come_sailaway | "Which way ought I go from here?" [Open and one Closed]

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"Which way ought I go from here?" [Open and one Closed]

Who: The Daedric Prince of Madness and YOU!
What: Who knows? Could be anything!
When: Mid to late September
Where: Various
Warnings: Body horror, general existential dread, transformation horror, other warnings to come

"You must be mad, or you wouldn't have come here" [Atrium]

There's a new gentleman about the Serena Eterna. Or perhaps he's something other than a gentleman. Perhaps he's a cat, or a cloud, or a bad idea. The face he wears is different for whoever he meets.

Currently, he's leaning against a balcony railing, looking down into the atrium of the Serena Eterna, whistling like a mockingbird. Do you approach, coaxed or driven by fear and fancy?

"Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast" [Closed for strangearchitecture]

"Helen!" he slides up beside her, holding a plate as if it's a steering wheel. He, of course, does not actually have a vehicle; that would be against the rules. His appearing next to her is inexplicably accompanied by the sound of a window being rolled down, however, because comedic effect.

"My dear semi-sinusoidal seductress, I don't suppose you've heard the rumors of the infinite cheese shop on board, and the fortress of cheese that lies within its depths?"

"A grin without a cat is the most curious thing" [Hallway outside Stellar] [CW: potential body horror]

Amongst all the flowers, a fungal grotto has appeared in the hallway outside of Stellar. It's a strange sight indeed, filled with curtains and irises of fine, wispy mycelium and dotted with fruiting caps of vibrant yellow-oranges and metallic purples. There are also woody roots and stumps, out of place in a fungal environment, that periodically release clouds of green, sweet-smelling spores. If you pay close attention, the bursts of spores almost seem to come and go at a rate suspiciously like someone breathing.

"At least I know who I was when I got up this morning" [various] [CW: transformation horror]

The Prince of Madness is in a frightfully fickle mood, and without much warning, perhaps not having even given you a customary greeting, he brandishes a staff in your direction and lets loose a blast from it. In a peculiar sensation, rather like becoming water and going swirling down a drain faster and faster, you find yourself stretched and squashed into a new form. Perhaps your mind is unaffected, or perhaps you immediately begin wondering if you've always been this way, and the thing you were before was but a dream. In either case, it's going to be a weird couple of hours while the effects wear off.

(In particular I'm looking for at least one person to become a sentient pinball, but I'm up for anything, in the direction of both something harmless/inanimate and something large/dangerous. The suffering can go both ways here)

"I can't explain myself, for I am not myself" [stern, various] [CW: general existential dread]

Across the stern of the ship, in various places, there's a sound like a man howling and weeping, and the sound of fingernails scratching against metal and chalky paint. In a twisting line, the words "The sea knows what isn't. The sea knows what can't. Is the sea a thing that is? Am I, because it is?" are being scratched into the paint and the metal of the ship over and over again.

"A most uncivil offer" [Sports Deck]

Oh tarnation! Oh tribulation! Here he is in a place where he might ply his craft with sword and crossbow, yet he's brought neither. But perhaps someone eager for a sparring partner might offer to lend him one?

"Is it labelled 'poison?'" [Wildcard]

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He smiles.

"Precisely."

"A branch from a timeless tree. An eye that holds secret unspoken. Find these things and bind them as Sheogorath's symbol of office, and who's to question that the bearer of that station isn't the Madgod, when it was by their own hand that they formed that mark of authority? From there, there's just one final proof- don't fall on the end of Jyggalag's sword, for the Madgod is a mad god, and it would be rather suspicious if such a being were so easily cut down."

"The same way you're not going to question that the man on street in fine clothes is a noble, regardless of whether you know his backstory or not. So then, what is seen becomes an accepted truth by the world."

She laughs a little, leaning back in her chair with her cup.

"Clever. And so then, he can't go back into his prison, because someone's already filling the cell. That's why you talked about 'another him.'"

"And when the world sets the rules, then what it believes to be truth becomes fact."

