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Her Best Work In Red	By : Johnny-Topside Category: +A through F > Elder Scrolls - Skyrim Views: 22 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim or any of its characters. I do not profit from this work. Its in Ye Olde Format, but give it a chance, I swear it grows on you!

Chapter List
- 1-The Mad God and the Extreme Unlikelihood of Being
- 2-The Assassin and the Slight Inconvenience
- 1
- 2
Chapter 1: The Mad God and the Extreme Unlikelihood of Being

1.

The hill’s steep silence cloaked their home, ill-favored for its history and its current owner’s foul repute. Their corners were oft cobwebbed for her mother’s hands shunned toil. Yet Kahira had learned to fend alone.

‘Twas for these causes she bartered with the haughty noble. ‘Twas far simpler to do so unaccompanied, despite the man’s ire, which waxed ever deeper as he gazed ‘pon her newest canvas. Her dam Karin was wont to wrest an exorbitant toll for her daughter’s works, or to menace discourteous collectors with vivid portents of extravagant violence. Even her most well-meant japes oft proved too ribald for those of delicate sensibilities.

Kahira herself was a stripling lass of thirteen summers, clad in blue and gold kirtle and laced bodice. Unlike most of her kin who bore heavy stamp of human sires, she favored not so. Her honeyed skin and ears terminating in delicate points betrayed elven blood, though one needed to peer close to mark them. Her eyes, a faded and strange blue mirrored her mother’s, save the whirling tilt Karin’s oft had. There the likeness waned. Her ashy blonde tresses framed a visage emerging to natural elegance, and she stood poised to outstrip her dam in height ere long. She stepped back to scour the canvas for the flaws her would-be patron seemed ready to decry with a critical gaze.

The painting unveiled an elder pair. A Nord, perchance, his greying beard and hair framing a build potent despite his years, his eyes shut fast as he cleaved to an Altmer dame in a kiss both fierce and tender. Her severe countenance, crowned with gold hair and skin, bespoke authority, their bare forms entwined in a sensuous clasp, artfully veiling the most brazen parts, though their union whispered bold beneath the pose. A persistent familiarity did haunt the man in particular. They did bear a countenance most stately and noble in its bearing, even amidst their fervent embrace. Yet Kahira knew not their names, only that they both wielded great sway, their ardor a secret forbidden by the world’s stern decree.

This day, Tyresius Vedan, an aged Imperial clad in velvet pomp, stood afore her in their humble hall, his stern visage darkening as he beheld the canvas. He favored the painting not.

“Thou hast conjured a blasphemy, maiden!” he roared, his voice a gale. “Those with whom I’ve shared wine oft and anon, debased! Dost thou still profess blindness to their station? Of the fury they’d loose ‘pon thee who’d dare to fashion such a spectacle? And a maid of thine age ought not set her hand to such wanton tableaus anyway, whate’er the pair entwined!”

Kahira tilted her head, considering the “wanton tableau.” Twas but a canvas to her, treading nigh the bounds of propriety, yet not e’en a glimpse of flesh too bare could be spied. Her dam would have found it to her liking.

“I know them not, good sir. These forms rose unbidden to my brush, as oft they do, a vision I but set to cloth. No more.”

Tyresius’ lip curled, his disdain a thunderhead.

“How canst thou not ken him?” Tyresius demanded, pointing, his voice a quivering gust. “He who—”

The noble seemed fain to proclaim the man’s title to Kahira, his incredulity unfeigned that any soul might fail to know the visage. Yet he clung to the slender chance that the young artist spake verily in her ignorance.

“Thou canst not depict such images blind to their truth! ‘Tis a slander ‘gainst honor, a jest wrought with vile disgrace Wherefore should I not wrest this shame and consign it to the fire?”

She traced the canvas’ edge with slender fingers, her voice calm.

“For five hundred septims, ‘tis thine to blaze if it suiteth thee. Yet first thou must claim it with coin, as is just.”

“I shall not render such a sum for this abomination!” Tyresius declared. His brow flared with wrath.

“So be it. Thou shouldst not be compelled to claim a work that stirreth thy displeasure. I shall seek another to take its worth.”

Yet this seemed to stoke Tyresius’ ire e’en further.

“Thou brazen chit! I, a lord of ancient blood, need not barter with a maiden scarce bloomed, nor a tattered sireless waif besides! Why not simply take it and see thee chastened?”

