#bardofthewest

“My Prince, I… I want to make an offer. My brothers they… well, you know how nobles are like, we think we know what’s best and then they get killed. It’s all stupid, really,” he braved looking up to Sheogorath once more, the black veins, the sickly air of Oblivion in his lungs, all familiar, all comfortable.

“My Prince, I want to keep my brothers safe. They’re all I have. I know it’s a very… very burdensome thing I ask of you, so I will give you something in return,” and here, he paused, frightened, almost, but there’s a look of determination in his eyes, “My soul, for yours to have, to do as you please.”

For a moment, madness is silent.

Sheogorath’s eyes halve as he regards the boy, fingers arching to meet under his chin, head slowly tilting. Regarding him - no, scrutinizing him.

“It is a lot ye ask of me, laddie, and I don’t make these deals lightly. Why don’t we go somewhere more - businesslike?” On the last syllable, their surroundings changed. The room resembled that of a banker’s office, flanked by shelves of documents and scrolls, smelling of ink and the hard tang of coin. He seats himself in a green, high-backed chair behind an imposing wooden desk, leaning back and gesturing for Camille to sit before him.

“Yer soul, for the love of yer brothers. Aren’t ye a sweet thing? Now, I’m not one t’grant immortality all willy-nilly!” He briefly makes a face, as though biting into a peppercorn, before chuckling. “But to protect them, I can do. No arrow will meet their heart too deep, no sword’ll separate head from neck.” Of course, that didn’t mean swords and arrows wouldn’t penetrate flesh, tear apart muscle. Oh, they’d know pain. It simply wouldn’t end their little, mortal, mayfly lives.

“Why, sweet little Camille, ‘o course I can spare a moment. After all, I’ve an eternity, and so very little t’fill it! Ye know how rare it is for me children, selfish little things, t’write me? One letter! I just want one little letter from me darling little sprogs!

“Murder Basille Allard. Definitely.” There’s a grin on his face that’s only growing broader as he goes on. “Am I allowed to lop off all his fingers and toes before I take the head? How about his eyes? He ain’t gonna need those.”

You could join me in my realm then, My Prince, and we could see the sights that only a mortal could love.

“What an invitation!” Sheogorath tries to grab Camille by the hands and swing him in a loop, suddenly grinning ear to ear. “Things only a mortal could love, hmn? Apples, grandmothers, sunsets? Terribly romantic of ye, lad.”

His grip grows tight as a vice, cinching the boy’s sleeves to his skin.

Maksim brightens at the invitation.  He knows he can sing well, and while flaunting it at a time like this may be an invitation for trouble, it’s a risk he’s willing to take.  He’s been cooped up for so long, and stretching his wings feels fine.

Besides, everyone here is drunk, or else occupied.  No one will remember.

He opens his mouth to sing.  His chest swells with it, and his voice rises above the bard’s music, swelling, arching, plummeting back down.  He knows that some of the patrons have stopped their conversations to listen, and having their eyes on him makes him feel powerful.  

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A pirate captain, really?

Why not a pirate captain? Those are usually the interesting sorts!

Quite right.  Goodness knows one doesn’t want to be bored.  Although piracy is a crime and quite illegal and one wouldn’t want to get mixed up in that, of course.