I'll get some more comin' soon. Y'all just sit here and wait as I post more stuff. I won't edit this post to add more, though. I'll just post it.
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Inheritance
Chapter Three: Bark and Bite
Zarrexaij had just entered the famed meadhall of Thirsk when he had heard the guttural, accent-rich voice of a Nord barbarian.
“I heard from Isralla th’ other day there’s a werewolf runnin’ ‘round here. She said the wolf was unusual. He had jet black fuir and was ‘bout twice the size of a normal werwolf. She saw its shadow at the highest peak of Moesring Mountain barkin’ and howlin’ at the full moon. Somehow, the unholy beast saw her, and slid down the mountain sides t’wards her. Isralla reported that it seemed unusually intelligent... and, well... insane. Said it made strange sounds that sounded like laughter. Then, it disappeared into the night. That’s a bad sign. If it’s any smarter than the average werewolf, we have trouble on our hands.”
Zarrexaij was tempted to flee the place. He was a newcomer, and suspected they would find him a bit suspicious. Afterall, he was pretty damn tall, and his scales were darker than ebony. But... they couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t ever know the truth. Taking a deep breath, he gingerly closed the meadhall’s doors and stepped towards the group of Nords. They turned towards him, and were shocked to see such an unusual creature so far up north.
“What are ye, an overgrown Argonian?” the first one, a tubby, dirty blond headed male Nord interrogated him, cocking his broad head at the half-Rapthyr. Zarrexaij calmly, too calmly, answered, “No. I am a half-Black Rapthyr.” A second Nord, a tall strawberry blond with a little bit of facial hair, lifted an eyebrow.
“Ne’er heard of such a thing.” Zarrexaij laughed. He wasn’t surprised at all. Not that he thought they were completely incompetant, it was just that Black Rapthyrs were a dying breed. With an offended look on his face, the second Nord then riposted, “What’s so funny, eh?” Zarrexaij looked at him square in his blue-gray eyes. “I’m not surprised that you have not heard of the Black Rapthyrs before,” Zarrexaij replied ,“I just find it amusing. I apologize.” The Nord gave him a slow, pensive nod. The Nord’s eyes darted around for a few minutes before asking the bundled-up Rapthyr, or, rather, half-Rapthyr, another question. “What brings ye up this far, half... Rapthyr?” Zarrexaij thought for a second. Why was he here? Oh, that’s right. “I’m up here because,” Zarrexaij paused, gathering his scattered thoughts together in an organized way, “I like the forests and snow. It’s a bit of a ‘vacation’ for me. This place reminds me of Blacklight with the snow and all.” He chuckled heartedly, smiling at the memories that were more than five hundred years old.
“Oh, ye are from mainland Morrowind? Interestin’,” the Nord said it sincerely, swallowing saliva in his throat and causing his larynx to bob a little. The half-Rapthyr obsessively smoothed out his thick robe he bought from a trader in Khuul. Supposedly, it was made from furs of wolves. He thought the robe was a little... soft to be wolf fur. “I take it you don’t get much action up here? You Nords seem a bit bored,” Zarrexaij spoke loudly. His oddly beautiful voice jingled in the room as bells. The Nord gave him a half smile, “Not much. We drink. We be merry. Occasionally, we get a werewolf sightin’ or two back near the Moestring Mountains. I think it has to due with the Bloodmoon. So many bad omens have appeared here and there. It’s worryin’. Now, all we need is some damned witches and we’ll be complete.” The Nord chortled nervously. It was almost as if they were suffering greatly. They probably needed a good laugh.
This all happened a few weeks later when Zarrexaij had noticed something odd about the moons. It just so happened he was, unbeknowst to himself, about to be a part of something important again
Full Version: Inheritance Chapter Three
Zarrexaij was woken up in his abode of Bal Isra by a loud crash.
He cursed loudly, hoping out of his oh-so-comfortable bed in nothing but a loincloth. He grabbed his enchanted silver claymore. The noise sounded like it had came from the front door. Why in the name of Sheogorath does this have to happen when the guards are asleep in their barracks? The lanky, muscular half-Black Rapthyr tip-toed in the hallway. He didn't want to startle whatever the hell had paid visit to his abode. Slowly, he strafed towards the den area, and nearly had a brain anuerysm and a coma at the same time.
Right in front of him was a werewolf. Of all things, a damned werewolf. He thought he had left them behind on the mainland, but, nooooo! something had to follow him along, besides his past. It looked at him with its dull, yellow, stupid eyes. Zarrexaij hissed audibly, holding the claymore above his head, ready to strike. "STUPID FETCHER! I'll teach ya to intrude on my property, you damned beast!" he shouted boisteriously, enraged. Veins popped out on his neck and on his head. The pale lanterns he called eyes light up with an unearthly, angry glow. The fangs of Zarrexaij glittered faintly in the light. The werewolf growled gutterally, lowering itself to pounce on the half-Rapthyr.
Zarrexaij sneered, swinging the sword as it was suspended briefly in the air. It fell limply to his feet. Blood was now sprayed onto the cold floor and his expensive rugs. Dammit! Those were his best damned rugs. He was going to skin this dead werewolf. Grabbing the now-dead, still warm werewolf by the neck, he looked at it gingerly. So, the rumours were wrong? Werewolves were supposed to revert back to humanoid form when dead, or so he was told. The Redoran noble snorted. But, then something strange happened.
"A little quick to lash out violently, are we, mortal? You annoyed me before, and now I hold you in high contempt. For that, you must pay."
Zarrexaij's pallid, off-white blue eyes filled with dread and bewilderment. Oh boy. He must have really pissed off Hircine. In his pondering, the werewolf's eyes seem to have come back to life. Zarrexaij was paralyzed with fear as the thing bit into his muscular arm before dying once more. The half-Rapthyr yelped, his deep, sensual voice filling the entire stronghold. A sinister laughter filled his head.
"I think you'll understand lycanthropy from now on."
The noble stood there, dumbfounded, his sword at his side and his left hand clutching the gaping wound of his right. It was gradually healing, but it hurt. Had he really been infected? If he was, it would take three days to find out. He could only hope that he had been lucky. He was half-Rapthyr, afterall. His father should have at least given him immunity... or so he would think. Then again, his father wasn't a very nice guy, or normal for that matter.
He sat there, bleeding for two minutes straight when the guards had lazily come to his 'rescue.'
He cursed loudly, hoping out of his oh-so-comfortable bed in nothing but a loincloth. He grabbed his enchanted silver claymore. The noise sounded like it had came from the front door. Why in the name of Sheogorath does this have to happen when the guards are asleep in their barracks? The lanky, muscular half-Black Rapthyr tip-toed in the hallway. He didn't want to startle whatever the hell had paid visit to his abode. Slowly, he strafed towards the den area, and nearly had a brain anuerysm and a coma at the same time.