“Mine uncle Erik, a sell-sword of mighty arm and fiercer heart, standeth nigh to me. They name him the Slayer, yet not for nature clad in mercy’s garb. And should mine mother’s shadow fall ‘pon thee, tremble, for her curses and blows art tempest none endure. Thou’dst rue their ire. Moreover, thou art a noble. Doth thy name not weigh heavier than mine own? Wouldst thou be sung as a derelict knave so base he plucketh spoils from a maid’s tender craft?”

Tyresius wavered, his bluster ebbing like a storm’s last breath.

“Thou wieldest a serpent’s wit,” he growled, delving into his purse. “I’ll purchase thy wretched work!

“A thousand septims now.” She declared. “Thy tumult hath swelled the cost.”

“Extortion!” he bellowed. “Thou fleecest me as a brigand in the wilds!”

“As merchants ease their coin for favored kin,” she retorted, “so too may they raise it for those who trouble trade. ‘Tis but the fee of thy rancor, sir.”

Tyresius’ purse fell short, and with grudging oath and rising desperation he tore a ring of gold and emerald from his finger.

“Take this to sate thy greed,” he snarled, pressing it forth with the septims. Kahira took the spoil as she surrendered the canvas to the loud noble. He seemed for the first time to regard the painting with favor now that he held it at great cost.

“Be this truth?” he demanded, his tone mingled dread and awe.

“If it be not now,” she murmured, her voice prophetic, “it shall wax so in time. Hidden wisdoms might yet prove of great worth to one of thy station. Ponder this ere thou dost barter o’er canvases or consign them to the flames. My next work I’ll offer thee at a gentler rate, shouldst thou bring no further strife.”

He grasped the painting, his countenance now a mask of disquiet thoughtfulness, and departed. Kahira was glad to see his velvet trailing like a shadow down the hill’s crooked path. She lingered, the ring a quiet victory in her grasp, her thoughts adrift.

Her craft with the brush was a queer rite. She could summon scenes of her own devising—trees and peaks in modest glory—yet these paled beside the works that flowed unbidden from her hand, as if guided by a will not her own. ‘Twas these the collectors craved, not her tame renderings, for when she yielded to the impulse her fingers danced o’er the cloth, unveiling visions she kenned not ‘til they stood complete. Oft they bore darker hues than forbidden love. Blood and murder and beings from realms beyond this sphere.

Her fame, or perchance infamy, had spread wide, sometimes drawing sages of the arts who imparted their lore. Angles and light, shadow and form, what to weave in and what to banish. Yet she’d learned to shun tutelage, for with their gifts came flaws. Her style sprang from planes unseen. A gift. Or curse, some named Daedric-borne. Tales of the Princes she’d read, yet truer knowing came from her works.

A writhing mass of tendrils with its masked thrall. An ill-favored Dunmer quaffing spirits ‘midst a horned fiend and hagravens twain. A purple titan, serpents writhing ‘round her shoulders, her glare a venom poised to choke the unwary gazer.

And a frenzied lord, his raiment a wild tumult, perched ‘pon a throne in a distant realm cloven in twain. A realm betwixt fervent cravings more vibrant than any shade she’d ever set to canvas, and the deepest shadows of madness.

She ought to have known the figure when she met him in flesh that day, yet mortals oft bear visages far removed from their painted likeness…

2.

Kahira Snow-Fell trod the winding path from their abode, perched high ‘pon steep hill beyond Rorikstead proper. Her dam, Karin, had claimed it for a pittance from old Rorik, despite her crass allure. If whispers of Daedric-wrought paintings from the daughter of a half-mad dame were not lure enow for seekers of the macabre, the oft-recounted tale of the former master’s grim fate—gnawed and within the bellies of his own pet skeevers—proved a draw most dire. Most provincial folk and prattling wayfarers shunned their threshold, for ‘twas no dwelling for those who quailed at highwaymen or beasts of the wilds. Yet ‘twas the only hearth Kahira had e’er known, and despite its mossy timbers and shabby air, she harbored naught but fondness and gratitude for its shelter.

They kept a modest garden wherein they sowed potatoes and carrots in warm seasons, and leeks when chill did bite. When she spake of “they,” Kahira meant herself alone. For her mother, if tasked to tend, would let the yield rot in the earth, as Kahira had once learned to her sorrow.

