Her Best Work In Red

Chapter 4:  The Heaven of Stone and the Firmament of Empty Air

 

1.

 

Erik lay slack upon the bed.  If not for his chest rising and falling, he appeared as one claimed by death’s grasp.  Karin’s hands trembled as she slapped his face with hard, sharp cracks.  Mralki’s visage hardened at his son’s abuse by the woman he blamed as much as that treacherous Vayniya.  If that was even the duplicitous, smirking little bitch’s name.   

 

“Rouse thee, ye fool!” She growled again, voice raw.  Still naught.

 

Desperation clawed at her.  Had she not heard an old tale of such a cure?  She bent low and pressed her lips to his in a fierce and pleading kiss, tasting bloodwine.  That it should take such an act and he not e’en be sensible to receive it was not lost upon her.  If this availed not, naught would.

 

“My heart and I need ye now, more’n ever we did thou great ox!   Our lass whom we raised as one is taken!  Arise, I beseech thee!”

 

His head lolled, breath steady and distant as a far-off shore.  She even pondered fetching a candle and letting flame kiss flesh until pain tore him screaming from the abyss.  Aye, ‘twould serve, perchance.

 

Beside Mralki stood Jouane the healer, observing all with infuriating calm.

 

“What poison courses through him?” Karin demanded of the old man.  Jouane rubbed his chin, as if discoursing idly.

 

“I’ve heard of such draughts.  They are not merely brewed by alchemical means.  Powerful magicks are woven into them, meant to bind one to dreams’ embrace...or grant escape from nightmare.” 

 

The corners of his mouth curled in what might have been a secretive smile, and Karin fought the urge to tear it from his face

 

“Ne’er had I crossed such myself, but mark me.  Erik shall awaken in his own hour as the brew fadeth from his veins.  Thou mightst prick him with needles or sear him with brands, and he’d stir but for moments ere the haze claims him anew.  Pain alone sufficeth not.”

 

Karin’s jaw tightened.

 

“How long?”

 

“At least two days,” Jouane replied blandly. “Perchance longer. Someone must tend him with broth, lest he perish.”

 

Karin loosed a litany of profanity, aimed chiefly at Vayniya but dragging Aedra and Daedra alike into a maelstrom of filth until e’en poor Talos did not escape her wrath.  Mralki folded his arms and fixed Karin with angry eyes.

 

“Much about Vayniya maketh sense now.  Her lingering, her prying tongue. She hath sniffed after thee and Erik like a wolf in heat. Yet why seize Kahira?”

 

Karin’s gaze dropped before him.  She yearned to weave lie upon lie, or at least admit naught, but this was her daughter and Mralki’s only son.

 

“’Tis to draw me out. She seeketh me, not thy son, nor my Kahira.”

 

“Why? What doth she pursue?”

 

“Misdeeds,” Karin muttered, shunning his hard stare. “From my long ago past.  Grievous enough, aye.  Press me not further, thou’dst not stomach it.”  

 

She’d not spill the blood-stained secrets.  If any heard them they’d abandon her kin to their fate. Mralki’s eyes narrowed, yet he nodded slowly, as one chewing on tough meat.

 

“I’ve ne’er favored thee Karin, that much thou shouldst know.  Erik squandered his days besotted with a wayward harlot like thee and now here he lies.  But Kahira is as close to a granddaughter as I am like to see in my remaining years. I’ll not stand idle whilst some strumpet draggeth her off.”

 

Karin bit back retort, pondering.  Of Rorikstead’s sorry lot, Mralki might yet recall a flanking maneuver from his soldiering days.  Yet the last time he’d borne steel, she was still suckling at her mother’s tit and soiling swaddling clothes.  He’d as likely get himself gutted as worsen the fray, charging in with faded valor. 

 

The only other with a warrior’s bones was Rorik himself, older than the hills, mind softer than porridge and scarce able to name the month.  Leading a pitchfork-wielding rabble against Vayniya? Like as not a grim jest.  Reldith might stand with her, her loyal son Ennis and his wife, perchance a handful of others.  The rest endured Kahira and she as one must a festering wound.  E’en if they all rallied ‘twould not suffice.  The first to fall would scatter them like leaves in a gale.

 

Perchance guards from Whiterun could be summoned.  A kidnapped lass was the sort of matter they’d not ignore.  They could be fierce and many enough to trouble e’en Vayniya.  But the Dunmer’s missive, scrawled in Kahira’s lifeblood, had vowed what would befall if she tarried.  Pieces of her daughter would greet her ere aid arrived.

 

Her eyes settled at last on Jouane, his continued calm fraying nerve.

 

“Aid me,” she commanded in a voice cracked as dry timber. “I know thou’rt no mere old man.”

 

Jouane’s gaze sharpened, as if a veil fell away.

 

“If thou hadst let me tutor Kahira in spell craft all those years ago, instead of only putting a dinner knife in her hand, mayhap she could have defended herself.   She might’ve even seen Vayniya for what she was through her gift of prophecy afore that snake e’er thought to slither to thy door.”

 

“I never favored thee either, thou smiling, bloodless, creeping fucking relic.  All those...”

 

Karin halted as Jouane regarded her expectantly with eyes like chasms.  She meant to say, all those mothers dead in childbirth’s throes.  Rorikstead’s isolation was not the only reason for so few women dwelling here.  Jouane’s hands had tended most.  He’d not tended her when Kahira came screaming into the world.   Perchance Erik had suspected as well, his own mother long departed.  Too many widowers, aye, with their empty beds and brooding stares.  Jouane stared back evenly, daring her to speak it plain.

 

“Thou and I both know,” she said instead, her voice low and edged. “But Kahira hath naught to do with any of that.  I’m asking thee.  Thou’rt her last hope.”  Jouane’s eyes gleamed thoughtfully.

 

 “Kahira ne’er should have been taken, ‘tis an affront I cannot brook.  Yet to aid thee now is to defy one of the most vindictive Daedric Princes. I require inducement.”

 

“What have the Daedra to do with this Jouane?” The innkeep demanded, brow furrowing.  But the healer heeded him not, his gaze remaining on Karin.

 

“I know naught of that, and care even less,” Karins spat. “I’d tell a Daedric Prince the same as any mortal lord!  Let him thrust his edicts up his own narrow, darkest pit sideways if he cannot raise his own hand, and if his notion of battle be stealing away a child!  What dost thou crave then? A life snuffed? A treasure filched? My home? Take the cursed pile!”

 

“It occurreth to me,” Jouane mused, voice smooth as a serpent’s glide, “that Kahira is favored by other Daedric Princes, and they might look kindly upon aiding their servant.” He glanced at Mralki, whose gaze upon the healer now bore dawning dread. “For Rorikstead’s sake, of course. We would not court their wrath upon our humble stead, would we?”

 

“Nay, certes not,” Mralki muttered, his unease heavy.

 

“Thus, I shall grant thee aid most potent, such as thou couldst scarce hope to find,” Jouane continued. “It cometh dear to me, so I demand two boons. If thou savest Kahira, I claim my pick of her paintings, freely given, whensoever I choose.

 

“Aye, agreed,” Karin said swiftly.  Kahira would mislike it.  Her lass guarded her works like a dragon its hoard, but a painting or three seemed a trifling toll.

 

“And I would tutor her in the mystic arts. Thou hast let her gifts languish overlong.”

 

“The paintings, aye, but thou speakest of my daughter. I’ll not leave her alone with one such as thee.”

 

“Sissel yet prospers from my tutelage in Winterhold,” Jouane countered. “If thou doubt’st my honor, write her and learn.  Though time for such missives thou hast not, I wager.  Thou mayst e’en sit in on my lessons, if thou live still and remain astir.  These terms brook no barter.  A pact sealed?” He stuck out his hand.

 

If she and Kahira emerged whole, Karin could vow the stars now.  Should they need to fend off Jouane with excuse or bid him go to Oblivion, what could he do?  She clasped his hand in accord.  Though aged, his grip burned like embers fresh from the forge.

 

“Sealed?” he pressed, his eyes lingering on their joined hands with knowing intent.

 

“Sealed, sealed, by the Nine!” she hissed, and he loosed her. From his satchel, Jouane drew forth a ring.