Right in front of him was a werewolf. Of all things, a damned werewolf. He thought he had left them behind on the mainland, but, nooooo! something had to follow him along, besides his past. It looked at him with its dull, yellow, stupid eyes. Zarrexaij hissed audibly, holding the claymore above his head, ready to strike. "STUPID FETCHER! I'll teach ya to intrude on my property, you damned beast!" he shouted boisteriously, enraged. Veins popped out on his neck and on his head. The pale lanterns he called eyes light up with an unearthly, angry glow. The fangs of Zarrexaij glittered faintly in the light. The werewolf growled gutterally, lowering itself to pounce on the half-Rapthyr.
Zarrexaij sneered, swinging the sword as it was suspended briefly in the air. It fell limply to his feet. Blood was now sprayed onto the cold floor and his expensive rugs. Dammit! Those were his best damned rugs. He was going to skin this dead werewolf. Grabbing the now-dead, still warm werewolf by the neck, he looked at it gingerly. So, the rumours were wrong? Werewolves were supposed to revert back to humanoid form when dead, or so he was told. The Redoran noble snorted. But, then something strange happened.
"A little quick to lash out violently, are we, mortal? You annoyed me before, and now I hold you in high contempt. For that, you must pay."
Zarrexaij's pallid, off-white blue eyes filled with dread and bewilderment. Oh boy. He must have really pissed off Hircine. In his pondering, the werewolf's eyes seem to have come back to life. Zarrexaij was paralyzed with fear as the thing bit into his muscular arm before dying once more. The half-Rapthyr yelped, his deep, sensual voice filling the entire stronghold. A sinister laughter filled his head.
"I think you'll understand lycanthropy from now on."
The noble stood there, dumbfounded, his sword at his side and his left hand clutching the gaping wound of his right. It was gradually healing, but it hurt. Had he really been infected? If he was, it would take three days to find out. He could only hope that he had been lucky. He was half-Rapthyr, afterall. His father should have at least given him immunity... or so he would think. Then again, his father wasn't a very nice guy, or normal for that matter.
He sat there, bleeding for two minutes straight when the guards had lazily come to his 'rescue.'
"Muthsera, I am deeply sorry for our late arrival," one of the guards uttered to Zarrexaij. It was now late morning. Zarrexaij laid his head in his right hand, with the elbow propped on the table they were sitting at. In front of the half-Rapthyr was a bottle of opened flin. The Redoran noble had been sipping at it for quite a while. It had eased the pain of his now-healed injury, but the pain was still there. He sighed, looking into the young, dark face of the Dunmeri lad. "Don't worry about it, Lloaren," he replied sullenly, staring at his bottle. He picked it up gingerly and held it up to his dry lips. The Rapthyr coughed as the warm liquid flooded his throat.
He grimaced as he swallowed the only bits of the liquid that stayed in his mouth. Zarrexaij stood up, grabbing a hankerchef to clean it up. Lloaren held him back. "I'll do it for you," the dark elf declared, using the hankerchef to clean up the flin. Both of them sat down. "Thanks," Zarrexaij mumbled. Lloaren gave Zarrexaij a nod. Ever since the noble had been bitten, he had seemed... well... dampered. He wasn't acting like himself. He wasn't his tenacious, boisterious-yet-quiet-self. It was hard to tell if it was the disease itself. Zarrexaij was a very sensitive... man-thing. His high-horse was easily bucked off its position.
"Guards, please return to your posts," he ordered in a weary voice. The guards were reluctant to obey. Zarrexaij was hardly stable. In this condition, he was even more precarious. They left, shutting the door to the main building of Bal Isra behind them. Unbeknownst to them, things were about to change.
Zarrexaij went back into his bedroom, flin in hand. Slowly, he moved the bed with the elaborate canopy. Beneath it was a trapdoor. Smiling feebly, he opened it. Before he headed down, he looked the door to his room from the inside. Then, he slid down the ladder smoothly. This was his safe haven. There was a deep pool of water right across from him, to the west. The room was large, and well-lit by torches that never went out. He had manipulated magical fire to create that effect. Overall, this place had a great atmosphere.
But that wasn't the glory of the room. Oh no. The north side of the room had a large statue, an altar, and multiple offerings of Daedra hearts, emeralds, pearls, ebony, raw glass, vampire dust, rubies, diamonds, ebony weapons, Daedric weapons, and Dwemer weapons. This statue was carved by himself to perfection. He had spent a month or so carving the unhewn stone. Its level of detail was almost surreal. Every crease in the clothing, every eyelash, every strand of hair had been carved with the most careful, caring precision and accuracy. He could do no less. This was the statue of his one love. This was the statue of his one lord. This was the one statue of his Uncle.
This was a statue of Sheogorath. It was eerie how the half-Rapthyr dedicated himself to the Mad One. Because of Him and Zarrexaij's own origins, he often spent hours in here at the nearby desk, reading and writting about the Daedra, the Daedric Princes, and Oblivion. It was an obsession. It was an addiction. Zarrexaij could not help but eventually revere something that played with him like a meek little puppet. It didn't matter if Sheogorath had turned him insane. It didn't matter at all. In Zarrexaij's mind, the Mad God was beautiful. An unearthly beauty, indeed.
He sat there in front of the statue, his glazed over, dull-looking white eyes gazing at it with such an outlandish passion. Under his breath, a mere whisper, he chanted with his eyes closed, repeatedly. This was no Summoning. This time, he was binding the Daedroth to the mortal plane. It required concentration. The half-Rapthyr rocking back and forth gently, his words growing in power and volume. A gust of wind had entered the room, and abruptly the torches went out. Involuntarily, he shuddered as it grew cold and as he heard thunder crackle wildly. The enchantation grew louder and louder, and the room surged with power.
Finally, the air grew still, and there was temporary silence.
He grimaced as he swallowed the only bits of the liquid that stayed in his mouth. Zarrexaij stood up, grabbing a hankerchef to clean it up. Lloaren held him back. "I'll do it for you," the dark elf declared, using the hankerchef to clean up the flin. Both of them sat down. "Thanks," Zarrexaij mumbled. Lloaren gave Zarrexaij a nod. Ever since the noble had been bitten, he had seemed... well... dampered. He wasn't acting like himself. He wasn't his tenacious, boisterious-yet-quiet-self. It was hard to tell if it was the disease itself. Zarrexaij was a very sensitive... man-thing. His high-horse was easily bucked off its position.
"Guards, please return to your posts," he ordered in a weary voice. The guards were reluctant to obey. Zarrexaij was hardly stable. In this condition, he was even more precarious. They left, shutting the door to the main building of Bal Isra behind them. Unbeknownst to them, things were about to change.
Zarrexaij went back into his bedroom, flin in hand. Slowly, he moved the bed with the elaborate canopy. Beneath it was a trapdoor. Smiling feebly, he opened it. Before he headed down, he looked the door to his room from the inside. Then, he slid down the ladder smoothly. This was his safe haven. There was a deep pool of water right across from him, to the west. The room was large, and well-lit by torches that never went out. He had manipulated magical fire to create that effect. Overall, this place had a great atmosphere.
