I like to think that I've been building up the crazy over time, but if you disagree tell me so.
---
Chapter 34: All Ahead Full
Mohamara stood in front of a chalkboard, while his new… minions seemed such a callous word, but he couldn't think of something to describe them better. Faithful seemed too personal, none of them knew him enough to
be faithful. But, they had asked him to teach them, so he did. And with his Mysticism skills locked behind some mental wall, he focused on what he still could do: Enchanting.
"Now, while the Nouveau style is certainly artistic, it's also an incredibly inefficient enchanting style," the pink cat explained while demonstrating the Nouveau style of conveying 'Fire' on the chalkboard versus the Runic and Nordic knot variant. "See, look how much more space it occupies? The Nouveau style is mostly for beginners, like you guys, because the increase in space is more forgiving of mistakes and easier to fix if you spot something wrong."
"Master," The Caller--who hoped to style herself as Mohamara's high priestess--looked up from her notes to ask a question. "You mentioned a 'Deco' style in the last lecture?"
"I'm getting to that, don't worry." Mohamara cleaned off the board with a cloth and started on the next drawing. "The Deco style is an advanced enchanting style--not as advanced as Mandala or Nordic knots, but still more advanced than Nouveau. Deco style's biggest selling point is it is
sturdy. If you want to enchant a structure to resist earthquakes, weather conditions, tidal waves, or artillery--you use Deco. However, Deco style doesn't translate well to day to day use, which means that the most you'll use it will be in architectural work." He paused to look over his shoulder. "This will be on the test, any questions?"
That almost everyone but The Caller raised their hands disheartened Mohamara more than it should have.
It turned out that he needn't have been disheartened that there were so many questions. It wasn't because he had explained things poorly--though he had forgotten to mention a few things such as how they were going to practice their linework. The questions were because they were full of ideas and questions of 'why'; why they couldn't combine linework styles, and why enchantments created through Mohamara's methods didn't require a recharge.
Mohamara wondered if this was how it would have felt to be a teacher. Perhaps if he'd taken the courses anyway, he could do a better job of explaining things or answering their questions. But as it was, they seemed to learn the best from asking questions. And though they mocked him relentlessly for it, Orthorn would ask questions no one else did about important things. Such as 'how do you keep two nearby enchantments from affecting one another's performance'?
None of them had tried to pet him or pick him up except for when they had gotten him out of the bag. And they all wore robes modeled on his fur--pastel pink, pale blue, and pale lime green. He could tell they
wanted too, especially the Nord women. But they didn't even ask for permission, they just… refrained from bringing it up at all.
Some of them had even come forth as former necromancers and asked how they could make amends. Mohamara gave them the Meridian answer to such repentance: "Reflect on the pain and suffering you have inflicted on those poor souls. Reflect on how it would feel to be in their situation. Work to make the world better for the rest of your days, and forget all that you knew on the vile subject except how to defeat it."
The most baffling thing had come almost a week after he'd been teaching them when The Caller let slip a factoid. "You know, when we found out your name meant 'I love you', many of the faithful expected something… more 'Dibellan' in your nature."
That stopped Mohamara from chopping up a potato for making into crisps to look at the High Elf with visible confusion. "It doesn't."
"Pardon, Lord?" The Caller stopped shucking corn to return Mohamara's confused look.
"My name doesn't mean 'I love you', it means 'bastard'." Dread began to creep into Mohamara--had they only summoned him by mistake?
However, The Caller actually laughed at Mohamara's response, like it was a little joke. "Oh, Master, I had no idea you knew bilingual jokes." When the cat didn't respond in kind, her amusement faltered. "Um. While 'Mohamara' does translate that way in ta'agra, albeit in a cruel interpretation, in Daedric 'Mohamara' translates as 'I love you'. Rather informally, too."