 

“Don this, and wear it when thou facest thine adversary.”

 

She swallowed barbs and slipped the ring on.  It wrought...something.  A numbing veil, as if the world’s edges dulled.

 

“What doth this achieve?”

 

Jouane smiled, spreading his hands, and arcs of lightning leapt from them, striking Karin’s torso and hurling her back as if struck by storm.

 

“What treachery?!” Mralki roared, but Jouane raised a finger for patience.

 

Karin groaned and rose with dagger drawn.  A scorched rent marred her dress, the skin beneath blackened and blistered.

 

“Thou withered sack of—”

 

“That strike would have felled most mortals,” Jouane said calmly. “The ring wardeth against magic.”

 

“Why not speak it plain?”  He smiled at Karin’s murderous stare and the innkeep’s incredulous one.

 

“Now thou knowest. Call it a stern kindness, thou art no stranger to such, I deem.  And this.  Take but a sip and keep the rest.”

 

He proffered a flask of crimson liquid.  She took a scant sip, and her charred flesh mended, growing firm and supple once more, the pain fading.  She longed to denounce Jouane for his extortion and take one of his fingers for her trouble, but she could say naught.  The ring and potion were easily worth a trove of Kahira’s works even were the day not dire.

 

“I...thank thee for thy aid,” she grated.  He nodded as if this sufficed for him, turning to check Erik’s eyelids and pulse anew.

 

She made to depart, and Mralki clasped her shoulder.  He stared at Jouane and his son with fresh concern, but his words were for her.

 

“I deem it best I remain to tend Erik after everything.  Thou understandest?”

 

“Aye, ‘tis well old man.  Guard my oaf.  He is dearer to me than thou mightst deem.”

 

“What wilt thou do now?”

 

She raised dagger and flask, her new ring glinting upon her finger.

 

“She left me commands for Kahira’s safety. I will heed them to the letter.”

 

2.

 

Kahira stirred, a dull ache throbbing upon her brow.

 

She found herself within embrace of a cavern.  Jagged stone loomed and mushrooms sprouted hither and thither in the dim.  Vayniya sat across from her, leaning against the cavern wall.  The Dunmer appeared lost in slumber, her sword at her side.  Kahira could not stir her arms.  They were bound fast behind her back, her ankles likewise trussed.

 

How deep they lay, she could not guess.  A fire crackled o’er spit, casting flickering shadows, and a sturdy wooden platform rose upon the uneven rock, sparing one the toil of clambering. Upon it stood tables, barrels, and a grindstone, amidst other items. Kahira surmised this was Vayniya’s “nook,” for the painting she’d sold the dark elf stood propped in a place of pride, as if to mock the young artist for her folly.

 

Upon one hewn table lay plates and cutlery.  Eying Vayniya warily, ever so slowly and with utmost care, Kahira squirmed toward it.

 

Vayniya’s eyes snapped open, settling upon the girl with unnerving calm.

 

“Good, thou’rt finally awake.”

 

She rose and strode over.  Kahira shrank back, yet Vayniya merely propped her up and brushed her hair roughly into order with a hand.

 

“There, better?” She returned to her vigil across from Kahira. “First, I regret having to clout thee. How fareth thy head?”

 

In answer, Kahira fixed her with a fierce glare.

 

“It must be well if thou hast no complaint.” Vayniya’s smile was thin. “I healed thee with mine arts. Thou art bound, but thou wilt not trouble me with magic of thine own, wilt thou?”

 

Kahira’s glare endured, as if she could will the Dunmer into the cavern’s floor.

 

“Jouane the healer was insistent thou knewest none, and I know thy dam and uncle favor it not.  Still, if thou thinkest to spring such a secret, heed the consequences. Mine eyes shall ne’er stray from thee, and I need not slay thee.  Shouldst thou try to slip thy bonds or flee, thou wilt have to learn to paint with thy left hand.  And if thou art not as clear-eyed as thou seem, and dreamest thou canst battle me, thou shalt hold thy brush with a hook.  Understood?  Speak now, or I shall clout thee with my fist.”

 

“I understand,” Kahira grated. At this, Vayniya seemed to regain some mirth.

 

“Well then, hearken well. Perchance this shall ease our trial if thou knowest how it stands.”

 

“No need to speak aught. Thou art Vaermina’s foot-licker,” Kahira spat. The Dunmer’s look was sharp, yet swiftly settled.

 

“Thy painting revealed this?”

 

“Nay. Sheogorath himself.”

 

“Ah.  That loathsome sketch.”

 

“He himself.  Upon the ridge above Rorikstead, the day we met.”  Vayniya studied her for long moments, perchance weighing if this were some desperate ruse to daunt her.

 

“So a Daedric Prince did warn thee of my purpose, yet thou didst welcome me into thy home, and now findest thyself in my care?”

 

“He only warned of Vaermina’s base lackey.  Not that it was thee.”

 

“Thou must have suspected.”

 

“I did not distinguish the warnings of a madman from a mad god.  In my youth, I was so foolish as to feel pity swell for thee for a time. I deemed not such a villain could weep such guileful tears.”

 

“And now thou knowest good and evil are ne’er so simple. Take care not to err thus in thy next life.”

 

Kahira leveled a look of searing reproach, and Vayniya stifled a chuckle.

 

“I meant not to mock thee, and hold thee in high esteem despite our sorry state.  Thou art fierce for a slight lass, but to think thou couldst stare down one such as I is ludicrous.”

 

She shook her head, veiling mouth behind hand till she composed herself.

 

“If looks could slay, I should lie dead, and thou free.”

 

“Thou art naught but a coiled and greasy heap of horse dung. Thou art no warrior. Thou art scarce a womer.”

 

“Thou hast thy mother’s skill in high speech, I see,” Vayniya observed mildly. “I shall endure thy tongue.  Thou art justified to name me thus I suppose. But wager not on my forbearance. That which feels sweet for a moment is oft not wise.”

 

“Cover that thing.” Kahira gestured with her head at the painting of the Dragonborn and his companion. “It disgusteth me nigh as much as thou.”

 

Vayniya’s countenance grew solemn.

 

“That part of my ‘performance’ was no act.  Yet thou must be mad with hunger and thirst by now. There is a bucket thou mayst use if thou must relieve thyself.”

 

At the mention of drink, Kahira recalled a matter beyond her own plight.

 

“Didst thou slay mine uncle?”

 

“Nay,” Vayniya answered, slicing an apple.  “Truly he slumbers at the inn.  I poured him a special draught.  He’ll be insensible for days, much too late to aid thee or thy mother, I fear.  His father will have checked upon him by now.  He shan’t perish from hunger as thou art in peril of doing.”

 

She offered an apple slice and Kahira turned her head defiantly.

 

“Thou actest a petulant child, clinging to vain hope thou mightst anger or grieve me by refusing to eat.  I thought thee wiser.”

 

‘Twas in Vayniya’s eyes, a calm, professional disappointment in Kahira’s will to endure. With a slight nod, she accepted.  ‘Twas undignified, but Vayniya fed her like a babe.  Apples, dry cheese and bread, then several mugs of water.

 

“Wilt thou slay us?”

 

“In truth, I wish not to e’en harm thee or Erik. I rather like thee more than I foresaw Kahira.”

 

“And my mother?”

 

“Alas, she must suffer unto her last breath. ‘Twas e’er my purpose. To say I am not overfond of Karin would be to speak softly.”

 

“Then I shall not lie.  I hate thee, and pray that when next thou layest thy head, thy mistress sendeth seizures to rend thy brain.”

 

Vayniya sighed, as if this were but a burden to bear.

 

“Such is my role in this. Yet be glad. I have prayed fervently to Vaermina on thy behalf as thou slept. Thou must suffer still child, but she deemeth it enough for thee to watch and know what befalls thy dam.”

 

“My thanks,” Kahira said, voice dripping scorn. For a moment, Vayniya’s expression flickered.  She looked angry enough to affright her.

 

“Aye, thou shouldst thank me!  I too was a gentle thing at thy age.  Now I would massacre all Rorikstead if needs be to be free of Vaermina.  So would thou, in my place.  Thou art the fortunate one in all this. Unless thy mother doth aught foolish, or worse, proveth a coward.  If that cometh to pass, I can do naught for thee. Thou shalt suffer as thy mother was meant to.  Mark that ere thou open thy foolish mouth again.”