But that wasn't the glory of the room. Oh no. The north side of the room had a large statue, an altar, and multiple offerings of Daedra hearts, emeralds, pearls, ebony, raw glass, vampire dust, rubies, diamonds, ebony weapons, Daedric weapons, and Dwemer weapons. This statue was carved by himself to perfection. He had spent a month or so carving the unhewn stone. Its level of detail was almost surreal. Every crease in the clothing, every eyelash, every strand of hair had been carved with the most careful, caring precision and accuracy. He could do no less. This was the statue of his one love. This was the statue of his one lord. This was the one statue of his Uncle.
This was a statue of Sheogorath. It was eerie how the half-Rapthyr dedicated himself to the Mad One. Because of Him and Zarrexaij's own origins, he often spent hours in here at the nearby desk, reading and writting about the Daedra, the Daedric Princes, and Oblivion. It was an obsession. It was an addiction. Zarrexaij could not help but eventually revere something that played with him like a meek little puppet. It didn't matter if Sheogorath had turned him insane. It didn't matter at all. In Zarrexaij's mind, the Mad God was beautiful. An unearthly beauty, indeed.
He sat there in front of the statue, his glazed over, dull-looking white eyes gazing at it with such an outlandish passion. Under his breath, a mere whisper, he chanted with his eyes closed, repeatedly. This was no Summoning. This time, he was binding the Daedroth to the mortal plane. It required concentration. The half-Rapthyr rocking back and forth gently, his words growing in power and volume. A gust of wind had entered the room, and abruptly the torches went out. Involuntarily, he shuddered as it grew cold and as he heard thunder crackle wildly. The enchantation grew louder and louder, and the room surged with power.
Finally, the air grew still, and there was temporary silence.
I'm reading it now, and from the first two paragraphs I read it looks very nice.
:goodjob:
:goodjob:
Cant wait to hear more.
Zarrexaij slowly lifted his eyelids.
Not much to surprise, he found himself face to face with the Daedric Prince. Quite literally, too. The first thing he saw were His eyes, those clear, cerulean blue eyes. The half-Rapthyr was caught off balance and surprised. He fell backwards, landing with a soft oof. The Daedric Prince had been bent over and staring at him. Zarrexaij held his long arms towards his chest, his claws inwards so he looked both non-threatening and submissive. He didn't wish to offend the Prince at all.
"Did you call for me for an actual reason, Zarrexaij?"
Zarrexaij blinked, looking up at Him with his strangely beautiful eyes. Clearing his throat, he peacefully replied, "Of course I did, Sheogorath, why would I ever do that for no apparent reason? I'm not blockheaded. I realize that binding you to Mundus for no good reason isn't astute or polite at all." He stood up, rolling his neck to crack it. His tail started twitching violently, and his hands begun to tremble. Sheogorath grinned lopsidely at him. "My sullen tone was false, mortal," the Prince replied with amusement, who now stood at a normal level. Zarrexaij was still significantly taller. Zarrexaij half-smiled. He felt more than a bit foolish. "Oh," he interjected sheepishly.
"I called on you for more than sheer grins and giggles. Wanted your unorthodox wisdom. And why did you call me by my name...?" he interrogated curiously, staring unblinkingly at his Lord. Sheogorath shifted His weight to the right side. Then, the Prince caught a glance of the scarred arm. He stepped towards Zarrexaij, catching ahold of it and examining it.
"I suppose thee got thyself into a dispute? If thou can't find a way of calming that wretched temper, I know that thee will be cornered with opponents much stronger. Though, it does look like..." He was stopped abruptly as Zarrexaij tried pulling back his arm. Sheogorath glanced at him hammishly. Zarrexaij lied, "I was bitten by an alit." The Prince made a strange noise, and dropped His cane to the ground so He could fold His arms. "You are an atrocious liar, Zarrexaij. Tell the truth, and I might not have to correct the problem."
"All right. I was bitten by a werewolf this morning. Hurts like hell," the half-Rapthyr explained grimly. His eyes lowered. He was expecting some kind of biting retort. "Did I hear you right? You were bitten by a werewolf? In Vvardenfell?" He questioned, lifting his left strawberry blond eyebrow. Zarrexaij sighed and nodded. Sheogorath lifted the other one and remarked, "Outlandish. Very much so. Mortal, have you been meddling with the Hunter Hircine?" Zarrexaij withdrew his muzzle. The Rapthyr felt prosecuted.
"Well, I made Him angry, but that was weeks ago." Uncomfortable, Zarrexaij felt, standing up. He moved towards his desk and sat down. Sheogorath followed him. It was intruiging that Zarrexaij was bitten. Was he lucky enough to have immunity to diseases? "Look, I'm going to get it checked out by a healer soon. I don't need you acting like my mother, dammit," he snapped abruptly, and shut his muzzle, realizing what he just said, and how much he could have insulted his Lord.
"Zar, I believe it's time for you to get cured anon. You're more irascible than usual. Normally, you're very cordial t'wards I, but that werewolf that rended your arm's flesh affected your mood. It's plain to see you've either contracted it, your precious 'security' is damaged, or both. It would not offend me if I stayed here while you found someone to check it out, today," He stood over Zarrexaij and declared very seriously. Zarrexaij let out a deep, long, gruff sigh. His fists clenched. "I'm NOT going to go in town to find a stupid healer. I'm foine. I'm FOINE! Nothing is wrong with me! I'm perfectly foine!" he exclaimed, standing up and raising both his hands exasperatedly. Sheogorath frowned. Zarrexaij was much more ill than He previously pondered.
"Zarrexaij, I suggest you calm yourself down before I lose my own temper on you, my stubborn mule. As much as I probably could not care less about it, it's for your own good if you actively seek out someone to take care of you, instead of opposing it," He paused, watching Zarrexaij's face changed from an angry one to a very terrified one, "There's something you desired to ask of me?" The half-Rapthyr felt a lump grow in his throat. He didn't feel so well. That was certain. He felt weak compared to usual, and his head ached. Silently, Zarrexaij collected his thoughts.
Finally, he got the courage to say, "I... I... I... I juh-juh-juh-just wanted tuh-to ask yuh-yuh-you if wuh-would help me with suh-suh-something."
Not much to surprise, he found himself face to face with the Daedric Prince. Quite literally, too. The first thing he saw were His eyes, those clear, cerulean blue eyes. The half-Rapthyr was caught off balance and surprised. He fell backwards, landing with a soft oof. The Daedric Prince had been bent over and staring at him. Zarrexaij held his long arms towards his chest, his claws inwards so he looked both non-threatening and submissive. He didn't wish to offend the Prince at all.
"Did you call for me for an actual reason, Zarrexaij?"
Zarrexaij blinked, looking up at Him with his strangely beautiful eyes. Clearing his throat, he peacefully replied, "Of course I did, Sheogorath, why would I ever do that for no apparent reason? I'm not blockheaded. I realize that binding you to Mundus for no good reason isn't astute or polite at all." He stood up, rolling his neck to crack it. His tail started twitching violently, and his hands begun to tremble. Sheogorath grinned lopsidely at him. "My sullen tone was false, mortal," the Prince replied with amusement, who now stood at a normal level. Zarrexaij was still significantly taller. Zarrexaij half-smiled. He felt more than a bit foolish. "Oh," he interjected sheepishly.