Without Mohamara's knowledge, the Sphere of Kindness reacted to this revelation and reached into his memories. They were a tangled mess of interconnected bonds, but it only needed one. One of the bonds rooted in his identity that grew between his name and his sense of self. 'Unwanted' was its name, and when the Sphere of Kindness touched it 'Unwanted' became 'Loved'. Among all the gray and withered bonds, the one that had been changed shone bright pink. While it didn't have an instant effect on the other gray bonds, they started to show just a bit more color from the bright pink being there.
Outside, the faithful kitchen staff was scrambling, with more and more mages coming into the kitchens and demanding to know who had made the Master cry. What finally stopped their panicking like decapitated chickens was Orthorn putting a bowl under Mohamara's chin to collect the tears.
"What?" He said when everyone but the Master gave him accusatory looks. "Daedra tears are a valuable alchemical ingredient. The Master wouldn't want us to waste them."
--
The crying just
wouldn't stop. Orthorn had to change bowls several times, and eventually the faithful abandoned their attempt to shame him and joined in on the tear collection. Daedra tears, apparently, were
really good alchemical ingredients. Fortunately, the castle's internal collapses had opened an aquifer to partially flood rooms, and provide an easy source of water so Mohamara didn't dehydrate himself too badly.
He wasn't
sad, though the faithful tried a variety of stunts to amuse him enough to stop crying. They even brought out some of the vampires they had been experimenting on to torment for his amusement.
After a while, Mohamara asked to be left alone and sat on the stairs in the partially flooded room trying to figure out what had happened to cause this. And how to stop it because after
two days of crying non-stop, even in his sleep, it was too much. So, while he had the waterworks going, he decided to make it useful. "Dad, help."
The top of Sheogorath's head, from his scalp to the bridge of his nose rose up from the surface of the water. A disk of water that had been there rose up with it and rested on top of his head like a nonsensical hat. Bubbles rose to the water's surface and popped, bringing the Mad God's words into the room. "Hey, son! What's the haps?"
"Please don't use outdated slang," Mohamara implored. "But I was wondering if you could look into my head and find out why this," he indicated the tear-marks on his face, "won't stop?"
From the surface of the water disk on Sheogorath's head emerged Sheogorath's hand and arm, in a thumbs up gesture. Then as quickly as he first appeared, he sank back into the water and was suddenly sitting next to Mohamara on the stairs.
"Alright, let's take a look-see at what's going on." Sheogorath snapped his fingers and exploded into dust that flew into Mohamara's nose automatically.
Sheogorath went beyond the meat of Mohamara's brain, he went beyond the synapses firing, he went into the mind of a Khajiit. To his dismay, Mohamara's mind was too rigid for him to have any fun with--such an ungracious host, nothing at all like Pelagius. His son's mind took the form of a machine half shut down, with dozens of Mohamara's in various outfits running around. They were pulling tarps off of disused components and oiling the parts that needed to move soon.
None seemed to mind Sheogorath walking amongst them in his Sheggorath aspect. It was like he wasn't even there. Mohamaras in oil-stained overalls with bits of metal walked by and replaced damaged bits of the machine. As Sheggorath watched, lights for entire sections of the mental machine started to come on, cracking from the strain after so long asleep.
Sheggorath found the control room of the mind, where Mohamara's connection to his chamberlain gave orders to the lesser aspects of the Khajiit's mind. The command Mohamaras were dressed as naval officers, and stood flanking chadburns labeled with various mental functions. The connection to Mohamara's chamberlain took the form of a massive round screen, where the spider-crab watched the control room and beyond from afar.
"The power plant is producing enough for us to bring more neurochemicals online, sir," spoke a Mohamara labeled 'Moody'.
"Excellent," responded the Chamberlain, not commenting on Sheggorath lurking in the background. "We cannot afford to lose momentum. All ahead full, Mr. Moody."
"Very good, sir." As one, all the command Mohamaras adjusted their chadburns from 'quarter ahead' to 'ahead full'.
Elsewhere in the mind of Mohamara, dozens of worker Mohamaras shoveled fuel into furnaces, shouting at each other to meet the demands of 'ahead full'. Gauges marking emotional levels began to rise dramatically. And pistons that before were barely moving or outright stopped began to increase their speed. As soon as each one was oiled and connected to the power, it began to move.