 

For a spell, there was only the fire’s crackle.  Vayniya folded arms, leaned back against the cavern wall, and closed her eyes anew.

 

“She’s no craven,” Kahira said, though she could not speak to the other possibility.

 

“Oh, she is in many ways,” Vayniya replied without opening eyes. “Yet thy mother hath not been many things I’ve deemed her.  Whether she will heed my missive as writ, I cannot say.   She is cunning, yet also one of the greatest fools I’ve e’er seen, if thou canst grasp that.”

 

“I suppose I can...”

 

“And dear Kahira, if she attempteth any guile, or stealeth into this cavern in secret or bringeth a rabble…then I must mutilate thee.”

 

“Why? Why must thou do such?”

 

“’Tis Vaermina’s will.  Now quiet thyself so that I might rest.  Admire thy painting.  Remember there are few in all Tamriel that sleep lighter than I.” 

 

The Dunmer’s eyes remained sealed, and she shifted, as if rest was all she truly craved in that shadowed lair.

 

Kahira pondered Vayniya’s counsel, how one could ne’er truly know another without unearthing hidden depths.  Her gaze drifted to the painting. From this distance ‘twas arduous, yet she strove to know it once more in that peculiar way when the work was fresh upon canvas.  She fixed mind upon both Dragonborn and companion.

 

The Daedric Princes oft manifested in lesser guises, as Sheogorath had, yet they favored it not.  ‘Twas as if striving to cram one’s body through a narrow crevice.  So they didst rely on mortals when they could not be bothered to weave their own terrors.  From her paintings, she knew the Dragonborn had served many Daedric Princes. No fervent devotee was he, merely an opportunist, a mighty arm for the Daedra upon this plane.

 

 

Kahira sought the Mistress of Nightmares and her servant within the ruby eyes of the two Dunmer and found naught but pigment and canvas.

 

 

3.

 

Karin trod back to her hovel, her fragile sanity crumbling under the weight of fear for her daughter.  Jouane’s aid might avail her yet it brought no solace. 

 

Vayniya had inscribed Karin’s true name and past sins upon the canvas.  Had she wronged the Dunmer in days gone by?  ‘Twas entirely possible, though to ponder when was a fruitless chase.  She’d slain quite a few Dunmer in her time.  For ten years ere Kahira’s birth, she’d felled quite a few of every race under the sun.  Vayniya could scarce have been more than a whelp even at Kahira’s birth.  But that assumed much.

 

She might as easily be a sadistic bounty hunter, or another assassin collecting on one of those moldering contracts laid upon Karin’s reckless youth.  Karin stepped within her hovel and leaned against the wall, letting herself slide down slowly. She yearned to weep, yet could only wait for Vayniya’s appointed hour.  Aught else imperiled Kahira.

 

“A fine day!”

 

She rose and wheeled, drawing knife in one fluid motion.  There sat the bearded lunatic perched in her favored chair, kicking his legs like a child at play.  He met her glare with a grin that stretched ear to ear, golden eyes bright with madness. 

 

“I know thee,” she snarled. “Thou’rt that brainsick whoreson from Kahira’s picture.”

 

“I could say the same of thee!”

 

“Thou’rt...what’s-his-face,” she faltered, grasping at the dread.

 

“Adored and worshipped throughout the land!” He crowed, then sobered abruptly, his grin vanishing.  ‘Twas a terrifying sight, that void where mirth had reigned.

 

“But let us be grave for just one moment Karin Frost-Fang.  Thou knowest precisely who I am.  Thou’rt not mad, and not a one of mine.  Not truly.  Oh, thou playest the part well, but madness from a bottle is naught like having it baked into thy brain day after day, is it?  Look how thou hast held thyself together all these years in this hamlet. ‘Tis a piteous thing!”

 

His grin reemerged, a crescent of derangement. She longed to spit something fierce yet he spake truth.  She knew who he was. That meant not she must bandy words.

 

“Wilt thou aid me?”  He tilted his head, as if weighing a jest, then sputtered.

 

“P...PPp...Puh!  Nay, that’s not it. Pluh! Pluhhhhh!”

 

“...Please?”  She ventured, voice tight.

 

“Aye, a mite, then!  Just a mite. For I feel but a wee bit responsible for thee and Kahira’s plight, and as thou knowest, responsibility is among the vilest afflictions. Thou didst beg any and all for aid on thy walk here, cursing me and Talos equally, so here I stand! This calleth for cake!”

 

“Then what tarry we for? Wilt thou slay Vayniya? Or make her believe herself a rabbit or such?”

 

Oh, nay, nay, my, nay, yes, not at all!  I’m meddling o’ermuch as it is.  But I shall tell thee without my aid thou’rt doomed to perish. With a tiny nudge perchance thou’dst live.”

 

“Come then! What hast thou for me? A secret art? A word of power? A Wabbajack?”

 

Sheogorath slapped his knee with mirth that seemed nigh sane.

 

“Oh, so thou’st read that tale! That would be a very fine jest, aye?  Don’t tempt me now.  Nay, let’s call it an insight that thou and Kahira might cherish.” 

 

He spread his hands grandly, eyes gleaming with intense interest.

 

“This world is a beautiful improbability, nigh an impossibility.  A most kind fiction bestowed by clay-brained fate upon an undeserving fool!  Only for thee, dear Karin of the Frost-Fangs, her daughter Kahira, and a few scant others.  Only here could one such as thee e’er know what it is to be a mother.  Only whilst thou were swollen with child and vulnerable would an honourable man like Erik spare thee a glance save to run thee through.  ‘Tis grotesquely beautiful, like a serpent eating its own tail.  Ho, ponder it truly!  Let it wash o’er thy mind and scour it clean of all thoughts of Elisif the Fair bereft of her small clothes and horkers and such!  ‘Tis absurd in a grander way than most.  It nigh brings tears to mine eyes.  Nay, ‘tis pollen!”

 

“How is that to aid me?” she snarled, patience fraying.

 

“Not a deep thinker, art thou?” He spread his arms wide. “Embrace me.”

 

“Waste of mine time!  Thou’rt a Daedric Prince, surely thou canst—”

 

“Embrace. Me.” His growl held jest’s tone, yet his features darkened like a hound poised to snap, then brightened with that grin. “Be not coy.”

 

She stepped into his arms grudgingly.  Aside from the embarrassment, he made her skin crawl, and she’d endured many situations she’d ne’er share in her deepest cups. ‘Twas worse than the time she’d grappled with a giant frost spider.

 

Yet a strange thing befell her. Her head grew cloudy.  Dimly, she heard voices whispering in a cacophony of murmurs.  Unable to discern individuals, it swelled into a wall of nonsense. Though some spake with strange accents and tongues unknown, they all echoed her own voice.  She grasped not what they uttered, but when he released her, she felt altered.  ‘Twas like descending from a mountain’s peak, head spinning and lungs swelling with newfound air.

 

“There, that’s the measure of it.”

 

“And what was that to do?”

 

“Perchance thou shalt see anon. Dost thou recall thy little hidey-runny box now? Thy bottle of Lightning, brewed all those years past? Buried ‘neath the twin stone piles upon the west hill.”

 

She had actually forgotten it, truth be told.  A relic she ne’er thought to need again.  Would a brew aged better than a dozen years old yet hold potency?

 

“It’ll serve well enough for thy purpose,” he answered, though she’d not spoken aloud. “I added a dash of zest to it.  Take it, and let it ne’er be said I gave thee naught!” He gasped, pointing behind her. “Look now!”

 

Karin turned, seeing naught but her hovel’s bare walls. She whirled back to question Sheogorath further, but only empty air remained.

 

4.

 

She found the box right where she had left it all those years ago.

 

When she had struggled with Kahira’s screaming and crying, and her own desperate longing to flee Rorikstead, she’d brewed this final batch. Just in case she wished to let go and plunge back into the shit and muck.  She’d pondered it much at the time.