"I called on you for more than sheer grins and giggles. Wanted your unorthodox wisdom. And why did you call me by my name...?" he interrogated curiously, staring unblinkingly at his Lord. Sheogorath shifted His weight to the right side. Then, the Prince caught a glance of the scarred arm. He stepped towards Zarrexaij, catching ahold of it and examining it.
"I suppose thee got thyself into a dispute? If thou can't find a way of calming that wretched temper, I know that thee will be cornered with opponents much stronger. Though, it does look like..." He was stopped abruptly as Zarrexaij tried pulling back his arm. Sheogorath glanced at him hammishly. Zarrexaij lied, "I was bitten by an alit." The Prince made a strange noise, and dropped His cane to the ground so He could fold His arms. "You are an atrocious liar, Zarrexaij. Tell the truth, and I might not have to correct the problem."
"All right. I was bitten by a werewolf this morning. Hurts like hell," the half-Rapthyr explained grimly. His eyes lowered. He was expecting some kind of biting retort. "Did I hear you right? You were bitten by a werewolf? In Vvardenfell?" He questioned, lifting his left strawberry blond eyebrow. Zarrexaij sighed and nodded. Sheogorath lifted the other one and remarked, "Outlandish. Very much so. Mortal, have you been meddling with the Hunter Hircine?" Zarrexaij withdrew his muzzle. The Rapthyr felt prosecuted.
"Well, I made Him angry, but that was weeks ago." Uncomfortable, Zarrexaij felt, standing up. He moved towards his desk and sat down. Sheogorath followed him. It was intruiging that Zarrexaij was bitten. Was he lucky enough to have immunity to diseases? "Look, I'm going to get it checked out by a healer soon. I don't need you acting like my mother, dammit," he snapped abruptly, and shut his muzzle, realizing what he just said, and how much he could have insulted his Lord.
"Zar, I believe it's time for you to get cured anon. You're more irascible than usual. Normally, you're very cordial t'wards I, but that werewolf that rended your arm's flesh affected your mood. It's plain to see you've either contracted it, your precious 'security' is damaged, or both. It would not offend me if I stayed here while you found someone to check it out, today," He stood over Zarrexaij and declared very seriously. Zarrexaij let out a deep, long, gruff sigh. His fists clenched. "I'm NOT going to go in town to find a stupid healer. I'm foine. I'm FOINE! Nothing is wrong with me! I'm perfectly foine!" he exclaimed, standing up and raising both his hands exasperatedly. Sheogorath frowned. Zarrexaij was much more ill than He previously pondered.
"Zarrexaij, I suggest you calm yourself down before I lose my own temper on you, my stubborn mule. As much as I probably could not care less about it, it's for your own good if you actively seek out someone to take care of you, instead of opposing it," He paused, watching Zarrexaij's face changed from an angry one to a very terrified one, "There's something you desired to ask of me?" The half-Rapthyr felt a lump grow in his throat. He didn't feel so well. That was certain. He felt weak compared to usual, and his head ached. Silently, Zarrexaij collected his thoughts.
Finally, he got the courage to say, "I... I... I... I juh-juh-juh-just wanted tuh-to ask yuh-yuh-you if wuh-would help me with suh-suh-something."
Very interesting... I wonder what's he going to ask? Anyway, good job and keep on writing! :goodjob:
"Go ahead and question me. While you are at it, stop that abhorrent stuttering," the Daedric Prince replied semi-gruffly, picking up one of the good-sized books on Zarrexaij's desk and reading it. Collecting himself, the half-Rapthyr took a deep breath and spoke. "Do you think of me as just a mortal? Do you adknowledge my origins? What do you think of me, Sire?" The Rapthyr stared poignantly into Sheogorath's eyes that were scanning the pages. Sheogorath closed the book with an audible putt. His avatar's face had an interested countenance on it. He took a deep breath before answering the questions.
"No, I don't think of you as 'just' a mortal, and, yes, I do adknowledge your peculiar origins. The last question I cannot answer, unfortunately," He replied with a sincere tone in His voice. Zarrexaij's eyes made it look like his spirit had dropped or broken. In a tiny voice, he asked, "Why not?" His eyes were filled of a deep morbid longing and sadness. The Daedric Prince shifted again. It wasn't the most comfortable moment in the Cosmos. He struggled to answer it, but He did. "It wouldn't be fair to answer it. It would not be fair to you or I," He explained, finding it painful to look the half-Rapthyr straight into the eyes. For a moment, Sheogorath swore he saw those eyes turn dull.
"Why did you ask?" Zarrexaij looked frightened. He didn't want to answer that question. If he didn't, he would make the Daedric Prince petulant. He didn't want to make his Lord mad... err... angry. If he did give an answer, he would most likely end up in a bad situation as well. Zarrexaij knew such thing was taboo. One way or another, the Mad One sensed the tension Zarrexaij was having. The half-Rapthyr bit his lip.
Hesitantly, he answered, "It's just... well... I don't know how to say it without feeling thoroughly foolish and embarrased.... I know it's wrong... but... but... Sheogorath... I... well... I love you. I know that I shouldn't. I know you can never view me in such ways. I cannot explain it. I cannot tell you what sparked it. It did not just happen. It grew so slowly over the years. So slowly. I hardly noticed it... but then when I did... it was painful. It was even more painful keeping it in. Most of all, I just wanted comfort that you did or did not see me differently, to put my jaded mind and bitter heart at ease."
The Daedric Prince looked at him bewildered. It wasn't insulting. It was intruiging. But, afterall, Zarrexaij was just. Zarrexaij did not belong. Zarrexaij was eccentric. But, most of all, those three words had scared Him. For once, the Daedric Prince of Madness was left silent. It wasn't that He couldn't think of anything. It was just so much. In all His years of existance, nothing had prepared Him for now.
Zarrexaij slumped in his seat. He turned away, and quivered. The half-Rapthyr started making strange, melanchony noises. Sheogorath bit His lip. Confusing thing. The noises got piteously louder, and the Mad One could take it no more. Next to Zarrexaij, He kneeled, and looked at Zarrexaij. Bloody tears had streamed down the half-breed's eyes down to his beautiful clothes, staining them. It looked like he had aged a hundred years. The half-Rapthyr suddenly look skeletonly gaunt. Most of all, every line below his eyes had made itself prominent.
Groaning, He stood up, leaning against the chair. He took the large muzzle of the half-Rapthyr into His elegant hands. "Shhh." Zarrexaij started sniffling. Sheogorath gazed into his eyes again and flinched. The creature was exuding a hideously large amount of pain. He could feel it just be looking at him and touching him. He told Zarrexaij as softly as a madman could, "Zarrexaij, I'm... flattered... that you could ever feel that way. Don't let me absorb you. I don't know... what category.... you would be in. I shan't risk getting you killed. Do what you need to do." Zarrexaij stopped the sounds, but tears still streamed from the corners of his eyes.
Then, everything went black for the half-Rapthyr.
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Yeah. As you can see, Zarrexaij is more than a little wacko.