For being so rigid, Sheggorath appreciated how much of a mess everything was. He found a strange beauty in the rhythm that came from the sound of pistons at maximum speed and decided he'd seen all he needed to.
When Sheorgorath returned to Nirn, he found his son crying even worse than when he had left. Outright bawling, really. Sheogorath shifted into his Sheggorath aspect here too and brought the young Daedric Khajiit into a hug. As much of a wreck as he was, Mohamara didn't muster a resistance.
"Lad, there's nothing wrong." The Skooma Cat said in what was almost a consoling voice. "Except all the things that are unacceptably wrong with you and you should be ashamed of. But this isn't one of those!" Sheggorath patted Mohamara on the head. "All that despondency that you had when Khajiit first found you is finally starting to break apart. As awful as it is for this one to say, you're becoming what
should be normal for you." After the word 'normal', Sheggorath had to force the rest of the sentence out quickly as he began to violently hack and cough. It ended when he spat out a furball into the water. "Hate when that happens. Except when I don't."
"This is… normal?" Mohamara fought to talk around the ugly crying, not as well informed to the cause as Sheggorath.
"No, but approaching normal." Once more he hacked and coughed until he spat out a hairball. "See this is why this one hates despair so much." The Skooma Cat adjusted the hug he was giving Mohamara to something that would gel nicer with the cat's less than stellar sense of masculinity--a side hug! "It drags you down so far that you think down is up, and up is down. And it doesn't do it in a
fun way, no, it turns everything gray and hopeless, and eugh." Sheggorath stuck his tongue out in disgust. "Nasty. But you know what won't be nasty, but be oodles of fun?"
Mohamara shook his head no, he didn't even attempt to guess.
"When you get a look-see at your Chamberlain. Or what roughly equates to a chamberlain, a mortal hasn't mantled you so it hasn't combined with anyone." The Skooma Cat shrugged. "And what your friend and hubby will say about it when they find out its been lying to them this whole time about being able to talk with you."
--
Marcurio's expression could only be described as the neutral face of displeasure. There was a nuance to the expression that few people could pick up. Brynjolf and Yagraz were two of those people, but Karliah was not. They had made it back to Riften, confronted the Guild about Mercer's lies, ransacked the Guildmaster's house--where Marcurio found the legendary sword Chillrend and was one hundred percent giving that to Mohamara--and had a long verbal debate about a splinter faction of the Thieves Guild.
Nightingales, servants of the Daedric Prince Nocturnal and protectors of the Prince of Night's temple which granted thieves their luck, among other things. Nightingales that had once been Gallus, Mercer, and Karliah until the matter of murder happened. Nightingales that Karliah wanted Brynjolf and Marcurio to become.
The neutral face of displeasure was well deserved.
"You want me to sell my eternal soul to Nocturnal," Marcurio started, his voice only a hair above being a monotone. "So that I can kill Mercer
slightly more dead?"
"He's a Nightingale, and he's kept his powers somehow," the waify Dunmer fired back. "We won't stand a chance without the blessing of Nocturnal."
"See, I kind of had this
plan for where my soul would go after death." Marcurio gestured erratically as he attempted to convey esoteric information. "I was going to spend my life, only sometimes sitting on an enormous pile of money, with my soon to be husband. He'd help me with my issues, I'd help him with his, and maybe we could grow to love each other. Maybe. And then I'd die, and stay with him in his realm in--I'm going to go on a limb and guess--Oblivion. Doing things such as
not serving Nocturnal forever."
Brynjolf, the red-headed Riften native did a double-take at that bit of information. "Wait--that sweet little thing in the portrait you showed us all is a
Daedra? Boy doesn't look like he could hurt fruit let alone rob people of their souls."
"Short-stuff's too much sweetness and light for that," Yagraz commented with her arms crossed. "He'll snark at ya, that's about it."