He reaches over and cuts her a slice of a nearby pastry. It's some sort of tart with a red filling, the crust beautifully flakey.

As he hands her the plate, he continues.

"A slight adjustment there. The world sees that the cell is filled, but it cannot see anyone in there. The cell is simply unable to be occupied in its understanding, for the cell has become its own inhabitant. The secret inhabitant at the heart of the ruse thus goes from being in the cell to being a part of the cell, and the name and the face and the life of who that person might have been fade from the world as the world is convinced. Otherwise, a new cycle would have begun, with the cell's new inhabitant raging against its prison. And... perhaps that was the case, in the beginning. Only the Prisoner was willing."

There's a strange emphasis on the word 'Prisoner,' there, the meaning of which is not especially apparent.

Fever takes the plate, listening well, for that is her role here. To listen, and recieve what secrets are to be placed in her keeping, to tend them well because they have been given at all. It hardly feels fair, all this telling - but then again, the Madgod can read her thoughts. Her secrets are not so far away, what of them she has. Perhaps Macaelius can peer in there as well, and her head is but an open box to those with power. Oh, there's an unsettling thought. She doesn't like it.

"Do they remember who they used to be? Or does that go away as the world gets convinced?"

It's a good tart, when she bites into it. Her host sets a very fine table for tea.

"Well, some would say it's better to forget. There's evidence to suggest that clinging to that knowledge can drive someone mad. Of course, if you're meant to be mad..." he trails off.

It's a strawberry tart, oddly tangy with a hint of red wine. It would pair incredibly well with a mild brie. Oh look, there's some on a dish along with five other kinds of cheese.

"But even if they remember, they change. They cease to be the person they used to be, moreso than the average person, who wakes up a new person to find that the world that existed for yesterday alone has been destroyed and replaced with something new."

"Such a person who seeks to exist in that very particular manner ends up here, in this particular subset of nowhere."

A few threads knit together in her mind, but it will only be when she's alone that she can fully grasp the implications. For now, instead, she uses the cheese knife to put a bit of the brie on the next bite of tart, tasting them both at the same time. Delicious, but a combination that is never going to not remind her of this moment, after today.

An entirely new world. One to explore, ponder, rage against, weep for, laugh with, live in. What else could this reborn person do?

"...Will I see you again, after today? I don't really like the thought of you rattling about in here entirely on your own."

"Oh, I'm never too far. Just a thought and a forgotten dream away. I'm sure Lord Sheogorath will find an occasion to let us see each other once again."

He gives her a wistful smile.

"Of course, you might still be here tomorrow. I'm not sure how long something like this lasts, nor does time move in a coherent fashion here."

Fever shrugs at that, and sips her tea.

"Not like I have people that will be searching for me if I have to stay here a while. Like I said, all my companions are back where I was. Passing some undetermined length of time here is pleasant, anyway."

"In that case... I might show you more of this nowhere. I've filled it with memories, of things that are and things that were and things that never were. And I have a feeling he'd like it if you saw the root tunnels."

"I'd be happy to see more. Though, forgive me. I'm suspicious enough to have to ask - how can I repay you for this hospitality?"

It'd be foolish to not suspect some sort of exchange behind it all. Something to make it fair.

"I'll think of something, if you insist. This was all really quite unexpected. Though you really could count the company as a sort of payment. Quite apparently, I don't get many visitors."

"As long as you consider it adequate. Hate to have a debt hanging over us."

Particularly if at any time she's liable to move out of nowhere and back into somewhere, the Serena Eterna. She likes him, and she'd prefer to keep the relationship amiable.

"But I mean, I didn't wake up today and think I'd drink a god's blood and get transformed into a myriad self in the first place. The unexpected sort of just...happens."

"I spent far too much of my life worrying about debts and bargaining and breaking my chains. That's over and done for me now, and I would ask you to likewise not worry about that while you're here. This place doesn't really like causality."

He smiles at the mention of the "myriad self."

"How did you like it, becoming a grove?"