"No, I don't think of you as 'just' a mortal, and, yes, I do adknowledge your peculiar origins. The last question I cannot answer, unfortunately," He replied with a sincere tone in His voice. Zarrexaij's eyes made it look like his spirit had dropped or broken. In a tiny voice, he asked, "Why not?" His eyes were filled of a deep morbid longing and sadness. The Daedric Prince shifted again. It wasn't the most comfortable moment in the Cosmos. He struggled to answer it, but He did. "It wouldn't be fair to answer it. It would not be fair to you or I," He explained, finding it painful to look the half-Rapthyr straight into the eyes. For a moment, Sheogorath swore he saw those eyes turn dull.
"Why did you ask?" Zarrexaij looked frightened. He didn't want to answer that question. If he didn't, he would make the Daedric Prince petulant. He didn't want to make his Lord mad... err... angry. If he did give an answer, he would most likely end up in a bad situation as well. Zarrexaij knew such thing was taboo. One way or another, the Mad One sensed the tension Zarrexaij was having. The half-Rapthyr bit his lip.
Hesitantly, he answered, "It's just... well... I don't know how to say it without feeling thoroughly foolish and embarrased.... I know it's wrong... but... but... Sheogorath... I... well... I love you. I know that I shouldn't. I know you can never view me in such ways. I cannot explain it. I cannot tell you what sparked it. It did not just happen. It grew so slowly over the years. So slowly. I hardly noticed it... but then when I did... it was painful. It was even more painful keeping it in. Most of all, I just wanted comfort that you did or did not see me differently, to put my jaded mind and bitter heart at ease."
The Daedric Prince looked at him bewildered. It wasn't insulting. It was intruiging. But, afterall, Zarrexaij was just. Zarrexaij did not belong. Zarrexaij was eccentric. But, most of all, those three words had scared Him. For once, the Daedric Prince of Madness was left silent. It wasn't that He couldn't think of anything. It was just so much. In all His years of existance, nothing had prepared Him for now.
Zarrexaij slumped in his seat. He turned away, and quivered. The half-Rapthyr started making strange, melanchony noises. Sheogorath bit His lip. Confusing thing. The noises got piteously louder, and the Mad One could take it no more. Next to Zarrexaij, He kneeled, and looked at Zarrexaij. Bloody tears had streamed down the half-breed's eyes down to his beautiful clothes, staining them. It looked like he had aged a hundred years. The half-Rapthyr suddenly look skeletonly gaunt. Most of all, every line below his eyes had made itself prominent.
Groaning, He stood up, leaning against the chair. He took the large muzzle of the half-Rapthyr into His elegant hands. "Shhh." Zarrexaij started sniffling. Sheogorath gazed into his eyes again and flinched. The creature was exuding a hideously large amount of pain. He could feel it just be looking at him and touching him. He told Zarrexaij as softly as a madman could, "Zarrexaij, I'm... flattered... that you could ever feel that way. Don't let me absorb you. I don't know... what category.... you would be in. I shan't risk getting you killed. Do what you need to do." Zarrexaij stopped the sounds, but tears still streamed from the corners of his eyes.
Then, everything went black for the half-Rapthyr.
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Yeah. As you can see, Zarrexaij is more than a little wacko.
Very glad to see you still writing. Good as ever.
:goodjob:
:goodjob:
It was now the second day of the apparent "infection," and Zarrexaij was acting a little more like his self. However, he seemed depressed, and ever since he had woken up, he had hid himself in his basement and locked the door with a very powerful spell. Fortunately, Verunollo had someone more unstable around to unwid the extremely tense half-Rapthyr. It wasn't that it was abnormal for Zarrexaij to be in his study; he just never locked the door. Veruna suspected he was studying. Not that it would do him much good.
The Dunmeri-looking woman had gone into town earlier in the day and bought a Cure Common Disease potion for the stubborn mule. She had looked in town for a scroll to open the door, but nothing was powerful enough. Of course, none of the spell merchants had the needed spell, so she went on her way. Verunollo was a mage herself, but she was hardly powerful enough to unlock a stupid door. Of course... she could always ask the lingering Sheogorath to, who seemed a bit bored with the "normal," stable nature of the stronghold.
"I suppose you'll go down into that dungeon of his and give him this? He's too stubborn to go out himself, and I'm sure he'll, though reluctantly, drink it if you give it to him," she muttered to him lowly. The Daedric Prince was sitting down and playing with one of the knives, but did not turn His attention away from it. He replied dully, "Of course." Veruna laid the vail on the table gently, trying to prevent herself from glaring at the reluctant tone in His voice.
Sheogorath had gone down there, as promised, and was surprised at how dark it was in there. The only light that was illuminating the large room was emitted from the desk. Not to anyone's surprise, Zarrexaij was sitting at his desk, writing in a blank book. To his left was an inkwell. Zarrexaij had unusually elegant handwriting, even for the Daedric caligraphy. Every sigil seemed perfected and elaborated beyond belief. It was a stereotype that magus and sorcerers had horrible handwriting, but this seemed not to matter to Zarrexaij. But, then again, Zarrexaij was hardly your average spellcaster
Sheogorath had noted that Zarrexaij's stern expression was groggy but concentration. He hadn't eaten in several hours, but that hardly seemed to matter. The Daedric Prince watched the flicks on the quill on the paper, and the ink produced from them. At Sheogorath's angle, He could easily see what the half-Rapthyr was writing.
"I'm so tired. This fatigue is unusual. I feel tired... but not in the sense that I need rest. Not in the sense I need to restore my magicka, or that my health is ebbing. No. It's a tide that I feel taking me away. It's almost as if someone had stolen my magickal umbilical cord. Ironically, if it had been, I would not be here, writing. I would be dead. Dead. Death sounds so comforting now. Five hundred and thirty-three years is a long time to go bounding on," he wrote quickly. He put little effort into thinking about what he had said. Behind the Rapthyr, the Daedric Prince gazed at him dramatically. It was very apparent now that the disease was affecting him. He had gone beyond reason, and that was not good.
Sheogorath decided to play a vilely clever trick on the Rapthyr. As soon as Zarrexaij lay the quill in the inkwell, Sheogorath used telekinesis to pick it up. With it, He started "writing:"
"Is that how it is?"
Zarrexaij looked at the book, stunned. Was he suffering a hallucination? Well, he hadn;t eaten in quite a while. He took a spare quill out of his desk. Two could play at this game.
"Yes. Yes it is."
Sheogorath smirked at the oblivious mortal, or whatever you would call the little monster. Using the quill, he replied:
"Such an ungrateful mortal. You would not be so sullen if you were actually near death."
Zarrexaij grunted and glared at the floating quill. Taking his own, he dipped it in ink, and briskly responded.
"I am not your lapdog."
The Daedric Prince felt like bursting into laughter. This was amusing.
"You are my hand," the living quill retorted. A stuble growl was emitted from the Rapthyr.
"I am not your sky."
But the riposted was, "You are the stars."
A very hammish countenance was on the muzzle of Zarrexaij. Anger flickered steadily in his faintly glowing eyes that were a kwama miner's lantern.