"Whatever you decide, it must be done soon." Yehochanan clacked his claws like castanets within Yagraz's bag. "The Master and his faithful are going to the ruin where Mercer will steal the Eyes of the Falmer. Even as changed as he is, Mercer will know the Master when he sees him."
"What in Oblivion is Mohamara doing in Irkngthand?" Marcurio and Yagraz asked at the same time.
"Are either of you goin' to be telling me what's in that bag," Brynjolf asked while pointing to the relevant container with his thumb.
"No," the two said in unison once more.
"The bandits there are people who have been driven out of their homes by the war," Yehochanan explained. "My Master's nature hears their suffering and drives him to offer kindness as a balm for their wounds. He is there to help as many as who want to be helped."
"Your husband's a bleedin' heart, lad," Brynjolf commented. "Doesn't sound like any Daedra I've heard of."
"That's what makes him so interesting," Marcurio said like he was explaining how water wasn't actually wet to someone. "But back to the topic we've diverged from--no, I don't want to become a Nightingale." He focused his gaze on Karliah. "Not just because I have a grudge to settle with you, though I do. Not because I dislike Nocturnal because I don't. But because I refuse to sell my soul to kill
one man."
"That one man was strong enough to kill a Nightingale," Karliah fired back, a bit of emotion in her raspy voice. "What hope do we have if we don't have those powers too?"
"What even are these Nightingale powers? What are you proposing we sell our souls
for?"
Karliah described powers that would set close friends against each other, powers that would let a Nightingale slip in and out of a person's vision in literal blinks of an eye, and the power to change cause and effect. For the freedom to use these powers however they wished, Nightingales had to guard Nocturnal's temple in life and in death, then serve her further in her realm of Oblivion.
"Only one of those even
sounds worth selling my soul for," Marcurio grumbled. "And that armor isn't even stylish." He gestured to the almost dour gray leather armor Karliah and Brynjolf wore. "An awful deal, all around."
"The armor's not meant to be
stylish, it's meant to keep you
hidden. And on top of the powers she gives us, Nocturnal gives us back our luck." The waify Dunmer crossed her arms. "You think you've got good fortune
now? Imagine what luck you'd have if Nocturnal was actually giving you support."
That stopped Marcurio's tirade dead in its tracks. He couldn't deny that he'd been
by far the most fortunate of the Guild, who supposedly was cursed by Nocturnal. But for what, they still had no idea. If he suddenly had the Daedra of luck
helping him, his mind boggled at the possibilities.
"Yeho," the Nibense Imperial called out to the spider-crab who peeked out of Yagraz's bag at his summons. "Does my betrothed have any grievance with Nocturnal?"
"No," responded the spider-crab. "Nocturnal is his aunt, and while she and Meridia do not like each other, they still respect each other as sisters. Were the Lady of Infinite Energies aware of the state of Nocturnal's temple, she would order the Master to rectify it anyway. Furthermore, the Master will instinctually form a bond of love with those who identify as his family."
"Meridia? The Daedra of Day?" Brynjolf said in amazement. And then he saw Yehochanan poking out of Yagraz's bag and froze. "What in Oblivion is that?"
All the spider-crab did to answer him was clack its claws like castanets.
--
When Mercer finally got in sight of Irkngthand, he was met by a strange phenomenon. From the Dwemer ruins, balls of light trailing sparks would fly upward into the night sky. And once they reached higher than any bird could fly, they exploded into enormous colorful displays. Sometimes they would explode multiple times, each with a different color. What magic was at work, he didn't care much about. It just meant that there would be more light, and in turn, more shadows for Mercer to hide in.
The bandits he had expected were not in his way, to his surprise. They were gathered outside, in a crowd surrounded by mages in bizarre pink robes. It was these mages who would toss the balls of light that exploded high above. From what Mercer could pick up, they were taking requests of the bandits for what next to make.
He couldn't understand--the display they were putting on would draw enemies for miles, yet the bandits didn't seem to care. Still, it was a distraction he could make use of. Without the bandits to worry about, it was just the Dwemer traps and the Falmer to deal with.