Beyond the plot stood a memorial of stones, piled high by the former dweller, where in tender years Kahira had oft clambered in play. They had mused on casting it down, yet the stones were heavy, and the space served no need save vanity’s whim.

The solitude of the place suited Kahira most days, and one need only step without to gaze ‘pon distant peaks, their crests a quiet balm. If she craved or lacked for company, Rorikstead lay not so far a trek for one hale of limb. Pleased with the clime’s fair visage, she ventured forth

Karin’s fervent lauding of her daughter’s gift was a boon to her, yet bore a cost. A canvas might fetch septims to sustain them for moons, but her mother’s prodigal ways would soak up the gain as a sponge doth spilled ale. Within her grasp, Kahira clutched a satchel, laden with the five hundred septims, her aim the ridge where she secreted her coin. Despite her care, her mother was wont to “chance” ‘pon hoards nearer at hand. The ring of gold and emerald she would tend anon, should her mother not return early from her cups. ‘Twas stowed ‘neath a floorboard, veiled by her small dresser, yet Kahira kenned her mother’s rogue hands would pawn it ere long for spirits and some trifling token to ease the theft’s sting.

Rorikstead had waxed in her years, from two farmsteads, an inn, and Rorik’s manor to a clutch of four new homes and a modest market. Reldith hailed her from her toil, and Kahira offered a tight smile and a wave, her heart too burdened by the septims to linger in friendliness. She pressed to the hamlet’s edge, a jaunt scarce taxing for even an elder dame, when a youthful voice pierced the air, halting her stride.

“Kahira! Hold thy steps!”

She wheeled ‘round, her form tensing as Willik, eldest of the Enronson brood, hastened nigh. His arms were thick with farm-hewn sinew.

“I… uh, I fain would speak with thee,” he said with a graceless smirk, his voice faltering betwixt boldness and unease.

“Then speak, for we do so now,” she replied, her tone flat and hand resting nigh the knife at her belt, a prudent ward in Rorikstead’s foothills.

“Ho, uh… a fair morn, is’t not? I meant… what hast thou painted of late?” he pressed, his gaze a flicker of curiosity. His eyes slid to the satchel she gripped fast.

“Folk of weight, it seemeth,” she said. Willik, at fourteen summers, loomed o’er her, yet she bore steel where he bore brawn. “I’ve a path to tread, so make thy words swift.”

“’Tis well,” he ventured, undeterred. “Perchance I might walk with thee?”

“Be thy brothers lurking yonder, awaiting me with mischief?”

“Nay, nay!” he protested, his hands raised. “I’ve mused of late. I was cruel to thee in our youth, and I repent it.”

Ne’er had she thought to hear such from Willik or his kin. Tormenters who’d named her every curse and flung filth in days past. Her mother’s voice rang in her mind with a scornful decree of where such an apology might be shoved, yet Kahira’s mood shunned strife.

“Well enow,” she conceded, her tone a grudging truce. “Yet I must hence.”

“Be not so cold,” he urged. “A brief stroll, a word or twain? Naught more.”

She kenned he’d trail her if he willed, a hound on the scent, and thus chose a wary courtesy to spare her peace. “A swift turn, then,” she allowed.

They wandered the foothills beyond Rorikstead’s bounds, where sabrecats and brigands scarce prowled so near, yet a second’s presence bore wisdom. Willik prattled of his farm and chores and feats. His tongue a drone she met with nods and sparse queries, her thoughts adrift to darker days. In her tender years, he’d been the loudest of her foes, branding her “whey-faced Daedra child,” hurling mud and worse. Her mother had urged her to strike back, yet five against her proved a foe too vast. ‘Til one day Karin, faded and fierce, had caught them at their sport.

Willik had grinned at her mother then, deeming her a sot lost to spirits, and claimed ‘twas but play. Karin’s lips had curled, a crescent cold and sharp.

“Oh, thou likest games, ye whelps? I know a merry one! ‘I’ve a secret,’ ‘tis called. I’ll begin.” She’d sidled nigh with a whisper in his ear, draining his smug hue to ghostly pallor. “Keep it close lad, or thou forfeit the score,” she’d teased, voice a playful lash. He’d fled, his pack in tow, and thereafter shunned Kahira’s path ‘til this day.

“Hey? Hast thou heard me?” Willik’s voice broke her reverie. “I said I favor thee.”

“What?” she blinked, her mind snapping back.

“I favor thee!” he pressed, kicking earth, his gaze fixed ‘pon his boots. “Come to our farm tomorrow, sup with my kin. I’d have thee meet them.”