"I am not your thunderstorm."
Sheogorath manipulated the quill to dip it in ink.
"You are the rain."
Finally, Zarrexaij caught up to what was happening, or at least some of it. Smugly, he wrote.
"What do you want of me?"
The Daedric Prince grinned lop-sidedly. The quill flickered on the parchment.
"I want you to realize the importance of being grateful for the few blessing you have, mortal."
Zarrexaij read the statement, and felt sheepish. He felt a strange presence around him. The quill was laid down. He turned around.
"Oh," Zarrexaij muttered, feelling more than a little bit stupid. He should have suspected Sheogorath was up to mischief. He noticed Sheogorath was holding a bottle of odd-looking, odd-smelling liquid. So Zarrexaij, naturally, interrogated curiously, "What is that?" The Daedric Prince took no time to think of a lie to loosen the Rapthyr up, so He told the truth. "A potion to rid you of that dreadful disease," He replied sourly, gritting his teeth at the silly mage. Zarrexaij looked offended. "You have to take it. Don't make me force it down your throat. I'd prefer to do it the easy way."
Zarrexaij sighed, and held out his hand for the potion. Sheogorath hastily gave to the Rapthyr, relieved that he had put up no fight. He watched the Rapthyr carefully as he opened it and drank it. Only a few sips got in before in slipped out of his feeble hands.
"Blast it!" the Rapthyr hissed, reviling at the liquid at his feet. Sheogorath sighed and replied while rolling his eyes at the suddenly clumsy thing, "Don't worry. I'm sure it cured you. If it didn't, wait until tomorrow. When you sprout fur, you will know." Zarrexaij leaned back into his chair. He felt a little lighter.
The Dunmeri-looking woman had gone into town earlier in the day and bought a Cure Common Disease potion for the stubborn mule. She had looked in town for a scroll to open the door, but nothing was powerful enough. Of course, none of the spell merchants had the needed spell, so she went on her way. Verunollo was a mage herself, but she was hardly powerful enough to unlock a stupid door. Of course... she could always ask the lingering Sheogorath to, who seemed a bit bored with the "normal," stable nature of the stronghold.
"I suppose you'll go down into that dungeon of his and give him this? He's too stubborn to go out himself, and I'm sure he'll, though reluctantly, drink it if you give it to him," she muttered to him lowly. The Daedric Prince was sitting down and playing with one of the knives, but did not turn His attention away from it. He replied dully, "Of course." Veruna laid the vail on the table gently, trying to prevent herself from glaring at the reluctant tone in His voice.
Sheogorath had gone down there, as promised, and was surprised at how dark it was in there. The only light that was illuminating the large room was emitted from the desk. Not to anyone's surprise, Zarrexaij was sitting at his desk, writing in a blank book. To his left was an inkwell. Zarrexaij had unusually elegant handwriting, even for the Daedric caligraphy. Every sigil seemed perfected and elaborated beyond belief. It was a stereotype that magus and sorcerers had horrible handwriting, but this seemed not to matter to Zarrexaij. But, then again, Zarrexaij was hardly your average spellcaster
Sheogorath had noted that Zarrexaij's stern expression was groggy but concentration. He hadn't eaten in several hours, but that hardly seemed to matter. The Daedric Prince watched the flicks on the quill on the paper, and the ink produced from them. At Sheogorath's angle, He could easily see what the half-Rapthyr was writing.
"I'm so tired. This fatigue is unusual. I feel tired... but not in the sense that I need rest. Not in the sense I need to restore my magicka, or that my health is ebbing. No. It's a tide that I feel taking me away. It's almost as if someone had stolen my magickal umbilical cord. Ironically, if it had been, I would not be here, writing. I would be dead. Dead. Death sounds so comforting now. Five hundred and thirty-three years is a long time to go bounding on," he wrote quickly. He put little effort into thinking about what he had said. Behind the Rapthyr, the Daedric Prince gazed at him dramatically. It was very apparent now that the disease was affecting him. He had gone beyond reason, and that was not good.
Sheogorath decided to play a vilely clever trick on the Rapthyr. As soon as Zarrexaij lay the quill in the inkwell, Sheogorath used telekinesis to pick it up. With it, He started "writing:"
"Is that how it is?"
Zarrexaij looked at the book, stunned. Was he suffering a hallucination? Well, he hadn;t eaten in quite a while. He took a spare quill out of his desk. Two could play at this game.
"Yes. Yes it is."
Sheogorath smirked at the oblivious mortal, or whatever you would call the little monster. Using the quill, he replied:
"Such an ungrateful mortal. You would not be so sullen if you were actually near death."
Zarrexaij grunted and glared at the floating quill. Taking his own, he dipped it in ink, and briskly responded.
"I am not your lapdog."
The Daedric Prince felt like bursting into laughter. This was amusing.
"You are my hand," the living quill retorted. A stuble growl was emitted from the Rapthyr.
"I am not your sky."
But the riposted was, "You are the stars."
A very hammish countenance was on the muzzle of Zarrexaij. Anger flickered steadily in his faintly glowing eyes that were a kwama miner's lantern.
"I am not your thunderstorm."
Sheogorath manipulated the quill to dip it in ink.
"You are the rain."
Finally, Zarrexaij caught up to what was happening, or at least some of it. Smugly, he wrote.
"What do you want of me?"
The Daedric Prince grinned lop-sidedly. The quill flickered on the parchment.
"I want you to realize the importance of being grateful for the few blessing you have, mortal."
Zarrexaij read the statement, and felt sheepish. He felt a strange presence around him. The quill was laid down. He turned around.
"Oh," Zarrexaij muttered, feelling more than a little bit stupid. He should have suspected Sheogorath was up to mischief. He noticed Sheogorath was holding a bottle of odd-looking, odd-smelling liquid. So Zarrexaij, naturally, interrogated curiously, "What is that?" The Daedric Prince took no time to think of a lie to loosen the Rapthyr up, so He told the truth. "A potion to rid you of that dreadful disease," He replied sourly, gritting his teeth at the silly mage. Zarrexaij looked offended. "You have to take it. Don't make me force it down your throat. I'd prefer to do it the easy way."
Zarrexaij sighed, and held out his hand for the potion. Sheogorath hastily gave to the Rapthyr, relieved that he had put up no fight. He watched the Rapthyr carefully as he opened it and drank it. Only a few sips got in before in slipped out of his feeble hands.
"Blast it!" the Rapthyr hissed, reviling at the liquid at his feet. Sheogorath sighed and replied while rolling his eyes at the suddenly clumsy thing, "Don't worry. I'm sure it cured you. If it didn't, wait until tomorrow. When you sprout fur, you will know." Zarrexaij leaned back into his chair. He felt a little lighter.
Ack! It is too intlelectul for me!!!! Is there a chanec you could print it onto flash cards? 
Maaaaybe. :paperbag2:
[quote="Zarrexaij"] He noticed Sheogorath was holding a bottle of odd-looking, odd-smelling liquid. So Zarrexaij, naturally, interrogated curiously, "What is that?" [quote]
I think it should be a commer before the so..as you shouldn't have a conjunction thing at the start of the sentence. It looks better in my opinion, but that is just me. Because it looks stupid like this.
