Mira liked Whiterun. The people were friendly enough, the tavern had good, stiff drinks, and the weather was pleasant-- for Skyrim. In all, it was a nice place. Whenever she wasn’t out running around and playing Dragonborn, she liked to stop by at her little home there.
She often used words like ‘quaint’ and ‘charming’ to describe it. Before she was forced to leave High Rock in such an awful rush, she had a much grander estate, but she hadn’t had the time to pack and had arrived in Skyrim with nothing. Which was fine. Her mother built their family’s fortune from literally nothing, and Mira was determined to do the same.
But for the moment, her little Whiterun home was more than adequate. She came in sometime after lunch and was greeted by Lydia, who she found more than tolerable, and immediately ordered her housecarl to get some more fresh vegetables for the dinner she wished to cook-- not because she needed any, her current stores were more than adequate, but because she liked having the house to herself when she was home.
Lydia knew as much, and Mira knew she knew, so the Nord was unlikely to return to the house until it was actually nearing dinner time.
Mira had just returned from Blackreach-- with an Elder Scroll of all things in her pack!-- and really needed some time to rest before the inevitable climb back up the mountain to the Throat of the World. The fate of all living things could wait, the Dragonborn couldn’t be expected to save everyone without a nap or two in between, could she?
Of course not.
But just as she began to get comfortable, she suddenly felt... a presence?
She whirled around, conjuring armour and readying a firebolt before she realised that her uninvited guest was, of all things, a Daedric Prince.
She lowered her hands, getting rid of the firebolt, and fumbled around for something to say. What does one say when the Prince of Madness pops in unexpectedly?
“You! Uh... buh... huh?” she stammered. Eloquently. Finally she found her words and tried again. “What are you doing here?”
“Standing,” the daedra replied. Very helpful. Mira was unamused.
“Why?”
“I came to see you, knew you would be here. I’ve been watching you, my mortal minion.”
“Why?” she asked again, still in a state of shock.
“Because I gave you something. Do you remember?”
Mira’s eyes shifted toward the Wabbajack, displayed very nicely on the wall along with the Axe of Whiterun (because what was she, a caster, supposed to do with such a thing?) and an ornate shield she had picked up somewhere and liked the look of. Then her gaze shifted to the ground.
“Yes...”
“And what have you done with it?” he asked calmly.
“Nothing...”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she said again, louder.
“That’s right! Nothing!” Sheogorath shouted, and the suddenness of the shouting was enough to make Mira jump.
“What did you want me to do with it?”
“Maybe cause a little mayhem. Confuse townsfolk, frighten children, inadvertently cause the deaths of at least four farmers. I didn’t give it to you so it could act as a pretty decoration!”
An excuse, any excuse. Angry Daedric Princes are bad Daedric Princes. “If someone sees me playing with that, I could get into trouble with the guards,” she tried.
“Then don’t get caught,” he said, voice getting low and admittedly more frightening than the yelling.
“I... well, I suppose...”
“You suppose? Don’t suppose. Act. You’re a clever girl, but spending too much time in your head is downright maddening.” The last word was spoken with inflection that Mira did not miss. She shuddered, and hoped he didn’t catch it.
If he did, there was no acknowledgement of it.
“I shall, then,” she said, conviction and firmness in her voice that wasn’t there before. She thought he’d like that. Maybe if she did what he wanted-- caused a little disruption-- he would leave her alone.
“I knew you had it in you!” And with that he was gone. He’d sounded satisfied, anyway.
Mira sighed. But it was time to find out just how dangerous the Wabbajack actually is.
5+1 - Sheogorath and F!Dragonborn [2/6]
Mira liked Whiterun. The people were friendly enough, the tavern had good, stiff drinks, and the weather was pleasant-- for Skyrim. In all, it was a nice place. Whenever she wasn’t out running around and playing Dragonborn, she liked to stop by at her little home there.
She often used words like ‘quaint’ and ‘charming’ to describe it. Before she was forced to leave High Rock in such an awful rush, she had a much grander estate, but she hadn’t had the time to pack and had arrived in Skyrim with nothing. Which was fine. Her mother built their family’s fortune from literally nothing, and Mira was determined to do the same.
But for the moment, her little Whiterun home was more than adequate. She came in sometime after lunch and was greeted by Lydia, who she found more than tolerable, and immediately ordered her housecarl to get some more fresh vegetables for the dinner she wished to cook-- not because she needed any, her current stores were more than adequate, but because she liked having the house to herself when she was home.
Lydia knew as much, and Mira knew she knew, so the Nord was unlikely to return to the house until it was actually nearing dinner time.
Mira had just returned from Blackreach-- with an Elder Scroll of all things in her pack!-- and really needed some time to rest before the inevitable climb back up the mountain to the Throat of the World. The fate of all living things could wait, the Dragonborn couldn’t be expected to save everyone without a nap or two in between, could she?
Of course not.
But just as she began to get comfortable, she suddenly felt... a presence?
She whirled around, conjuring armour and readying a firebolt before she realised that her uninvited guest was, of all things, a Daedric Prince.
She lowered her hands, getting rid of the firebolt, and fumbled around for something to say. What does one say when the Prince of Madness pops in unexpectedly?
“You! Uh... buh... huh?” she stammered. Eloquently. Finally she found her words and tried again. “What are you doing here?”
“Standing,” the daedra replied. Very helpful. Mira was unamused.
“Why?”
“I came to see you, knew you would be here. I’ve been watching you, my mortal minion.”
“Why?” she asked again, still in a state of shock.
“Because I gave you something. Do you remember?”
Mira’s eyes shifted toward the Wabbajack, displayed very nicely on the wall along with the Axe of Whiterun (because what was she, a caster, supposed to do with such a thing?) and an ornate shield she had picked up somewhere and liked the look of. Then her gaze shifted to the ground.
“Yes...”
“And what have you done with it?” he asked calmly.
“Nothing...”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she said again, louder.
“That’s right! Nothing!” Sheogorath shouted, and the suddenness of the shouting was enough to make Mira jump.
“What did you want me to do with it?”
“Maybe cause a little mayhem. Confuse townsfolk, frighten children, inadvertently cause the deaths of at least four farmers. I didn’t give it to you so it could act as a pretty decoration!”
An excuse, any excuse. Angry Daedric Princes are bad Daedric Princes. “If someone sees me playing with that, I could get into trouble with the guards,” she tried.
“Then don’t get caught,” he said, voice getting low and admittedly more frightening than the yelling.
“I... well, I suppose...”
“You suppose? Don’t suppose. Act. You’re a clever girl, but spending too much time in your head is downright maddening.” The last word was spoken with inflection that Mira did not miss. She shuddered, and hoped he didn’t catch it.
If he did, there was no acknowledgement of it.
“I shall, then,” she said, conviction and firmness in her voice that wasn’t there before. She thought he’d like that. Maybe if she did what he wanted-- caused a little disruption-- he would leave her alone.
“I knew you had it in you!” And with that he was gone. He’d sounded satisfied, anyway.
Mira sighed. But it was time to find out just how dangerous the Wabbajack actually is.