"It was truly unlike anything else I've ever experienced. I don't think I'd have the exact words for it unless I somehow ever managed to speak a dozen of them at the same time, it overlapped so. But like....like someone took all the Weave in me, all the fiddly bits and pieces, and then it was rewoven, but I didn't have to think. Couldn't, or I was thinking too much."

A storm turned into a grove, still twitching with lightning, still purring with thunder, humid as the pressure right before.

"Wonderful. But I don't think I could handle it long term. It's hard enough thinking as one, most days."

His smile grows warmer.

"The agony and euphoria of being like the Madgod isn't something a lot of people get to experience. Really, I don't think it's something a lot of people should experience, as beautiful as it is. But... I think he was right to let you see and feel what it's like. As much as Lord Sheogorath likes to insist that nothing he does makes sense, I think the lack of sense only comes from the fact that he operates on a particularly strange sort of wisdom. There may be a very good reason why he wants you do understand madness as he does."

A pause.

"Of course, you should take my thoughts with a grain of salt. I do think my faithfulness to his lordship has the potential to cloud my judgement."

"Your faithfulness, or that connection you share?"

Her eyes are light, though, to say it, and she savors the tart in the space between one sentence and the next. This place isn't like being elected to the ship, dragged in away from everything she knows, all the friends she has - time is flexible, and being fresh off of being an innumerably networked self, the idea of timelines that Johnny had spoken of, other selves, it all makes more sense right now.

No, Fever isn't resigned to leaving a copy in her place back in the closest thing she can relate to home. She still wants to kill the double and burn her bones and come back. But in regards to any pressing urgency to leave nowhere? It's quieter, and there's precious few moments where her head is quiet.

"Being connected to another...it changes you. For better or worse. Nearly all of my companions and I were connected, not by our own choice, but by creatures inflicted upon us. Vile tadpoles, that would consume our mind quite literally if we left them unchecked, turn us into the very beings that did this to us. Leaving us helpless slaves to a hivemind, utterly lost with no return."

That is the true terror of ceremorphosis. Everything, absolutely everything, consumed and altered and remade and lost. To Fever, with as little as she has, that is what scares her the most.

"We had the process halted, and sought to kill the creatures in our heads, to free ourselves, but...I won't deny there were one or two aspects that were not all horror and abomination. It's easy to realize you can trust someone, when you can open your mind and they show you that they aren't lying."

She doubts that otherwise they'd have grown so close, so fast. Nor would they have been able to believe that they had each other's backs until the end of everything.

"Ah. That explains quite a bit."

"I think Lord Sheogorath might have an inkling of your struggle with that parasite. There was a time, when he was still bound to a mortal aspect in the aftermath of tricking the world, where the touch of the Prince of Domination and Tyranny ran thick in his blood. Had he lost that fight, he would have lost his very soul to the Lord of Coldharbour. The search for an answer to earning his freedom is what brought Sheogorath to Sheogorath, actually. It was... a mutual breaking of chains, so to speak."

He pauses, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"I think it's my faith to him, and my gratitude towards him, and my connection to him together. I trust Lord Sheogorath, perhaps in ways I shouldn't, both because of what he has done for me, and because of what I understand of his nature. Do not mistake my words for claiming that he is a merciful god. He is perhaps the most volatile and destructive of the Daedric Princes. But... he is also my friend, and I do not use that word lightly."

"A rare soul that can claim a god's friendship."

It's more murmured than anything else. She wonders idly if the tadpoles, even dead as they must be, left psychic traces on her. If the way they wriggled and writhed behind her eyes left trails in their wake, feeding on things she'll never know to miss. If that had been so terribly obvious to this god's eyes. And then she wonders what else is obvious about her, to those who know how to see.

Her fingers twitch on her teacup involuntarily.

"Lord Sheogorath would say that Daedric Princes don't have friends. It's contrary to their nature. And that does not stop him from having them. But... I do want you to appreciate how dangerous it is, to keep him as a friend. There is power in being close to the Madgod... and there is utter chaos. He is the blood of Padhome, the father of the end of all things. By all means, be his friend, but know that that might end in your annihilation. Or your salvation."