I think it should be a commer before the so..as you shouldn't have a conjunction thing at the start of the sentence. It looks better in my opinion, but that is just me. Because it looks stupid like this.
Many great writers start sentences with conjunctions. There is an author that writes in entire fragments. Some don't even follow the correct way to use I or me, so "Woe is me" should be "Woe is I."
So, with all purposes, I shouldn't have to correct it. Prose isn't %100 correct, and this isn't grammar school. :eek:
So, with all purposes, I shouldn't have to correct it. Prose isn't %100 correct, and this isn't grammar school. :eek:
Hehe. Quill-based mischeif.
And you guys thought possessed girls were fun. 
[quote=Zarrexaij]And you guys thought possessed girls were fun. [/quote]
Everything's fun with possession (and lycanthropey)!!
[/quote]
Everything's fun with possession (and lycanthropey)!!
"Since you don't appear to be foaming at the mouth, I'll inform your daughter you aren't a wolfman, yet."
Zarrexaij snorted loudly. His eyes followed the Daedric Prince as far as they could, though in the corner of his eye he could still see Him. He sighed deeply. Verunollo would probably come down as well and shove pipping hot soup down his throat. No matter. The guards were at their outside posts, so no worries there. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet, though pampering was good as well.
I need a bath he thought to himself, smelling his musk and twitching his nostrils in disgust. He could probably get a servant from the barracks, a spell or two, and some soap. The half-Rapthyr chuckled in delight. Admittedly, he was hardly a modest man. In his youth, he was considered quite the lecher. Now, he could go for a sensual pleasure. He had cooled off considerably since his early days. It was now his "duty" to settle down with a spouse. Though, at his state...
In the corner of his eye, he saw his daughter step up to him, with her beautiful black hair and deep dark red eyes. She was in a modest indigo dress that he bought for her. Zarrexaij grinned ironically. With her, she brought a large bowl of scrib jelly atop of scuttle. She cleared her throat and spoke in her delightfully soft voice, "I fixed this for you. Please eat it. You look terribly famished." "Thanks for the offer," he replied in his contrasted deep, low voice, "but I'd like to eat upstairs." Verunollo nodded, and gawked at him as he stood up wobbily.
She motioned to help him up, but Zarrexaij shook his head violently. "I can do it myself," he muttered gruffly. He stood up with a bit of effort and popped his back. Verunollo tsked at him, but made no comment. And that was exactly the way Zarrexaij liked it.
Zarrexaij lazily crawled up the steps and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. The bed had not been moved back. That he was grateful for. He stepped into the dining room, and lifted his scaly brows. Verunollo had made dinner for both her and Zarrexaij, but he suspected she had set something aside in case Sheogorath had an inexorable craving for the taste of a mortal's food.
When Zarrexaij had sat at the table, he twitched. The two were eying him. He picked up utensils, and started eating the food at amazing speed. Famished indeed. Verunollo looked exceeding ham, and Sheogorath's face was twitching, as if with a tic. That hardly caught Zarrexaij's notice.
Sheogorath commented, "Is that normal?" Verunollo glanced at Him and blinked. "To be completely sincere, no." Sheogorath shuddered, and turned away. Zarrexaij blinked, and took his mouth off the spoonful of jelly. "What?" he interrogated with a mouth half-full of food. Verunollo giggled. "For a Redoran, you aren't acting anything like one," she teased, grinning widely at him. Zarrexaij went back to practically inhaling his dinner. After he had finished every speck of food, he wiped off his mouth with a hankercief. "Veruna, care to get one or two of the servants so I may take a bath? My scales are oily, my feathers smell like wet dog, and I feel like I bathed in ash mud," he remarked, grimacing at his reflection in the spoon.
"All right."
Zarrexaij snorted loudly. His eyes followed the Daedric Prince as far as they could, though in the corner of his eye he could still see Him. He sighed deeply. Verunollo would probably come down as well and shove pipping hot soup down his throat. No matter. The guards were at their outside posts, so no worries there. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet, though pampering was good as well.
I need a bath he thought to himself, smelling his musk and twitching his nostrils in disgust. He could probably get a servant from the barracks, a spell or two, and some soap. The half-Rapthyr chuckled in delight. Admittedly, he was hardly a modest man. In his youth, he was considered quite the lecher. Now, he could go for a sensual pleasure. He had cooled off considerably since his early days. It was now his "duty" to settle down with a spouse. Though, at his state...
In the corner of his eye, he saw his daughter step up to him, with her beautiful black hair and deep dark red eyes. She was in a modest indigo dress that he bought for her. Zarrexaij grinned ironically. With her, she brought a large bowl of scrib jelly atop of scuttle. She cleared her throat and spoke in her delightfully soft voice, "I fixed this for you. Please eat it. You look terribly famished." "Thanks for the offer," he replied in his contrasted deep, low voice, "but I'd like to eat upstairs." Verunollo nodded, and gawked at him as he stood up wobbily.
She motioned to help him up, but Zarrexaij shook his head violently. "I can do it myself," he muttered gruffly. He stood up with a bit of effort and popped his back. Verunollo tsked at him, but made no comment. And that was exactly the way Zarrexaij liked it.
Zarrexaij lazily crawled up the steps and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. The bed had not been moved back. That he was grateful for. He stepped into the dining room, and lifted his scaly brows. Verunollo had made dinner for both her and Zarrexaij, but he suspected she had set something aside in case Sheogorath had an inexorable craving for the taste of a mortal's food.
When Zarrexaij had sat at the table, he twitched. The two were eying him. He picked up utensils, and started eating the food at amazing speed. Famished indeed. Verunollo looked exceeding ham, and Sheogorath's face was twitching, as if with a tic. That hardly caught Zarrexaij's notice.
Sheogorath commented, "Is that normal?" Verunollo glanced at Him and blinked. "To be completely sincere, no." Sheogorath shuddered, and turned away. Zarrexaij blinked, and took his mouth off the spoonful of jelly. "What?" he interrogated with a mouth half-full of food. Verunollo giggled. "For a Redoran, you aren't acting anything like one," she teased, grinning widely at him. Zarrexaij went back to practically inhaling his dinner. After he had finished every speck of food, he wiped off his mouth with a hankercief. "Veruna, care to get one or two of the servants so I may take a bath? My scales are oily, my feathers smell like wet dog, and I feel like I bathed in ash mud," he remarked, grimacing at his reflection in the spoon.
"All right."
Nice written Zarrex... :goodjob: Like they way u write :lickinglips:
Nice writing and with that "He looks around shaking, awaiting some more"
Zarrexaij had taken a bath, and was naturally soaked. He was sitting on a stool with his dripping feathers behind his shoulders. The servants were cleaning up the bath. They weren't heeding him at the moment. Zarrexaij's eyes were staring off into nothingness. The naked Rapthyr was just sitting there, shaking slightly. Then, he fell forward, limp. His body started trembling, until it became a violent fit. The youngest servant, a dainty Dunmeri lass, had seen him fall and shrieked. All the servants turned towards their master, his eyes rolled back in his head with his tongue lolling out of his mouth lazily. His face was parallel to the ground. Naturally, the oldest of the bunch went to fetch his daughter.