“Wherefore shouldst thou favor me?” she retorted, her tone a hot spark. “Thou named me a troll’s unwashed arse aforetime.”

“Thou art fair now,” he mumbled, abashed. “It maketh thee appear less uncanny. Youth be cruel and witless and I’ve shed such folly. I’d court thee true.”
Kahira’s cheeks flushed, not with flattery but with mingled ire and doubt. In Rorikstead, maids were scant. Save a toddling babe and one five summers his elder, she was the sole quarry beyond his sisters. His words bore not the guile for an ambush, yet she misliked the tally of her worth. The septims weighed her satchel, a spur to be rid of him.

“I must ponder this,” she said, her voice a firm quelling. “Hie thee hence, and I’ll speak my mind anon.”

“Now thou canst not say?” he pressed, a hound too eager.

“Nay,” she countered, her tone grave as prophecy. “Such a troth demandeth I search my soul deep, ‘tis no trifling thing.”

“Tomorrow, then?” he ventured.

“Aye, tomorrow,” she nodded, her thin smile a dismissal.

Willik departed, his tread heavy with unspent want, and Kahira pressed on alone.

3.

In the distance, Kahira spied a lone figure seated ‘pon the ridge. Perchance ‘twas not the wisest of hiding places, she mused, for she had selected this spot for its distance from home, its ease of recall, and the quiet beauty it held. A small shrine to Akatosh, naught but a humble pile of stones, stood nigh, so subtle one might pass it unheeded save by knowing eyes. Nearby loomed a great stone, and ‘neath a layer of earth, just thick enough to ward off the curious, lay a box bearing some four thousand septim. A hoard scarce visited by others, or so she had thought. Kahira wavered, her eyes creased with doubt, pondering if turning back would draw more suspicion than pressing forth.
Ere she could resolve her course, the man leapt to his feet, his arms flailing in a frantic wave. Kahira raised a timid hand in reply, and he switched to his other arm, then to both, his form a queer spectacle as he hopped betwixt one foot and the other in a dance most strange. She stared, her mind awhirl. Be this a jest from one she knew, or a mockery of her solitude? The man raised a finger, set it ‘pon his crown, and spun ‘round on one foot, a whirling dervish ‘gainst the ridge’s stark relief. At last he ceased, beckoning her nigh with an extravagant gesture.
She approached with caution, satchel heavy with coin, her knife a hidden ward ‘gainst the belt’s inner fold. The man’s visage proved as odd as his antics. An older gentleman of some winters, his grey locks and groomed beard paired with a meticulously curled moustache. Yet a manic grin and a wildness made him seem far younger, stirring in Kahira a faint echo of her mother’s own garland. His garb was a painful riot of clashing hues. A purple suit that mingled the air of a court jester with noble’s pomp, haphazard in its wear yet emblazoned with surreal flourishes. ‘Neath his coat, a vest of two discordant oranges dazzled the eye, an attire unfit for Skyrim’s rugged clime, its garishness a puzzle she could not name.

His eyes, howe’er, struck her deepest. Not the gold of elves or orcs, but a hue unnatural. Yellow as… molten cheese, she mused, her brow furrowing deep at the queer notion. They were endlessly gleeful and frightfully hungry eyes, once more calling to mind her mother.

“Thou’lt wish to stow thy coin in thy secret nook, I wager!” he declared, rising from the rock with his grin that loomed o’er her. Kahira clutched her satchel tighter. “Fret not, lass! I crave not thy bits of metal. I’ve already supped my fill!”

He stepped aside with a flourish, gesturing in a manner that bade her do as she would. Her gaze ne’er straying from his queer form, Kahira hastened to the stone, slipping the coin ‘neath its bulk without pause to bury it, her thoughts awhirl. To seize the heavy box and flee crossed her mind, yet escape seemed a frail hope ‘gainst this oddity.

“Right then!” he boomed, his voice a flamboyant lilt she could not place, boisterous as a bard in full revel. “Sit thee a spell.” When she stirred not, he stroked his beard, then spread his hands to show them bare. “I mean thee no harm, ‘tis safe to rest. Make no sudden frightful moves, mind!”

He perched anew ‘pon the rock, and Kahira, wary still, claimed a smaller stone a stride or two distant.

“Who art thou, sir?” she ventured, her tone cautious.