Imagine his surprise to make his way all the way down to the Falmer statue in the depths of the Dwemer ruin, and saw that the jeweled eyes of the statue were missing. In their place, he found a note held to the statue's nose with a bit of honey.
'Lose something?' And Karliah's symbol. Mercer saw red. How had she figured out his plan? How had she gotten here ahead of him?!
"Yoohoo!"
Mercer automatically dodge-rolled away from where he stood, a good thing too as a ludicrously large Dwemer warhammer struck the ground where he had just been standing. His instincts told him to keep dodging, and as he did he dodged arrows and exploding balls of fire from on high. When it was clear he no longer needed to do so, he stopped and glared upward. On a ledge high above him were three fools in the armor of the Nightingales, and an Orc woman he'd never seen before.
"I know you went to all that trouble to get down there," one of the male Nightingales said, and Mercer identified the voice as Brynjolf's. "But we did a little lookin' around and discovered a cave that goes right from the shore to down here. Fortunate, wouldn't you say?"
"You shouldn't have stayed to gloat," Mercer told him. "Now you will all die." He drew his sword and slashed the air in the right spot--moving the dust in a chain of events that would knock loose the last bits of stone holding Lake Yogrim at bay. The earth shook, and the interlopers had to struggle to stay up on their ledge. Save one. The other male Nightingale, undoubtedly Marcurio, remained standing with no difficulty.
Mercer almost respected that.
"Stealing from a Daedra never ends well, you know." Marcurio lept from the ledge and clung to the walls like a spider to stop his momentum. After a few more such jumps, the Nightingale and the Guildmaster stood on equal footing, glaring at one another. "But really, I'm only here because you
fucking stabbed me in the neck."
"Petty revenge is it? I thought better of you, boy."
"You really,
aggressively, shouldn't have." Marcurio shrugged. "I take after my dad in the pettiness department. Now, let's get to some of that petty revenge, shall we? And if you end up winning, you can go be with Maven or whatever."
Mercer's brain
stopped almost for so long that he'd risk being made an easy target. When he came out of it, he spoke with genuine curiosity. "Why would I go be with Maven? I intended to leave Skyrim altogether."
"Well, that's what all this Gallus murder was about, wasn't it?" Behind his mask, Mercer guessed Marcurio to be looking
insufferably smug about the situation. "You and Maven were going," the man made a series of clicks, whistles, and rude gestures, "and Gallus didn't like that even though he and Karliah were going," he made
another series of clicks, whistles, and even ruder gestures.
Flabbergasted beyond belief, Mercer stared open-mouthed at the Nightingale. "What? What?! No! I killed Gallus because he tried to stop me stealing the Skeleton Key!"
"The skeleton whoozit-whatzit?"
However, Karliah seemed to know what was going on. She gasped in horror at Mercer's words.
"The Skeleton Key, Nocturnal's Daedric Artifact," Mercer declared with clear pride. "She used it only to maintain a portal that she never used. But I have found so many uses for it, the
best uses for it! With the Key, I am unbeatable, and will eventually come into the possession of limitless wealth!"
From up on the ledge, a blinding light emerged from behind the remaining interlopers. Perhaps the sun was coming up outside?
"Lady Meridia," Marcurio said with solemnity. "I trust this is good enough of a reason for us to have involved you?"
"If it was not, I would not be here, mortal." Mercer looked up and saw a pink Khajiit, the size of a child, with eyes that shone from within with golden light and a halo of that same light behind his head. The cat and Guildmaster locked gazes, and Mercer found it to be like staring into the sun. "How
dare you, mortal?" The cat spoke in a male and female voice overlapping each other. "How dare you presume to steal from
my sister!?" Wings of golden light formed on the cat's back and the Daedra-possessed Khajiit launched himself down at Mercer.