 

She could have abandoned the babe in Erik’s arms, fleeing to the wilds.  Free.  Utterly hollow in all the ways that mattered, but free.  Back then Karin hadn’t grasped that, for her, the two concepts were intertwined.  Had Erik not stood by her, perchance she’d have taken that other path.  Instead, she sealed that other life away in this box and buried it under the earth.

 

She misliked it, but if Sheogorath himself insisted this was the path she could do worse than heeding a mad Prince who’d bested his peers.  At least in all those tale-books.

 

“Welcome home mama,” she whispered to the box’s contents. “We missed thee.”

 

“Oh, I missed thee too,” she answered.

 

Within lay the flask of Lightning.  She let a drop fall from the bottle. It was dark amber now, no longer the rich yellow of its youth. Knowing full well she could not let it overtake her, she let another drop touch her tongue.  No pleasure came, as in days past.  It tasted foul as bile.  She spat it out in disgust.

 

There too was her favored orcish dagger, its serrated edge crafted for the cruel delight of sawing flesh, muscle, and bone. Her dress would not serve as was. She tore the sleeves at the shoulders, then rent the skirt until it rose above the knees, ensuring no fabric would hinder her stride.  With the strip she fashioned a crude bandana o’er her forehead and tucked her hair back.

 

She was herself anew, or as nigh to the joyful slayer of yesteryear as she could fashion herself without forsaking all she had cherished in these past seasons.  She knew not if this Karin was the one for the fray or bore the strength to wrest her child from peril. ‘Twas perchance not a challenge only to be solved with stabbing.  But if ‘twere, she held all the tools needful now.

 

She made straight for home. She beheld the shadows creep across the floor as the sun traversed the heavens.  The fear had waned as she waited for what must come to pass.

 

Just as the weariness of waiting gnawed at her, there came a knock.

 

 

5.

 

When Vayniya first beheld the fiend in the flesh, astonishment coursed through her.  Karin yet bore likeness to her nightmares, yet the years had etched mark upon her.  Her visage was not so withered as Vayniya for one who indulged in nigh every vice known upon Nirn.  Her face bore scar of battles with the bottle yet her skin lacked the ghostly pallor of a true skooma fiend, and her gaze seemed different.  ‘Twas vexing, but not one poised to lunge with blade at any whisper of provocation.

 

Yet Vaermina decreed Karin’s demise must not be a fleeting stroke.  Never such.  Her suffering must be prolonged and grievous. To perform the task with half-hearted zeal would be a graver sin than to leave it undone, for there would be no second chance to mend the fault.  All was bound to Vaermina’s will, and her promise of sweet, elusive slumber.

 

This transformed a deed that might have been trifling peril to one adept as she to a venture demanding meticulous design. ‘Twould require solitude with Karin to mete out Vaermina’s retribution.  She already kenned much of Karin’s shadowed past from her nights of anguish, yet of the assassin’s present state she knew little.  Vaermina reveled in afflicting Vayniya with torments, yet proved strangely loath to unveil the particulars of Karin’s insult, or, the nature of her daughter.  Vaermina would disclose naught further, in the manner of one weaving tale wherein certain truths would ill serve her purpose.

 

Once, Vayniya had dared to inquire, “Wherefore doth the Mistress not simply torment Karin as I am tormented?”

 

In reply, the Mistress visited upon her three nights of anguish, relenting only when Vayniya’s heart faltered and sight waned, lest she perish.  Yet from matters left unsaid, Vayniya had learned to glean truth.  The Daedric Princes be majestic in their dominion, their might surpassing the primal forces mortals deem steadfast in their daily toil.  The star strewn sky, the luminous moons, the chilling winds.  Yet these sovereigns of reality’s very weave could prove petty as babes denied a sweet ere bedtime. From this, Vayniya discerned that her mistress withheld much that might cast her in an ill light.  In such wise, Vaermina was as proud and vigilant of her renown as she was relentless in her vengeance, not unlike haughty dames of noble lineage.

 

Yet if Vayniya were to prevail, she required knowledge unmarred by Vaermina’s partiality.

 

Thus, rather than cleaving the assassin’s loathsome head, a just act that would render all Skyrim a boon, Vayniya gazed upon her feet as she passed Karin that first time.  Clad in her guise, Karin paid Vayniya no heed in those early days.

 

Now Karin dwelt in Rorikstead, veiling her crimes and name from the world’s scrutiny, and had by some means begotten a daughter.  Perchance she had been so addled by skooma and the red weed she mistook man for maid, or, as desperate for ten septim as the wretched soul base enough to share her bed. 

 

Tales of the girl herself and her power carried from Solitude to Riften, though they lost much being passed from cup to ear.  Vayniya had been disappointed to converse with her at first.  She did not seem the creature a vulgar monster might spawn.  As for the “uncle”, Vayniya had taken in the situation at a glance.  Rorikstead was a mud hole, with few women to stir the blood.  Karin would have taken one look at that strong back bereft of guile and enslaved him with hot promises that weaved into ne’er-ending tapestry so she could keep at the business of indolently drinking her days away.

 

Karin herself had few advocates.  Mralki made allowances for his son’s sake, and the fact the woman drank like half a dozen villagers in the throes of despair.  She would speak freely and with infinite jest, but her friendship was shunned as a commodity of dubious value that escalated rapidly in cost.  If foul mood struck her, none of the men wanted to cross her path.  She was grudgingly tolerated by the hamlet, as one might a dog that hadn’t sense where it shat or when it barked.  Britte the stall vendor shared this, and Vayniya found it both humorous and apt. 

 

Others, like the Enronsons, harbored such passionate loathing the excess went to the daughter.  Yet there wasn’t much they could do.  Karin was a howling bitch, but Erik would consider only fair complaint, and e’en then would restrain his heart’s bedraggled fancy in the gentlest way possible.  She had the hamlet wrapped around her finger thusly.

 

 ‘Twas a story without need of embellishment or question.  But what of poor Vayniya?

 

When the tapestry of life wove gentler threads and Vayniya had yet to hear the name of Karin Frost-Fang, there emerged a figure of mythic renown.  His dominion was the arcane, wielding spells ancient and terrible, and the language and breath of dragons. He was a soul none dared cross, and many names worthy of bardic lays fought at his side in glory.

 

‘Twas said he donned the mantle of Arch-Mage at Winterhold and felled dragon priests for mere sport and base avarice.  For reasons shrouded in the mists of his own heart, he even lent his strength to Ulfric in claiming the throne of Skyrim. Perchance this was why the Nords spake less of him now, proclaiming the past a closed scroll.  They deemed Skyrim need not venerate “foreign” champions when their own heroes abounded. Ulfric’s scorn for elves of all ilk was known, and Vayniya mused were she in his stead, owing her crown to such a one would be a melody she’d fain silence ‘neath the weight of her own pride.

 

That year, tales of the Dragonborn blossomed like wildflowers ‘pon spring meadow, each more fantastical than the last, ‘til truth and myth intertwined in dance none could unravel.  Some e’en swore he struck down Emperor Titus Mede II with his own hand.  Though Vayniya deemed it finer ballad than the emperor perishing in a blaze born of mischance.  Yet one tale not ‘oft told she held as certain.  That of her sire.

 

Despite her servitude Vayniya still bore pride fierce as the fires of Red Mountain.  That the Dragonborn would defy Vaermina herself for her father’s sake was testament to their bond.  They had spurned her honeyed entreaties to shatter her artifact, a skull-headed stave of fabled might, a prize many would spill rivers of blood to claim.  ‘Twas a deed that swelled her heart with awe.  For she knew intimately how difficult ‘twas to oppose the Mistress of Nightmares.

 

Yet deep loathing also coursed through her for the two Dunmer.  Had her father not sundered that dread relic, Vaermina would not now cast baleful gaze ‘pon his daughter.  When her faith had faltered, the yearning for a sweet release of slumber eternal so great she had dared to ask Vaermina, “Wherefore am I thus marked?”

 

In response Vaermina unveiled the deed, the visages of father and Dragonborn defying her.  Whether Vaermina e’er exacted her vengeance ‘pon either, Vayniya knew not.  Though ‘twas certain she would endeavor to do so, perchance through another agent driven to madness by sleepless nights.  The Mistress brooked neither slight nor rebellion, and sought her vengeance upon all foes mighty or meek with the fervor one bestoweth upon a most treasured pastime.