“Knowest thou not? Pleased to greet thee! Hope thou guess my name, if thou canst! ‘Tis Sheogorath, by the by.” His grin held fast and unyielding.

“My name is Kahira,” she replied, her words measured, and he nodded as if he’d known her name aforetime. “How may I serve thee?”

“Ho, thou serve me?” he laughed, a sound like clashing bells. “Thou hast mistaken the matter, lassie! I come to aid thee!”

Kahira forced a queasy smile. She’d sooner lose her buried septims than tarry longer with this lunatic, whose gaze seemed to hunger for a bite of her. He would savor her as honey and cheese, her mind whispered, a disjointed thought that set her reeling. “My thanks, yet I came but to—”

“Thou believest not I am Sheogorath,” he interjected, his tone absurdly wounded. “I’d slay most for such doubt! Or perchance craft them into a fine hat!” He sighed, a gust that swelled to a comical gasp. “Yet I cannot, for ‘twould thwart mine own purpose in revealing myself to thee, and we brook no defeat in this king’s army!” His voice rose to a sputtering roar.
Kahira’s hand crept to her knife, her slight frame dwarfed by his, yet she sensed a vastness in him, greater than aught she’d known. Greater than…

“A fine wheel of goat’s milk cheese,” she murmured, the words a riddle solved, shattering the tension. He beamed as if pleased.

“Aye, now thou graspest it true! I’ve watched thee since thy birth, little Kahira.”

“Art thou the cause of my paintings?” she asked, her voice a quiet probe.

“I and mine kin did chip in, aye. Sanguine and Mephala and I. Mephala loveth her secrets, yet cannot resist spilling them through thy canvas now and then. ‘Tis a compulsion, thou seest. She ought to seek a physic! Thou art indeed touched by Daedric hands.” He reached forth, his arm stretching impossibly far from such distance, and prodded her shoulder, the touch a crawling blight ‘pon her skin. “Dost thou feel touched?”

“Do not so!” she gritted, betwixt ire and revulsion, and his grin widened yet more. She steadied herself with effort. Wherefore am I thus marked?”

“Oh, that!” he crowed. “Thou and thy dam Karin won me two wagers ‘gainst Vaermina! The second, that she’d ne’er keep her nose clean. Who’d have thought thou’dst be the one to steer her straight, such as it be? Not I! Yet I adore a mad long shot trillion to one wager! Who can say? Perchance ere long thou might secure me a third wager yet.

“And the first wager?”

“Mind not that,” he dismissed, his sigh satisfied. “Thou shouldst not e’en be here. Reality—” he twirled a finger, “—offereth a wide array. In some, Rorikstead be a bustling city, in others barren hills, or a smoldering ruin, or a coven of merry Daedra-worshippers! Oft thy dam lieth dead as a doornail, ‘twould seem her most cherished diversion. Yet thou—” he pointed, his nail a talon, “—existeth in this thread alone.”

“That be… curious,” she ventured, her tone a cautious thread. “Why tell me this? What meaneth it?”

“Naught! Absolutely naught! And ‘tis droll! Sad and droll! Thou shouldst not be at all, and I find that most darling. Thy sire and dam—cross-dressing, blaspheming murderers both—be absurd in their own right, and thy birth the greatest cosmic jest since jumbo shrimp! Thou shouldst not even be, like the single vexing hair doth ever sprout from within mine ear!

Kahira shunned his jibe at her kin, quelling questions of her sire. His nonsense scarce made sense as it stood. “I am here, and I’d have thee speak thy point and leave me in peace.”

“The point, then!” he declared. “Thy dam vexed Vaermina sore. I ken she vexeth most. Losing those wagers on her stoked Vaermina’s ire, and she liketh thee none too well either. She’d fain torment ye both in Quagmire, yet ‘twould look ill to us others. So she’ll send another soon, to make it seem her hands be clean.”
“Knowest thou who?” Kahira pressed.

“If I knew, ‘twould scarce be…” He snapped his fingers, a tune erupting from both hands. “Right! Plausible deniability! Yet soon she’ll send one to slay thy dam. Perchance thee too.”

“What may I do?” she asked, breath held fast.

“Paint,” he replied, as if to a dull pupil. “Mind thy painting.”

Kahira stilled, her thoughts awhirl. She knew not how much of his prattle be madness, yet he carried the selfsame earnestness that lunatics oft bear when they swear to thee that mudcrabs whisper unto them. She’d warn her mother and Uncle Erik, perchance they’d dealt with Daedra afore and could unravel this riddle. Sheogorath’s smile warmed, nigh tender.