The young Dunmeri inched towards his body. She was afraid for his life, and hers. His trashes made her very uneasy. The girl sat down, and propped the Rapthyr's head in her lap. His head felt very heavy. Verunollo finally entered the room, and her eyes were wide. Behind her was the curious Sheogorath, gazing over her shoulders. Veruna's eyes filled with rage. "Someone get my a blanket, a towel, anything! He needs to be warm," she demanded furiously, dropping to his side and staring at the servant. Verunollo/Veruna looked askew at the rest of the servants as another one went off to fetch a blanket.
Sheogorath was no longer in the doorway, and had tooken a position close to Zarrexaij's daughter. He held a pensive countenance. He gripped his cane tightly with his right hand. Veruna winced as Zarrexaij subconciously dug his talons into her, and she looked up at the Daedric Prince numbly. "He's been having these fits more and more frequently," she explained in a soft voice, "He started having them three years ago. We have a healer to deal with this, but I'm afraid they're a bit a-ways from here." The Daedric Prince watched a servant put a blanket over the slowly calming epileptic body of the Rapthyr. Zarrexaij opened his eyes briefly, and uttered softly, "I'm here." The rolled back in his head, but his violence had stopped.
"Watch over him while I fetch the healer," Veruna said to no one in particular. She headed out the door. Sheogorath eyed the Rapthyr. His eyes were now focused on Him. They were dull and glazed over, a very pallid shade of blue. Helpless eyes. Terrified eyes. An expression of confusion entered his face. Startled, he sat up, looking around him frantically. "Where am I?" he interrogated. His muzzle darted around. The Daedric Prince almost pitied him. Zarrexaij had became a little lost child. In a low voice, He replied, "You are home." Zarrexaij twisted his head around.
"Who are you?" Zarrexaij looked even more bewildered. Sheogorath looked at him dumbfounded for a few seconds and shook His head briskly to shrug it off. He could lie to the confused creature, but he chose not to. That would be exceedingly cruel, and He wasn't exactly the Daedric Prince of Treachery. "Sheogorath, Zarrexaij," he replied blandly, masking a bit of amusement. The Rapthyr curled up in the blanket. His eyes had a lost a little of the puzzled gleam. They suddenly lit up.
"Oh, you're the Daedric Prince of Madness. I think I have summoned you before," he commented with an unsettling smile. Sheogorath nodded slowly and arched a gentle light eyebrow. "You had a bit of a fit there," Sheogorath remarked gently, deciding to sit down next to the tall, blanketed creature. Zarrexaij had a faint grin creep across his narrow, elongated face. He said drolly, "It won't be my last."
About an hour or so later, Veruna appeared. With her was a Khajiit healer. He was taller than Veruna, and wore a simple brown robe with a pack slung around his shoulders. Dro'rasha was his name. Dro'rasha stepped towards Zarrexaij, and barely paid attention to the Banker. The Khajiit hmmmmed. He was scruntinizing the Rapthyr. "His eyes are a bit dilated. Give him a trama root paste. Make sure he doesn't go to sleep for about four hours, and don't let him exert himself. If he strains himself, he'll have another seizure," the Khajiit informed Verunollo. Zarrexaij peered at his daughter anxiously. Veruna nodded obeidiantly, and paid the Khajiit.
"Sometimes, Zarrexaij, you are a real bother," said his daughter, a relieved look on her face.
The young Dunmeri inched towards his body. She was afraid for his life, and hers. His trashes made her very uneasy. The girl sat down, and propped the Rapthyr's head in her lap. His head felt very heavy. Verunollo finally entered the room, and her eyes were wide. Behind her was the curious Sheogorath, gazing over her shoulders. Veruna's eyes filled with rage. "Someone get my a blanket, a towel, anything! He needs to be warm," she demanded furiously, dropping to his side and staring at the servant. Verunollo/Veruna looked askew at the rest of the servants as another one went off to fetch a blanket.
Sheogorath was no longer in the doorway, and had tooken a position close to Zarrexaij's daughter. He held a pensive countenance. He gripped his cane tightly with his right hand. Veruna winced as Zarrexaij subconciously dug his talons into her, and she looked up at the Daedric Prince numbly. "He's been having these fits more and more frequently," she explained in a soft voice, "He started having them three years ago. We have a healer to deal with this, but I'm afraid they're a bit a-ways from here." The Daedric Prince watched a servant put a blanket over the slowly calming epileptic body of the Rapthyr. Zarrexaij opened his eyes briefly, and uttered softly, "I'm here." The rolled back in his head, but his violence had stopped.
"Watch over him while I fetch the healer," Veruna said to no one in particular. She headed out the door. Sheogorath eyed the Rapthyr. His eyes were now focused on Him. They were dull and glazed over, a very pallid shade of blue. Helpless eyes. Terrified eyes. An expression of confusion entered his face. Startled, he sat up, looking around him frantically. "Where am I?" he interrogated. His muzzle darted around. The Daedric Prince almost pitied him. Zarrexaij had became a little lost child. In a low voice, He replied, "You are home." Zarrexaij twisted his head around.
"Who are you?" Zarrexaij looked even more bewildered. Sheogorath looked at him dumbfounded for a few seconds and shook His head briskly to shrug it off. He could lie to the confused creature, but he chose not to. That would be exceedingly cruel, and He wasn't exactly the Daedric Prince of Treachery. "Sheogorath, Zarrexaij," he replied blandly, masking a bit of amusement. The Rapthyr curled up in the blanket. His eyes had a lost a little of the puzzled gleam. They suddenly lit up.
"Oh, you're the Daedric Prince of Madness. I think I have summoned you before," he commented with an unsettling smile. Sheogorath nodded slowly and arched a gentle light eyebrow. "You had a bit of a fit there," Sheogorath remarked gently, deciding to sit down next to the tall, blanketed creature. Zarrexaij had a faint grin creep across his narrow, elongated face. He said drolly, "It won't be my last."
About an hour or so later, Veruna appeared. With her was a Khajiit healer. He was taller than Veruna, and wore a simple brown robe with a pack slung around his shoulders. Dro'rasha was his name. Dro'rasha stepped towards Zarrexaij, and barely paid attention to the Banker. The Khajiit hmmmmed. He was scruntinizing the Rapthyr. "His eyes are a bit dilated. Give him a trama root paste. Make sure he doesn't go to sleep for about four hours, and don't let him exert himself. If he strains himself, he'll have another seizure," the Khajiit informed Verunollo. Zarrexaij peered at his daughter anxiously. Veruna nodded obeidiantly, and paid the Khajiit.
"Sometimes, Zarrexaij, you are a real bother," said his daughter, a relieved look on her face.
I've read a little part (the beginning, actually) and I like the idea of an Argonian werevolf - very exotic... the language and form seems to be decent (read: I LIKE IT 
), so keep up the good work.
), so keep up the good work.
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