 

Thus, visions of the warped assassin and her fell deeds plagued her rest.  Karin’s perverse utterances mingled with Vaermina’s dread voice, commanding what she must do.  Ever and anon, until the twain became as one, indistinguishable.  Vayniya’s own frame began to recoil from slumber.  Her heart trembled ever in fearful expectation.  Yet no blade stroke, no incantation nor potion could fortify her courage to abate it. ‘Twas as unbidden as the breath she drew, this terror of dreaming. 

 

She knew it was Vaermina’s design for it to be thus.  Yet she had seen too many of Karin’s crimes to e’er think the creature deserved mercy.  If Karin birthed a thousand kind daughters and loved each with the fire of the sun, it would not tip the scales.  Vayniya had endured rape, torture, and death nightly for no other reason than the assassin’s amusement.  Redemption was not for her like.  Beyond all else, she had endured nightmares aplenty to know that however tamed Karin now appeared, she was a creature of caprice blessed with a fiend’s fortune.

 

All this ran through Vayniya’s mind, like skeevers in the underbrush.  An idiot anxiety she could not argue with.  She hovered betwixt sleep and wakefulness, until starting awake with no sense of up or down. Her gaze fell on Kahira. It did not look like she had moved. She looked at Vayniya in a manner most strange.

 

“He did not forsake thee,” she intoned in a timbre far beyond her years. “Had he but known of thy birth, he would have consecrated his life to thee afore thought of embracing Mara.”  A shiver ran through Vayniya, and she blinked hard.

 

“Who?”

 

“Thy father.  The Dragonborn’s companion, there.”  She nodded to the painting. 

 

Ere he turned to such foolish heroics, her father sought to tread the path of a bard, or so her mother had recounted.  Dames oft swooned for bards, and a comely visage could oft stand in for musical skill.  He had not known of Vayniya, yet her mother had e’er sought him to tell him so. By then he had taken a new name and vocation, unbeknownst to them and rendering the search futile.

 

“Thou hast gleaned something of my art it seems.  I commend thee.  Aye, that is my sire on yonder canvas.”

 

The maiden’s gaze proved intolerable, profound pity mingled with radiant grace.  It rendered her timeless, as if ‘twas Vaermina’s harbinger who appeared the callow youth.

 

“Wilt thou not defy Vaermina as he did? I comprehend the torments inflicted upon thee through these weary years, yet the Mistress of Nightmares claimeth not sole dominion among the Daedric Lords.  I would lend mine aid if thou wouldst relinquish this frenzied quest for vengeance and cast off the shackles that bind thy spirit.”

 

“Once more, I commend thee. A manipulation most artful. I would say the same, were I ensnared in thy plight.”  The youthful artist’s visage blossomed into wounded sorrow.

 

“I am in earnest. I would rather ally with thee against Vaermina than endure…whatsoever this is meant to be.”

 

Her plea held such conviction that for a moment Vayniya nigh found herself agreeing.  Then she caught herself.  Kahira was a child still. ‘Twas time for her to awaken.

 

“And how doth one wage war upon a dream?  Thou readest tomes and wieldest both long blade and short edge.  Thou dost e’en know veiled secrets of the Daedric Princes themselves through thy pigments.  How doth one do it lass?  Who wouldst thou enlist to aid thee?  Sheogorath?  He’d as soon prattle about fish as turn my cranium into a drum.  Perchance that’s one way to banish nightmares, aye?”

 

Kahira averted her gaze, yet uttered naught

 

“Aye, ponder it deeply. Thou hast scant time ere thy mother must arrive or slink away.”

 

“Neither of us deserve this.”   

 

Vayniya contemplated the girl, discerning within herself envy for her monstrous mother.  To possess the devotion of one such as this, where she had naught but Vaermina, was travesty.  Perchance ‘twas a nostalgia for a little sister as well.  However, such times were at an end.

 

“Thy mother meriteth all that shall befall her anon, and more besides. What dost thou know of thy dam’s past crimes?”

 

“I...know she plundered and slew in youth’s reckless folly. I absolve it not.”  From the maiden’s tone, Vayniya divined she comprehended naught. 

 

“Then let us discourse at length upon it.”

 

Vayniya began to share the tales with Kahira, her voice solemn in the cavern's gloom.  From the atrocities Karin wrought when a lass till the year the fiends's belly began to swell with child.  She spoke far longer than Kahira had stomach to endure, until the air grew thick with the reek of the poor maid’s disgorged meal.

 

6.

 

They stood afore the crossroads down the way.  The girl Vayniya sent to her threshold was one of the Enronson whelps, a sullen chit who would divulge naught, no matter what Karin threatened.  The lass darted her eyes hither and thither, like a novice skooma peddler wary of the law’s gaze.  Seeing, or perchance not seeing what she sought, she drew a letter from the folds of her garb.  Karin seized it, tore it open, read it twice with ravenous haste, then fixed the girl with a glare.

 

“Wherefore didst thou tarry till this instant to yield this letter?  Hadst thou given it sooner, I might have woven plans.”

 

“T’was the intent,” the girl replied.  “That dark shade pressed a hundred septims into my palm and bade me watch thee.  I was to yield this letter here and now, only if all seemed true.”

 

“Dost thou think she meaneth to ensnare me with deceit?”

 

The girl shrugged, as if the assassin towering o’er her were already a corpse awaiting burial.

 

“She vowed to raze our farmhouse to cinders if I strayed from command or if thou appeared with another.  Should Rorikstead lend thee aid, many would perish.  If thou obeyest her, she hath sworn only thou shalt fall.  None shall mourn thee.”

 

She spake without malice, a truth delivered with the bluntness of youth.   Conceding the justice of it, Karin bade the child return to her wretched piss-hole of a farm with a swift boot in the arse to propel her.

 

The letter bore a map, its lines etched with precision.  It demanded she set a relentless pace, warning that tardiness would cost her daughter forevermore.

 

From the crossroads, Karin veered northeast, forsaking road for a rugged ascent up steep hill, past a gurgling waterfall.  One facet of her mind clung to the map, tracing path through the wilds.  Another wove fantasies of Kahira’s rescue, of the blood she would visit upon Vayniya ere the end.  Yet such were as futile as dreams of ale raining from the heavens.  She trod onward, letting memories weaken her with their bittersweet weight.

 

She recalled the warrens of Markarth, and at a mere fifteen winters joining Emeren’s bandits.

 

She recalled a maelstrom of blood, lust, and drunken revelry.  Countless faces, yet few left breathing.  Years between, all squandered in debauchery.

 

She recalled the morning sickness that no substance ingested could explain. She’d lain with many in heated clinches, yet ne’er thought to bear child.  Surprise was unwarranted, for Shana and she had coupled like rabbits for days ere he made his move on the Abbes.

 

Her own trade had ne’er been in high demand, but e’en desperate clients shunned an assassin heavy with child.   She endured as she could, through filching and rolling lone wayfarers for their coin.  Every instinct urged her to end it, to cast herself down a steep stair and reclaim freedom, yet something restrained her.

 

Not the “miracle”, but the extreme unlikelihood of it.  It demanded witness, e’en if only to consign the babe to another’s care.

 

Karin passed a clutch of trees atop the hill, casting a final glance at the road ere descending the far side.

 

At length, she had wandered that same road, betwixt Karthwasten and the river, where Erik had found her.  The threats she’d heaped upon him then were legendary, a stream of vivid smut from a bedraggled wretch without a crumb to her name.  Yet he persisted, unwilling to yield.

 

Kahira came soon after.  The pain, by Mephala’s jest, was like passing an oversized gourd through her vessel.  Yet when she beheld the squealing, slimy creature born of her body, ‘twas as if a hidden lever was pulled, revealing a chamber within her soul she ne’er knew existed.

 

Kahira was no comely babe.  At birth, she bore her father’s features, then shed her golden tresses and resembled none so much as Mralki for a time, with unfocused eyes and slack mouth.

 

Yet she was her babe, and therein Karin found beauty.  The urge to shield this fragile being born of her own flesh was overpowering.  She sought to understand it, but the effort was futile. It simply was, and it was good, this she knew.

 

‘Twas the shrieking, pissing and shitting of those first years that nigh drove Karin to true madness.