“A sensible thought, lass. How it woundeth mine head and heart to hear such from thee. Thou’rt the daughter I ne’er had nor wanted, Kahira.”

“My thanks for the… warning,” she murmured.

“What warning?” She turned to find Willik standing nigh and gazing at her with furrowed brow. “To whom dost thou speak?”

Kahira wheeled back, pointing to the rock.

“Seest thou him not? Sheogorath, there!”

Willik’s confusion deepened, his head shaking slow.

“Playest thou a jest ‘pon me?”

She glanced again. The rock stood bare, Sheogorath vanished as if ne’er there.

“Aye, a jest,” she said, her smile a pretty mask, and Willik’s visage brightened.

“Hast thou pondered my suit, then? Wilt thou let me court thee?”

Her smile widened then vanished swift as a snuffed flame.

“Nay,” she replied, cold as stone, and brushed past the beet-red lad, her steps a steady descent down the hill’s winding path.

4.

The Mad God’s warning, of Vaermina’s ire and a foe soon to strike gnawed at her. She pondered whom she might tell, her mother or uncle perchance, for they’d trod paths shadowed by Daedric whims afore. Yet doubt crept in like a thief ‘pon the wind. Would they deem her touched, as like to name her lunatic as to believe she’d met Sheogorath himself? She pressed toward Rorikstead proper, the hamlet’s modest sprawl rising ‘neath the ridge’s steep shadow.

At the village’s edge , a figure emerged from the dust. A Dunmer lass, her dark skin aglow, her white locks a stark crown, and her purple orbs glinting with a predator’s gleam. She donned a studded leather cuirass, a sword hanging at her belt.

“Ho, thou fair painter!” she called.

“I be Vayniya Navalnim, an admirer of thy works. Thy name be Kahira Snow-Fell, aye?”

“Thou knowest me, yet I know thee not,” she replied. “How camest thou to mark me so?” Vayniya’s smile was sharp as a blade’s edge.

“In Rorikstead, ‘tis a simple feat. The other maids be farm-born, their hands calloused by plow and sickle. Thou, with thy studious gaze, art a beacon ‘midst the chaff.” She stepped closer, eyes alight with curiosity. “Thy paintings of visions of shadowed planes have reached mine ears. I’d know more of thee, and of thy dam who raised thee so.”

Kahira’s unease waxed, her mother’s lessons a shield ‘gainst such probing.

“Thou askest much of my mother,” she said, her voice a quiet blade, “yet I mislike thy questions. What carest thou for her ways?”

Vayniya’s grin softened, her hand delving into a purse to produce a glint of septims. “I mean no ill, lass. Here, coin for thy odd queries. I’ve heard collectors come when thy mother be absent, seeking thy works. ‘Tis a perilous thing, to stand alone with such folk, is it not?”

Kahira’s gaze flickered to the coin, her thoughts a tangled skein.

“I be fair with a blade,” she warned, her tone steady as stone, “and fairer still with wit. My mother lingereth ne’er far. Oft at yon tavern. And ‘tis most unwise to rouse the Daedric Princes’ ire, as thou mayhap knowest.”

“Aye, I concur. Such dealings breed naught but ill fortune.” Her voice grew tense, a shadow crossing her features.

Kahira’s mind turned to Sheogorath’s warning and the Mad God’s cheese-hued gaze.

“Hast thou aught to say of Sheogorath, or Vaermina?” she ventured and Vayniya’s visage darkened further.

“I’ll not speak of either. Such talk summoneth naught but woe. Leave it be, lass.”

Vayniya’s curt dismissal of the Daedra struck her as a queer stance for one who professed to admire her paintings. Her art oft bore their shadowed mark in every stroke, as their secrets and revels did whisper through her brush. To shun their names whilst lauding her craft seemed a contradiction most strange.

“Thou speakest fair of my works,” Kahira ventured, “yet thou wilt not utter the names of the Princes who inspire them. ‘Tis a curious bent, for one who claimeth admiration.”

“’Tis one matter to marvel at a depiction, lass, and another to speak words that a bringer of infernal woes might overhear. The Daedra be fickle, and their ears ever keen. I’d not draw their gaze with careless speech, lest ill fortune follow swift.”

