furrowed and their breath quickened. Something cracked underneath the pressure of my grip but I didn't care enough to notice what it was. The vestige looked troubled by their nightmare, maybe even pained. Would they hate it? Would they be disgusted by it like I was? Would they wake up with fear? Glancing at every shadow with nervousness? What if they woke up flushed and unsure? What if they liked it? What if they sought out the mundus stones—sought out me? They did say I was pretty.
The vestige's lips parted and the ending of my dream replayed and replayed and replayed; the taste of their lips, the trepidation in their eyes, their breath on my skin, their warm blood beneath my cold cold hands.
"Hey, you alright?" Some young breton shook them awake, pulling me from my own personal oblivion. The vestige inhaled softly as they woke, turning to the man, slightly disoriented. "Looked like you were having a nightmare."
I ground my teeth. Did he wake them up before they reached the end of the dream? I couldn't tell if I was relieved or furious.
The vestige groaned, rubbing their neck. "Yeah, I was... It was really weird..."
I furrowed my brow. "Weird"? What did they mean by "weird"? "Weird" as in "I was disturbed by the intimate nature of the dream and I don't want to be tortured" or as in "I was intrigued by the intimate nature of the dream but I don't want to tell this breton that out of bashfulness"?
"I know this is going to sound insane but..." The vestige sat up, stretching, and I was too transfixed with how their bones popped. "There were dragons all over Elsweyr!"
I blanked.
"Dragons?" The breton man laughed, "Come on!"
"No, really!" They asserted, "And one of them was good!"
I waved the visage off, evaporating it from existence. I downed another stamina potion while wishing I had picked up a bottle of sylph-mead somewhere. I didn't care if the vestige was bedding Molag Bal himself, a few days not having to listen to the ramblings of that halfwit vestige would do me well.
In the meantime, sending a legion of undead after Vaermina's cult seemed appropriate.
My Wild Assumption of You Based on the ESO Boy You Crush On
Some of these make sense, some are just nonsensical but the vibe fits. If your boy didn’t make it on the list, I’ll make a part 2.
Darien: You like solid and safe classics, like true vanilla ice cream or black evening gowns.
Razum-Dar: Warrior Cats kid. Or you're a fan of the “there’s only one bed between you and your hot, infuriating bodyguard” trope. Either way, you used to read a lot, but you don’t much anymore.
Sai Sahan: You’re wild for the childhood friends to unrequited love to mutual pining to lovers trope. You also like the “one bed vs you and your bodyguard” trope, but you still read a lot.
Abnur Tharn: Sarcasm, wit, and merited arrogance goes a long way with you. You like to argue, and you don’t mind losing an argument.
King Kurog: No, you can’t fix him. Yes, we all wish we could. You probably saw those cartoons/shows as a kid where someone chains themselves to a tree to save the forest from becoming a parking lot or something and you decided you were going to do that specific thing. It hasn’t happened yet.
Chief Bazrag: You’re a people pleaser. The harder they are to please, the more satisfying when you win them over. You also want to be held, and honestly you deserve to be held.
Sotha Sil: You’re desperate to be the one person the unattainable and emotionally unavailable sad boy opens up to. You needed more attention growing up.
Vivec: You might’ve been a theater kid, but you were definitely involved in some wild theater kid scandal.
Divayth Fyr: You’re the same as the Tharn lovers, but you either played Morrowind first or you think mer are prettier than men (you’re right).
Ashur: Naryu was your type, but you weren’t attracted to women enough to crush on her. Or you’re crushing on both and hoping for two-for-one Morag Tong business deal.
Leythen: You like watching drama unfold like in telenovelas. You probably don’t start it, but you’re quick to grab the popcorn when you see it. You wanted to be privy of the Vivec lovers’ theater kid scandal, but you weren’t in the right crowd. You’re also a sucker for a good redemption arc.
Fennorian: You’re under 18 and you aren’t over Twilight.
Verandis Ravenwatch: You’re over 28 and you aren’t over Interview with a Vampire.
Rada al-Saran: You’re the best of the vampire lovers on this list. You're either the sweetest, softest flower angel or you’re so hardcore, you could eat glass and not break a sweat.
Mannimarco: You had a casual Harry Potter phase and wanted to date Draco Malfoy. Or his dad.
Vanus Galerion: You had a violent Harry Potter phase and read all the books and the extra books and saw all the movies and knew all the best fanfictions and knew all the lore and the magic system and you wanted to be a wizard so bad you look out your window every moment wishing waiting wanting for your letter you look at every owl with hope and every rat with skepticism-
Za’ji: Warrior Cats kid. Or you’re probably a huge Disney fan and have been to Disney Land/World more than once. Your favorite Disney movie is probably one of the 90s ones.
Nahfahlaar: Eragon kid. Or his voice reverberated in your soul <3. You probably like the “I hate everyone but you” trope. You also probably wanted to redeem Alduin, or at least join him.
Any of the Daedric Princes: You saw the red flags, but red is your favorite color.
Rigurt the Brash: To say you like himbos is a given, but I also think you’re the type to break too easily when someone gives you puppy-dog eyes.
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