 

Compared to those first three months, Karin would sooner confront Ulfric’s army bare-arsed.  Yet Kahira took to her milk, and to her.   She’d wail a tempest, then coo in Karin’s arms.  Erik aided, cradling the babe so Karin might snatch a few hours’ sleep.  That he could invest so much without expectation of reward was a notion so foreign to Karin she could not reconcile it for years.  She thought perchance he played the longest, most patient game any had ever played to get inside her small clothes.

 

The crisis eased in that second year, though Kahira remained a trial.  The craving for skooma, and more pressingly, the gnawing tedium, faded so gradually Karin scarce noticed.  Ne’er truly vanquished, but tamed at least.

 

The sense this alien creature must have sprung from another’s loins also faded, and Kahira was hers at last.   How peculiar that motherhood befitted her, a mantle she ne’er thought to wear.   She ne’er deluded herself that she was a good mother.  Yet like dice, one need not excel to cherish the pastime.  Those years were also difficult, yet she’d barter her left tit to reclaim them.

 

Here Karin reached a creek forking in twain ere descending into the valley. Heedless, she splashed through waters rising to her thighs, following the northern flow.

 

Those years before Kahira reached eight summers were the sweetest.  Her eyes shone with adoration, and she posed every question under the sun.  Karin lingered at home then, savoring moments she feared might vanish like mist.  To Kahira, her dam’s word was not mere parental decree but a divine edict, the final arbiter of all life’s mysteries. They played without cease, and Karin strove to guide her with care her own sire lacked.  She did not always prevail, but she aspired.

 

‘Twas a delicate balance, allowing Kahira freedom whilst shaping her into a dutiful daughter. Spurred by the village’s frigid silences, perchance Karin let her flourish too wild, too strange, as a defiance to their scorn.  She guarded her oaths before the child when she could remember.  While ‘twas amusing when Kahira proclaimed Karin’s stew “shit”, Erik’s reproach grew tiresome as a beleaguered housewife’s.

 

Years weaving garlands of wildflowers together.  When a foul batch of flin (and was there any other sort) laid Karin low, Kahira kept vigil by her bedside, weeping as if her mother teetered on death’s edge. 

 

Kahira’s first tentative sketches, ere her art turned to darker hues. Karin recalled her delight at her daughter’s talent, then horror at its grim bent, swiftly yielding to pride in its gruesome beauty.  Karin loathed parting with a single piece for a time until they piled in great drifts about their hovel.

 

Sculpting Kahira together with Erik, witnessing her blossom.  That too kindled a new warmth.  For in observing him, Karin saw his joy in something he ne’er thought to possess.  From that, she began to fathom what she herself was also becoming.

 

Beholding the redoubt of Broken Tusk with Kahira along the road to Karthwasten one day, the whim came to her.  Karin knew the path unsafe and mending it could hone her dulled edge.  She and Erik attended it, not solely for gain but because growing fat in Rorikstead ill-befitted both their spirits.

 

The blood and panic they sowed sated Karin for weeks. Yet the true delight was granting Kahira dominion over the ruin after dispatching the bandits.  Kahira feigned she was the queen of Windhelm, her mother and uncle her trusted counselors, holding court and battling imaginary adversaries till the sky bled crimson.

 

Karin’s brow furrowed as she pressed up the narrow path, strewn with mammoth, deer, and even human bones. Her destination could not be far.

 

She and Kahira had not quarreled, though disputes naturally arose.  Yet as her daughter matured, Karin felt her recede, inexorable as sand through fingers. Kahira no longer accepted her mother’s every word.  Questions ceased as Karin’s deflections bred a quiet resignation in her daughter.  Not acceptance, but weary distance.  Embraces, once freely bestowed, grew strained.  Dolls and childish games were swiftly outgrown and forgotten.  They still shared time, but Kahira increasingly sought her own company.

 

Karin granted her that distance, regaining fragments of herself, channeling them to coin and security.  Mephala curse her, she’d been grateful for her own time reclaimed. Thus it had endured until now.

 

Here.

 

The cave was festooned with grim warnings, skulls and remains in various stages of decay. The creek fed a waterfall slicing one side; on the other, a steep grade impossible to scale.  The cave perched on a rocky plateau, uneven yet akin to a natural stage. The ridge fell away to a vista of the valley and river far below.  It was not the loftiest drop, but one none would survive.

 

Karin pondered cunning ploys, knowing a single misstep would cost her daughter’s light.  Instead, she uncorked the flask and quaffed the Lightning. ‘Twas vile and viscous, urging her to retch, yet she drained it to the dregs. Then, drawing a deep breath, she bellowed towards the cave.

 

“Vayniya!”

 

7.

 

Her mother’s voice bawled from without the cavern.

 

 “Here I am!   Come forth and dance with me!  Thou wishest a frolic?  Let us frolic, thou rotten bitch!”

 

Within the shadowed maw, Vayniya bestowed a smile upon her captive, who remained pallid from the horrors unveiled unto her.

 

“Art thou prepared to join the revelry now? Recall what I have imparted.”

 

In swift order, Kahira was marched to the cavern’s threshhold, Vayniya’s blade resting upon her shoulder.  A mere flick, the Dunmer vowed, would suffice for a lingering and unpleasant demise.

 

Her mother’s bellowing ceased, and she stared up the slope at daughter and captor.   She appeared solitary, her form stripped of her gown’s hem, one end bound ‘round her brow like a warrior’s band.  Her ashen face sought Kahira’s eyes with the feral desperation of a beast ensnared.  Kahira had ne’er beheld her thus, yet somehow it seemed her mother’s truest form.

 

“Kahira! Thou art unharmed?”

 

“Speak,” Vayniya urged with a prod.

 

“I am unscathed,” Kahira replied.

 

“Thou camest alone?” Vayniya demanded. “Thou hast laid no snare? If thou hast, best confess it now whilst thy daughter yet draws breath.”

 

Karin’s grin was grim.

 

“Aye, ‘tis only me. Now release the lass and confront me as a true woman.  I bear my blades and stand ready for our sport.”

 

“Nay, I think not,” Vayniya countered, tapping sword upon Kahira’s shoulder as if weighing fates. “I ne’er vowed to free Kahira, only to spare her harm.  Thou art yet to endure thy punishment ere our pact be sealed.  She must bear witness. Thereafter, she walks free, without a mark ‘pon her fair flesh.  Dost thou wish to know wherefore thou must suffer?”

 

“I give not a shit for thy prattle.  Loose her and meet me, wretch. I’ll ne’er flee from thee.  Or doth the quivering of thy limbs give thee pause?”

 

“My nights of fearing thee end this day.”  Vayniya replied tightly.  “Yet come!  Offer thyself for thy daughter as a loving and true parent would.  Could there be aught more noble, especially from one such as thee?  Embrace the deed.”

 

“Art thou a craven?” Karin taunted. “I have heeded thy missive and still thou dost not stir!  I trust not groveling abductors who daub threats in my child’s blood!”

 

“Aye, that was regrettable, yet it conveyed my intent did it not?  She remains whole.  With fortune, this be the final base act I commit in this mortal coil.”

 

“Thou art right on that score,” Karin retorted. “I have beheld cowards aplenty in my time, but one who menaces child to reach mother is the beggarly depth of villainy!”

 

“Thou darest lecture me on villainy?”  Vayniya thundered.  “Thou, the dregs of this world, feigning the role of righteous dam!  Disgusting!  I could wade in gore till this time next year and ne’er approach thy filth!  I have recounted to thy daughter thy deeds ere her birth! The maid in Solitude whose sole sin was acquaintance with M’aiq the Liar!  Braun the Hammer’s entire kin!  That sordid affair with Laila Law-Giver!  The merchants ‘pon the roads just yonder peaks…there.”  

 

She gestured into the distance.

 

 “Which merchants, thou askest?  There were so many!  A nigh endless ledger of mindless killing.  Thus, I offer thee a bargain.  Confess to thy daughter now.  Let her hear these words sung from thy lips, not mine.  Unveil all, and I may deign to duel thee.  I wager thou canst not.  Thou art such a coward, thou’dst watch her lifeblood ebb ere thou reveal thy true self.”