Vayniya’s words bore the weight of one who’d tasted such misfortune, perchance in sleepless nights beneath Vaermina’s cruel sway. Her visage bore hollows ‘neath her purple gaze, so dark they stood forth e’en ‘gainst her ebon skin. A Prince of nightmares would scarce befriend one so weary.

“Yet thou art a marvel, Kahira,” Vayniya mused, breaking the awkward silence and stirring the young artist from such thoughts. “I thought thee a furtive creature, or e’en fiend made flesh, given the repute of thy canvases. Yet thou standest nigh to common for one so gifted.”

“Common I be not, least of all in Rorikstead. My works set me apart, as doth my dam’s own name.”

“Tell me of her, then,” Vayniya pressed. “I fain would know the maker of such wondrous works. What manner of woman be thy dam Karin Snow-Fell?”

Kahira faltered. She could not name her mother good with honest heart. Yet she ever sought to show her daughter a rugged tenderness, of that Kahira was certain. The twain had been sustained by their mutual devotion and her uncle’s unwavering strength.

“My dam be… a tempest, fierce and unyielding in her ways,” she began gently, softening into warmth. “Yet she hath bestowed ‘pon me a boldness, a heart to stand unbowed ‘gainst any gale that might rise. Through her, I’ve learned to tread this world with a steady step, e’en when the path groweth steep.”

She paused in thought as Vayninya watched intently.

“And mine Uncle Erik hath e’er been our bulwark ‘gainst the storms that oft beset us. ‘Tis a humble life we lead, yet rich in its own fashion. Our hearth may be cold at times, but the love that bindeth us blazeth, and for that I am ever grateful.”

Kahira ceased her musings as the Dunmer regarded her, a curiosity in her gaze that stirred disquiet in the young maid’s heart. Vayniya bowed her head, as if to veil a countenance shadowed by an expression ill-suited to Kahira’s heartfelt words.

“I thank thee,” she replied, her voice measured. ’Tis a matter to ponder and cherish, is’t not? We shall converse anon, ere long, of thy canvases. I would claim one, should the cost prove fair.”

She dropped septims into Kahira’s hands and turned to her own affairs.

The Dunmer had unsettled her, albeit faintly. ‘Twas not that she proved discourteous or cold, but her intentness ‘pon each word had seemed o’er keen, as if seeking more than Kahira’s speech did yield.

Yet in Rorikstead, any stranger who lingered was a tale unto itself, and Kahira’s morn had brimmed with such oddities. She set her steps toward home, her satchel lighter yet her thoughts burdened with Sheogorath’s dire portent. The day had woven a tapestry of strangeness, and its threads were not yet fully spun.

5.

When Kahira returned to her empty home, she pondered her meeting, the Mad God’s visage yet vivid in her mind. She had depicted him afore, yet beholding him in the flesh had shifted her sight in ways she could scarce fathom. She resolved to capture him whilst memory burned fresh, forgoing her paints for the simpler charcoals.

Oft she ventured to sketch, though not with frequency. When the urge to indulge her own modest craft stirred, or when patience for painting waned, she would take up the charcoal. Such works she sold for mere pittance to a few folk in Rorikstead. Jouane Manette and his pupil Sissel, ere she departed, had cherished them, and in her younger days they could e’er be relied upon for ten septims.

She began to rough out the lunatic, first head, then shoulders. The details of his garb eluded her, a riot too wild to recall, and she deemed them of little import. Next came his ears, his nose. A jolt coursed through her, a fear that her hand had faltered, as it oft did when she drew not from Daedric influence. Another jolt—how clumsy she seemed this day! Yet, peering closer, she saw she had captured his queer grin with uncanny precision. Her hand moved swifter, scrawling with a fury as if driven by a wrath not her own. Ne’er had her art come thus, ‘twas a tempest that should birth horror, yet each stroke of charcoal rang true. His beard took shape, then the wildness about his crown.

He stood an eyeless wretch, yet the sketch was flawless in all else. With a hand trembling o’ermuch to craft such work, she set to his eyes. Thousands of images had she wrought in her life, yet she could not say how she finished those eyes.

“Cheese,” she murmured, a word that slipped unbidden, her visage creased with bewilderment.

Kahira had conjured many an unsettling tableau, a craft she had plied since first taking up the brush some years past. She had ne’er thought it strange, ‘twas simply her way. As a babe learns to walk, so had she been born with the deftness to run as a sabrecat, her gift an instinct ne’er questioned. Though she oft felt a pang for the more piteous subjects of her paintings, her understanding of them remained vague, tempering her sympathy. They bore no tie to her, and more than a few had likely wrought their own doom through prideful folly.