He sets down his cup with a soft clink.

"Whenever you've had your fill, I'll lead you on a tour of the root tunnels."

The good thing about finishing her tea is that she's not required to respond to that. Not to give voice to the ever growing mixture she's taking in from this day. There's a lot already, and she could mutter that if he's dangerous company, so is she, from all she can piece together. The true desire to say that never rises.

Instead, she waits til the cup is empty, and then rises.

"I'm ready."

"Alright." He gets to his feet and immediately heads to the door, gesturing for her to follow.

The tunnels are accessed by way of a fibrous membrane that parts like a sliding door. Beyond them lies a vast passageway, lit by bioluminescent plants that range in a spectrum from orange to yellow to pale blue-green. If she looks closely, she'll notice that some of them have veins and irises and pupils in their depths. Others are marred by structures that look rather like deformed, screaming maws. Others have whorled surfaces that make them almost look like they're covered in a bunch of ears melted together. The tunnels breathe with that same sweet-spore breath as before, and the sound of trickling water echoes up from far, far away.

Strange and twisted as the plants are, she finds them intriguing. Maybe that's just her nature, or maybe that's just that they're so new that curiosity is the first reflex she has, overpowering what might be an innate sense of unease. They aren't going to hurt her, and so she can look as she likes. Fever looks with the honest wonder of a newcomer, free of other pressing goals that might prevent her from exploring, but the scent does give her the slightest bit of pause. It hadn't been terrible in the ship, but she'll still monitor her own condition.

"Where do they lead? All over?"

This is asked while she has a brief staring contest with one of the plants with eyes.

"They lead down to an echo of the Fountainhead. Back in the Shivering Isles, the roots beneath Lord Sheogorath's realm would draw up the essence of the Sea of Oblivion itself, transforming it into water and letting it flow out from the Fountainhead to feed the whole realm. Of course, this place is detached from Oblivion... and from everything else... so I'm not sure if the water is drawn up from anywhere. I suppose you could dive down into the flooded roots to see where they lead, but then you might be diving for an eternity."

He smiles.

"There are some nice areas down there for sitting and meditating, or for screaming and raving, as you please. Oh, and I doubt we'll run into anything down here, seeing how empty this piece of nowhere has become, but you might hear strange footsteps, like those of giant insects. Don't be alarmed if you do; those are also echoes, of Lord Sheogorath's children and caretakers, the Gnarls."

"Somehow, he doesn't strike me as particularly paternal."

This slips out before she can stop herself, but it's not meant as a criticism. Just a simple observation from the few times she's met him. But Fever shrugs, and carries on into the bioluminescence.

"But screaming and raving is more my style, if the mood strikes. I won't promise anything."

To explore like this, it makes her feel a little giddy, and more delighted. It's the joys of adventure, without the ticking time bomb in her head or the worry that some battle around the corner was going to spoil the moment. The same spirit that makes her near compelled to touch things, to pry and peer and read and look over whatever came, because it was there.

"It might surprise you to know he actually did raise a young girl into a capable hero. Though it wasn't his idea so much as it was hers. She was the daughter of the prisoner-to-be before she was Sheogorath's, and after the prisoner vanished and Sheogorath took his place, she refused to leave his side. It could have gone poorly, but she grew up admirably."

Macaelius smiles wistfully.

"And then went out into the world, to live her own life, on the back of a horse the Prince grew in the royal gardens."

"The Gnarls, on the other hand... just as Lord Sheogorath is an idea, so are they. They're offshoots from the Tree of Madness, and as they grow they either merge back into the roots of their father, or they wander free into the cosmos, to feed and grow on their own. But that kind of growth takes ages. On the day to day, they tend to the Prince's celestial body, clearing hardened amber from where the growth and motion of his roots has caused the formation of lesions and scratches. They are his children, but much more in the manner and ways of the gods."

"There's a chamber on the left up here with excellent acoustics. You're under no obligation to make use of it, but it's there."

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cw: body horror(?), freaky body plants

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