 

Kahira kenned Vayniya was a cunning weaver of lies, yet her recitation of her dam’s depravity had rung too true. Her mother shrank afore her, her form shedding its ferocity, her gaze dropping to her feet. Vayniya nudged her roughly, as if triumphant in the display.

 

Just as despair began to claim Kahira’s heart, her mother lifted her head, and their eyes met.

 

“Lass...daughter.  I’ll own it all.  I ravished, tortured, slew.  Dozens upon dozens.  A hundred perchance, or even more.  Some deserved everything I gave them, but most oft, it hinged ‘pon my whim and how idle I felt.  I wrought near every ill a soul can conjure, and I did so for years. Not just ill…cruel as my fancy could devise. But all that hath naught to do with thee.”

 

She could not grant her mother absolution, perchance ever.  Nor could she condemn her for deeds ere her birth. She kenned not what words to offer. Kahira beheld in that moment all her mother’s silences and dodges.  Her clamorous yarns of adventure heard by the hearth, which so often ceased too swiftly when she came upon moments she deemed not for her daughter’s ears, and she would say no more thereon.

 

“Thou art my mother,” Kahira said, her voice atremble. “And thou didst slay and ravish solely for thy amusement?”

 

“Aye,” Karin confessed. “I thought perchance…” She glanced at Vayniya, who regarded her coldly.

 

“I thought perchance if I became the foulest villain of any, I’d ne’er meet one who could wreak worse ‘pon me. I offer no plea. Yet that hath naught to do with thee, only the wretch who standeth afore thee. For thirteen winters, I ne’er revisited those deeds. Without thee, I know I could not bridle myself.  Because of thee, I’ve been a mother longer than a brigand.  Canst thou credit it? ‘Tis astonishing to say, yet I vow ‘tis true.  That’s what I bid thee remember of me. To bear the name Frost-Fang is to wade through a tempest of yellow shit lass, but Snow-Fell, aye, ‘tis a finer name for thee.”

 

Vayniya regarded Kahira’s sorrow, finding therein what she sought, and nodded down at the assassin.

 

“’Tis well. Throw down thy blades and come hither now, thou villain.”

 

“Wilt thou not face her?” Kahira asked suddenly.

 

“Thou hast heard her confession,” Vayniya replied. “She hast earned what cometh next. This lieth now betwixt her and me.”

 

“And me,” Kahira replied, “thou hast made it so.  Wouldst thou let it be known thy mistress dreads a worn out drunkard like my dam?  Wouldst thou bear the knowledge that thou thyself quaked afore her for the remainder of thy days?”

 

“Thou art most cunning,” Vayniya murmured, and lifted her gaze to the heavens. “Would it not prove grander amusement were I to dismantle Karin limb by limb? Would not the shame of the weakling flailing ‘gainst thy servant’s blade before her daughter be sweeter than base torments? Bestow ‘pon me this final grace, I implore thee, and I shall craft for thee a spectacle to relish.”

 

The firmament replied not, nary a distant peal of thunder stirring the air, yet Vayniya inclined head all the same and favored Kahira with a smile.

 

“I thank thee. This path shall serve all the better. Thou mayst behold from here, and wish with all thy fervor that I fall, if it pleaseth thee. Yet if thou stirrest from this perch, to flee or succor thy mother ere I return, thou shalt perish with the swiftness of a lightning’s bolt.  Doubt not my vow.”

 

Vayniya’s fist sparked afore the young artist’s countenance.  The Dunmer commenced down the slope toward Karin, her watch upon Kahira unyielding.

 

“Thy daughter hath bargained thee a nobler end.  Art thou not thankful?”

 

She narrowed the gulf and leveled sword at the assassin, whilst Karin raised dagger in answer.

 

“I had feared thou wouldst piss thyself till twilight afore facing me.”

 

 “Hah.  At last thou appearest more thine own self, and not such a village farce.  Well then.  For all thou hast wrought.”

 

“For all thou hast wrought,” Karin spat.

 

Kahira held no arrogance.  She knew Vayniya to be a force most fearsome, yet she knew her mother far deeper.   How oft had she returned with sacks of plunder, her laughter a gale from the joy of slaying vicious beasts and brigands of the hills?  Her dam stood with savagery Kahira could scarce recall witnessing, and lunged with speed that blurred the sight.

 

The scrape of metal ‘pon metal rang out, and her mother struck anew, another clash resounding.  Vayniya regarded a pauldron with curiosity, whilst her mother…faltered!

 

 

8. 

 

 

Perhaps she looked a fool now, but Vayniya had never been troubled with getting Karin alone.

 

 Her concern these years had been the business of subduing her when the time came, to which she dedicated herself.  Swordsmanship, spell craft, and what she could learn of the strike in shadowed alley when the assassin’s mark was distracted.  Knowing what vulnerable places to guard would be as important as knowing how to strike them.  If Vayniya had learned aught of Karin aside from her bottomless well of depraved cruelty, it was that she could not be sure of anything when the time came.

 

Now?  She was nearly as disappointed in herself as “the monster”.  Yet she had waited years for this dance, and she would not be hurried.

 

Karin was still somewhat swift, her style a sly mockery, hips and elbows and blades that came from angles no thoughtful swordmaster would deign to consider.  Yet there was a form in it.  Vayniya had rehearsed against it in Vaermina’s black theatre.  The assassin was dangerous compared to lesser foes, aye, but the nightmares had overprepared her.  Vayniya knew the key lay in distance, in wearing the bitch down like a hound harrying a stag. 

 

 

Karin stooped lower than e’er Vayniya thought possible, nigh crawling like some venomous thing, seeking to sever her tendons.  In response the Dunmer glided aside o’er the slope, lithe as a dancer.  

 

The wretch lunged next, offering an opening too perfect.  Vayniya smiled and refused the gift.  Instead, she pivoted upon foot and drove her elbow into the older woman’s cheek with force.  Karin reeled, blood blooming bright upon her lip. 

 

She would try to press through the pain next, trade one wound for another.  There were few matters in which she fully understood Karin, but this was as clear to her as a child’s book.  Fist and foot had been schooled as rigorously as blade in Vayniya’s long vigil.  She struck now with exquisite restraint.  As Karin raised edge for another strike, Vayniya followed with the pommel, cracking it down upon the webbing between thumb and forefinger.  

 

Karin’s grip loosened upon her precious toy, the dagger drooping like a spent lover.

 

A vicious kick to Karin’s ribs drove breath from her lungs in a pained gasp.  A cut across both leg and flank and another over arm.  She aimed not to strike at vitals but to prolong the pain.  No serious wounds yet.  Those were mercies yet unearned.

 

Karin wove hither and yon, movements erratic as a drunkard's serpentine stagger, ere another dagger emerged in her off-hand, poised to strike.   Vayniya stepped back and spewed flame from her palm, engulfing the assassin's dress at once in hungry fire.

 

Karin shrieked, stumbling forward to press the attack, only to cast herself ‘pon the dirt and roll like a swine in shit, beating at the flames with bare hands and curses.

 

Vayniya couldn't contain it.  She pointed, laughter bubbling like shattered crystal, nearly doubling her o’er in mirth.

 

"By the Eight, what spectacle thou makest!  Look at thee now, thou burning whore!  Rolling in muck like the privy leavings thou art!"   The laughter felt unbelievably good after so long stewing in hatred and fear.

 

Motion stirred.  She saw that Kahira, the foolish chit, was creeping forth from her perch.  Vayniya’s merriment curdled.   She hurled a bolt of lightning, arcing it a height above the lass’s crown in crackling admonition.

 

“Heed this as thy final grace, whelp!  Stir nearer, and I shall char thee to cinders where thou standest!”

 

“Nay my lass!”  Karin's voice rasped from the ground.  “Stay back!  'Twill be over anon!”

 

Vayniya smirked, observing Karin as she crawled distant like a wounded beast, fumbling a phial from the ruins of her dress.

 

“Couldst thou not even endure a dance without a draught to steady thy nerves, thou sodden sot?  Quaff deep!  Thou certainly couldn’t fight any worse.”

 

The assassin downed the mixture, crawled on a pace, then arose renewed.  Her wounds were knitting and her vigor restored in full measure.  For an instant, Vayniya’s brow furrowed in disbelief, yet laughter reclaimed her.