Yet this sketch of Sheogorath was unlike aught else. It chilled her blood, driving her to step without and stand ‘neath the warming sun for nigh a quarter-hour ere returning within. The sketch struck her anew, its presence a deep disquiet. Doubting her own wits, she paced this way and that, and Sheogorath’s eyes seemed to follow her, their gaze unyielding e’en at a distance. Nay, the longer one beheld them, the more fervent they grew, as a cauldron simmering to a boil, poised to burst as her mother’s stews had oft done in days past.

She thought to cast it straight into the flames, then turned it face down instead. Her exchange with Vayniya of wrathful Daedra rose to mind. Resigned, she placed the sketch nigh the hearth, unhidden, yet unlikely to be seen.

Her heart held no true desire to paint, yet after such an unnerving trial, she deemed the paints might purge her unease. E’en a grim scene would be solace after that. At least ‘twas a craft she knew. The canvas did not fail her.

First emerged a sprawled form. An Altmer, her skin a golden hue, her ears long and tipped, her lips full, her brows delicately wrought. Or so Kahira thought, her brow furrowing as she shaped the figure further. Nay, ‘twas a male, slender, with angular features fine and delicate. His chest and legs lay bare, the tattered remnants of his garb clutched in grasping fingers.

A streak of crimson marked the skin where a cut did bleed. Then another. Another. Another. Another! Her hands moved as if possessed, until, at last, the Altmer bore some thirty wounds, his comely visage a rictus of strained horror…and joy.

This was her sire, she kenned, through that strange knowing her craft did grant. That he be an Altmer was no great surprise, given her own features, yet ne’er had her mother spoken of him thus. E’er would Karin offer vague words, swiftly turning the discourse aside, her evasions weak and plain, no matter how Kahira pressed.

She longed to turn away and retch, yet, as if guided by some unseen force, she painted the figure standing o’er him. Pale, dirt-streaked legs, arms wiry and taut, hands gripping a knife steeped in blood. Kahira near knew the figure already, yet could not but watch, as one might a carriage’s ruin unfold. A wide grin parted in mirth, her mother’s pale grey-blue eyes captured with a fanciful swirl in their depths.
‘Twas her dam, Karin.
She painted on, adding trifles. A forest floor she knew not, a jumbled hoard of tomes and trinkets, perchance the root of their strife or spoils to be claimed. The last light of day faded, and the door burst open, as oft it did when Karin returned from her cups. A decade and half older than the image, her grin a fainter echo of its former savagery, yet she was the same. She spied her daughter’s accusing stare, and a flimsy, oily smile curled her lips as she gestured to the canvas.
“Ho, I recall that deed!” she crowed, her voice a rough peal.

So like Kahira, this admittedly odd What If fic in Ye Olde Format was something unlikely to ever be written, let alone finished, except for a series of coincidences I won’t recount here and Grok. One day I asked Grok to give me my scene more flowery and I got something close to this and call me weird, I think Ye Old Format works for it and decided to do the rest. Don’t go thinking you can write two sentences worth of prompts and call it a day, I put in the work too. Also, all the adult stuff is Karin and Vayniya, so no underage squick.

It’s ok if you don’t get all the references, a lot of them are to Karin fics I haven’t even finished, and yes, that WAS Ulfric and Elenwen thank you very much, that’s its own epic fic too. I really shoulda written this fic LAST after my dozen or so others, but the hands and brain do what they want to do, as several mad gods and their artist friends might tell you. But if you’re still reading, keep an eye out, plenty of Skyrim easter eggs. Also, I feel like it kind of works if you DON’T know up front who all the characters are.

We’re going for 4 chapters here and exploring different view points for a change, next chapter’s longer and we switch gears big time and tell it from Karin’s point of view.

Next chapter:
What do you get when one of the worst scumbags in Skyrim has to take on some parental responsibility? Something compelling, in my opinion, but this being Karin we still get some blood and adult stuff too, but classy, make you feel like you’re back in highschool Lit!

Erik the Slayer loves Karin, but Karin likes the girls, but Erik’s been a standup guy, how do we resolve this? In Karin fashion with Eric and yet another girl in an adult situation
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Her Best Work In Red