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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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."

There it is again, fluttering past her on tiny invisible wings. That secret bruise, that touch of an ache. But it's gone, easier the second time around always. She says nothing more, but Fever lets her mind get lost in the tunnels, hand drifting near a few of the plants but not touching yet. There's a good difference between touching everything with gloves on, and running the risks otherwise. Risky enough when she isn't sure the spores won't have the effects as earlier.

She wishes she could share it with the others. If she pretends, she can imagine the murmur of conversation, the complaints, the questions, the interest, all flowing up and burbling from the same source. Companions are in her heart, if not her presence, and she has to remember it. To tell them everything, when she returns and they ask.

But even someone far more heartsick than her would go still at the sound of the footsteps of the Gnarls, echoing overhead, startling her out of following Macaelius for the moment.

And she can hear not just the footsteps, but a strange chittering as well, an incomprehensible language of clicks and chirps and whines. Macaelius stops in his tracks and listens as well. The sound grows no closer, however, and shortly it fades away.

The look on his face suggests he's feeling rather bittersweet.

"There should be so much more. The dreams of No-One are vivid and beautiful, full of life and memories of things that never-were. I wish I could show you."

"It all might come back."

A small hope, but why not? There's already been the strangeness of their meeting.

"If it really all has changed locations, then everyone might just be finding their way over. Dreams and memories and everything else that's supposed to fill these halls."

"I certainly wouldn't doubt the Poet is capable of it, at least. And my husband... oh, Eil... when we both lived and existed, as much as it feels like that never was, he knew I had a legendary talent for getting myself lost, and he would always make it his mission to find me."

"Is that how you met? By getting lost?"

If it's too painful to remember, she'll let it lie, but she wants to ask.

He laughs.

"No, no. He, ah... I'd very recently contracted vampirism, and he caught me feeding. He was a healer by profession, and... he was of the philosophy that vampirism was just a disease, and blood was therefore a viable medicine."

Teeth that weren't my own, Sheogorath's voice echoes in her head, and later, this will tie her in knots. Why, why. She's prying in a way that feels like she's getting away with something.

"Did he now. One of my close friends is a vampire spawn. He would have been very curious as to his theories."

"I can't speak for how it is with other strains, but having someone I could rely on to keep the hunger sated kept the more monstrous urges of the condition at bay. There was no need to hunt, no need to skulk, and every morning before I would lie down to sleep, he would let me drink from him without struggle. He would then take medicines to purge any trace of my sickness from his blood, as well as potions that would allow him to more rapidly replenish his vitality. After that, he would fix some tea that helped to suppress the nightmares the Tormentor's grip would force upon me. And then I would sleep, feeling only a little less like a mortal mer than before."

Macaelius chuckles.

"It was a very professional arrangement at first. Very clinical. Very professional. But I suppose it's not easy to keep from developing feelings about a good man when you spend every evening with your lips pressed against the curve of his neck, and every waking hour with him traveling beside you."

There's a passing thought in her mind that she'd love to know the recipe for that tea. To sleep soundly for once would be a blessing. But she doesn't say it, and instead listens. And she knows, from the other side of things - from her conversations with Astarion, from willingly giving him more strength to fight, and then begging Shadowheart's mercy and restoration in the morning. No doubt he'd be infinitely curious about the status of a cure. At least, to be able to walk in the sunlight without the tadpole's power.

"The fact that he didn't see you as a monster and so freely gave of his time and self to make sure you were all right didn't hurt, I'm sure."

It's fondly said, though, knowing the happy ending.

"To this day, I'm still not sure how I never pushed him away. I was a difficult mer to get along with, intent upon doing everything on my own. I was a stranger, a foreigner, embittered towards my homeland and believing no one in my new home would see me as deserving of trust. High Elves have a reputation, after all. And when Eilsen offered to be my dedicated healer, I tried to make that difficult for him. I was demanding of him, critical of him, difficult to work with; I pushed back against many of his suggestions and accepted anything that wasn't his blood only after considerable arguing. And somehow, through sheer stubbornness, he coaxed me into growing into a completely different mer."

A pause.

"Of course, I knew it couldn't end happily so long as I was cursed."

"He must have already loved you back, to stick by you so completely."

Half a thought to herself, but she's listening. Putting this in her mental archive.

"...How did you lift the curse? If you're not tired of talking."

"Strictly speaking, I didn't. I did everything I could to try and do so, mind you. I sought out a witch at the behest of a noble friend of mine; this friend sought a cure for his wife and believed that this rumored witch knew of one. And she did, but the cure worked only on a very particular strain of vampirism. I was unaffected upon taking it. After that, I sought the aid of many of the Daedric Princes, but they either could not help me, or the task they asked of me in return that was something that would mean forfeiture of my soul, both metaphorically and literally. I had lost hope and fled my home in shame, fearing that I would bring ruin upon my family, when my paths crossed with Sheogorath. And I was given a proposal: were I to stop the Prince Jyggalag's Greymarch and save Sheogorath's realm, I would have all the power I needed to set myself free from the chains of my vampirism."

She's not blind to what it all means. He practically pushed the puzzle pieces into her hands to fit them together. So long as he looks at it out of the corner of his eyes only, then it's safe. She can look at it directly, but not reach to touch and make it different. Nowhere and never there, what is and what isn't. How much tricking the world is mostly tricking yourself?

For a long moment, she's silent. Lets the words melt away, before they wander too close to whatever edge and balance is being kept. It's courtesy that keeps her from asking - the sound of his voice. He's wanted to say this for so long, hasn't he. To someone removed from the context. Someone who's just...there.

"You've lived an extraordinary life, anyone can tell, even by the pieces you give me. Legendary, really."

Something that people would whisper myths about around the fire.

"A legend, with a first page and a last. It isn't the only story of its kind, where what happened happened, and after the last word is spoken, the hero went on his way and no one knows what became of him. It's the song of the world, and I was glad to be a part of it. And I was glad to have my rest, in the aftermath."

Pause.

"At least as much rest as being free in one's madness can be."

"It has to be more restful than frantically searching for a cure, or making deals with gods."

Though she doesn't know what it's normally like here. It could be chaos itself, and no rest could be found ever.

"...How much of what you've told me is safe to talk of? When I have to go back."

"Sheogorath is more capable of discussing things that aren't than most gods. I believe it's a unique purpose he serves, in the grand scheme of things. Nevertheless, do keep what you can to yourself. Even the Madgod has his limits, and it's agony for him when he reaches them."

"I'll put up a few walls in my head. Doubt it'll keep him out if he's determined, but it's how we stopped everything from bleeding over, connected in that network I told you about."

Everyone respected them, in camp. They would have had no peace otherwise.

"I suppose that's one thing worth noting about Lord Sheogorath. He at least occasionally obeys such boundaries. And I think he'll back off if he catches even a whiff of what lies beyond those walls."

Something suddenly seems to occur to him.

"Oh, but I should clarify that he does remember what transpired. He just doesn't think too hard about it."

"Thank you for telling me that before I went and embarrassed myself in front of you and he brought it up later. I'm glad to avoid that particular stickiness."

But she won't bow to calling him Lord, unless the time absolutely calls for it. So far, the relationship felt just fine without it.

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blindwatchersees - 2023-10-11 13:23 (UTC) - Expand

wrap!

abhorrently - 2023-10-12 00:25 (UTC) - Expand

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

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cw: body horror(?), freaky body plants

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wrap!