Time slowed down and Mercer went over his options. The Daedra-possessed Khajiit was coming in so fast,
too fast. Even if he started dodging the moment the cat had developed wings, he couldn't move fast enough to get out of the way. Every solution the Skeleton Key brought to mind required more of Mercer's body than he could give.
With no viable options for escape, he had to fight like a mere mortal. All the wounds he inflicted on the cat healed themselves instantly, and the wounds inflicted on Mercer from the cat's massive fangs, wing slams, and weapons of light burned like the hottest fire he'd ever experienced. The cuts from the light-sword instantly cauterized themselves. But Mercer knew, if he could just stay alive long enough, the Skeleton Key would--...
...Get stolen, as it turned out. Mercer realized he had lost eight of his senses, he could no longer see the stream of information the Key had provided, and he couldn't slow down time to think. The cause revealed itself to be Marcurio, standing on the crossed legs of the Falmer statue, with the Skeleton Key in his hand.
Without it, Mercer found himself held aloft by his neck and the will of the angry Daedra of the Day. "Chamberlain," the cat snarled in its double-voice. "Bind this mortal, but keep him alive. I want my sister to have her vengeance."
A pink spider-crab thing soon appeared in Mercer's vision and he was helpless to resist as it scuttled all over him and bound him up in prismatic silk until only his nose was exposed.
"Now. You, who has the Skeleton Key. Take this wretch to Nocturnal's temple, open her portal, and cast this thief on whatever bed of coals she deems appropriate."
Left in the dark, only able to faintly hear what went on outside his cocoon, and with no ability to escape his prison, Mercer became what he had stolen the Key to never become again. He became afraid.
--
"So, you got some worshippers now?"
Mohamara looked up from working on enchanting a spyglass. Now that he was back in Helgen, he had backlogged work to catch up on. But this time, with his most promising students to help him out--save The Caller. She, the rest of the faithful, and the bandits of Irkngthand were in the process of a grand migration--from Shearpoint mountain to Volskygge Valley, where they would form a settlement to honor Mohamara.
The mask of the Dragon Priest that had once lurked on Shearpoint's western slope--Krosis--proved to be an excellent teaching tool for how to overlay enchanting effects, and it lay on the table next to the fireplace for his students to look at, study the interconnected arrays, and inspire their own work. The Legion appreciated having more of Mohamara's style of enchanters around, even if they wore pink and were absolutely lovey-dovey. Even when compared to Mara's priesthood.
"Sorta," the cat said at last to Yagraz. On his back, Yehochanan was busy pulling excess emotions out of his head and spinning them up in prismatic cloth for Mohamara to process or use for his enchanting. "There aren't rites, or sacred texts yet. So it's more like… a philosophy? But they asked to be my students, so until they get a religion organized, students are what I'll call them."
"Good for you, short-stuff." She ruffled the Khajiit's fur and had the spider-crab clack his claws in castanet fashion for disrupting his work. "You're finally able to be a teacher. Going to teach them Mysticism?"
Mohamara groaned and rested his head in his hands. "Oh that's going to
suck. They'll be miserable, and then I'll feel guilty about it, and I'll try to dumb it down and they won't learn it right…."
"Have the same faith in yourself that your followers have in you, Master," Yehochanan chimed in as he trapped anxiety in his silk. "Let them walk the path and learn as you did, and trust that they will come to understand eventually."
"This feels incredibly weird, by the way." Mohamara pointed at the cat-sized spider-crab riding on his back and shoulders, plucking at the base of his skull to extract emotions.
"It looks so much worse," Yagraz commented. "Like, if I was a pansy-ass like that one Orthen student guy, I'd probably have thrown up from watching this so long."
"He's not like
exposing my brain is he?"
"No, but those emotions are
ugly when he pulls them out." She made a disgusted noise. "I think one of them blinked at me."
"That would be paranoia," Yehochanan clarified. "And yes, it did."
---
Some of you have those siblings you don't actually
like but if someone other than you fucks around with them you get pissed, right?
If you're curious about the et'Ada genealogy: Azura begot Merid Nunda, Nocturnal, and Mara.