 

“I sought to prolong this pageant, to render thy suffering an exquisite bloom of agony.  Verily, I feared thou’dst falter ere the hour’s turn.  Well met then!  Now the revelry commenceth in earnest!”

 

They clashed anew, blades singing in the empty air.   Vayniya resolved to grind her down again, plotting fresh humiliations.  A slash to mar weathered face, a boot to Karin’s womanhood to remind her of old debaucheries.  Yet as she feinted to assail the flank, Karin shifted in manner unforeseen in a contortion defying all.   The assassin parried her sword, then thrust her dagger’s hilt into Vayniya’s nose with a wet crack.

 

Silvery pain blinded her and blood stained her lips.  Vayniya struck wildly, sword carving wide swaths to repel the unseen shadow.  She shook her head, the copper tang thick.  How had the bitch contrived such a sequence?  Karin's face held no smug triumph, but only glassy bewilderment, as if she scarce believed it herself.

 

Vayniya spat a gobbet of gore and came at Karin again.  The assassin dodged, shoulders arching and expression slack, until meeting Vayniya’s sword at the base.  She tilted head and regarded the angry Dunmer blankly as she repelled the heavier blade with a mere dagger.

 

9.

 

Karin had gleaned the arts of warriors since her tender years, bearing shield and blade in Windhelm's defense for half her span.  Vayniya’s swordplay was laced with cunning, crafted to ensnare the unwary or fell foes of swift and short reach.

 

‘Twas a blade hallowed to unravel an assassin’s guile and forged to answer her.   Yet enough remained in the foundation for Karin now to discern both the Circulus Colovianum and Versura Translucens, creeds from which this form had strayed.

 

Such lore eluded her but moments past.  They were swipes and thrusts, naught more. Now, comprehension illuminated Karin as if she’d always known.  The motions, the stratagems, the very doctrine.  As if she clasped the hilt herself.  Karin ne’er wielded sword.  If lacking knife, ‘twas a tool to lop limbs, as one might brambles in the wild.

 

Yet ‘twas more than a trade. ‘Twas an art, in the truest sense.

 

Vayniya snarled, the tip of her blade tracing paths destined for Karin’s flesh. This close, Karin grasped it. 

 

No span was squandered, and should she step beyond that unseen boundary, Vayniya held ways to pummel her or herd her as she willed.  Knowing the sword did not now place one in Karin’s hand. She possessed only these daggers, weapons she seldom trusted.

 

Karin questioned the alien assurance, yet yielded to it, letting it guide her.  Aye, she still knew dagger-work intimately.  Thus, whilst this other awareness discerned Vayniya engaged in the first four steps of Hail and Well Met and shifted her body to a stance where it would prove useless, Karin infused her own savvy.  As Vayniya’s form entangled upon itself, Karin the warrior and Karin the murderer for hire each beheld half the opening, and struck in union.

 

She landed a deep gash ‘pon Vayniya’s torso.

 

Fuck ye sideways ye pointy-eared bitch, Karin thought, yet her newfound grace gave her pause to utter words.

 

This was another Karin whose memories bled into her own.  ne’er had skooma tainted her lips, nor excess drowned her in ale’s embrace.  She commanded Windhelm’s esteem, Ulfric’s regard, and that of her…kin.

 

 Adopted by the Shatter-Shields, nurtured in affection, e’en indulgence. Youth’s rebellions forged into valor and honor, as innate now as motherhood.  In this twisted tapestry, she claimed the love of a goodly dame to call her own, Lucilla Corrium, tender and ardent as she was insatiably inquisitive.

 

‘Twas Karin Shatter-Shield, not Frost-Fang, STANDING AFORE VAYNIYA.  the assassin felt herself submerged, nigh drowning in this superior likeness of her, that claimed all she lacked.

 

Karin strove to focus on the fray, on her daughter, as Vayniya’s blade nearly laid open her face.

 

 Yet the veil of existence frayed, and Karin retraced paths ne’er trod. Back to the fork of fate, where her besotted, shattered sire returned not from the Great War, and her dam, in rare clarity, surrendered her daughter for loftier purpose.

 

‘Twas breathtaking.  If only the dice had tumbled otherwise, ‘twould have been—

 

Vayniya’s blade slashed the meat of Karin’s shoulder, and she returned to herself.  She countered the Dunmer’s advancing poise, clinging close so that Vayniya must either yield ground or rely ‘pon her limbs.  Blades locked in fierce embrace, and with sly flourish, Vayniya palmed a small push-dagger from her pauldron.

 

Karin languished years in Falkreath’s dank underbelly, the ceaseless drip of seepage and meals her only calendar.  Her jailers fed her on withered and overripe crops, charred or raw, and bread gone stale, and this was the pinnacle of each of her days.

 

The jester Cicero’s traps had ravaged half her comely visage, but ‘twas his final strike ere departing this world that had ended her path. Softened from the Dark Brotherhood and Karin’s own labors, she ne’er could have dreamed someone so plainly spent as he could yet be so swift. She’d repaid him in kind, but the damage was wrought. She lacked e’en the strength to raise blade when the guards seized her. For which slaughter she served her sentence, she could not recall. Perchance all of them.

 

She wished not to stir, which was well, for there was nowhere to stir. Yet she could ponder. Ponder and ponder and ponder.  Not of the folly of accepting Astrid’s contract when she so despised Karin.  Not the wisdom of forsaking banditry for the assassin’s life, or e’en the luxury of keeping both eyes.  Nay, she fixated endlessly upon Cicero’s parting blow. She had glimpsed it, but she simply wasn’t swift enough.  A twist a certain way would have saved two heartbeats. That would have been an eternity to end Cicero. If only she had—

 

Karin contorted, the push-knife tasting blood yet shunning vitals, and thrust half her own dagger’s length into Vayniya’s flank.

 

The Dunmer hurled her back with savage force, filling the air with a swirl of deadly edge that would carve any foe foolish enough to close the distance into giblets.  Vayniya’s visage twisted, and she lifted a palm, unleashing bolts of flame.

 

Karin leapt and tumbled as a flea upon scalding iron, losing herself in another distant possibility.

 

“I hath parleyed with Esmerelda.  E’en bolstered by hagraven essence, her dominion o’er Destruction pales.  She scatters her focus ‘mongst myriad magical disciplines, mastering none. Her conjurings are an affront to my art.  The staff of sway poses the sole true peril.”

 

“Which I hath measures for, and her talons besides. I worry only ‘pon her magic, not thy scorn old man.”

 

Calcelmo’s features curdled in contempt.

 

“‘Tis beneath dignity, and not my domain.”

 

“Bear the heartache. A fair one named Mirri schooled me thus in blades, ‘twill serve for magicks.”

 

The venerable Altmer hurled volleys of lightning, fire, and frigid shards.  He felled Karin oft, and showed the grace to feign regret at her failures.  She in turn loosed torrents of oaths concerning Calcelmo’s barren bedchamber.

 

During training he explained the mechanics of each spell, advising that understanding e’en that much would temper their ferocity.  Karin, ever indifferent, paid little heed.  Instead she focused on Calcelmo’s gestures, and the speed and pattern of each projectile.  Not only avoiding them, ideally, but when they struck, the method to enduring them.

 

She had reigned o’er Markarth at Esmerelda’s side for seasons, savouring the dread and deference despite her lover’s monstrous guise.  Yet awe of Karin had soured to mockery.  Now she was merely a jest, a strumpet, an aging concubine to a hagraven.  Hadst thou heard the tale of Karin’s unnatural fondness for the taste of fowl?  Incessantly.

 

Such whispers had reached Esmerelda’s ears. Parting loomed overdue, yet lest her lover spurn grace, Karin armed herself.  Another bolt smote her breast-

 

Causing Karin to inhale sharply, drinking in the pain, letting it spread and ebb. Jouane’s ring bore the onslaught’s fury.  Vayniya feigned swatting a vexing gnat with each weave, but Karin knew truth.  There lingered a fixation of gaze, a visualization of elements, then unleashing will.  Once the sorcery was loosed it traced but one course.

 

Karin gasped for breath as Vayniya’s lips curled in rage.

 

 

10. 

 

Discipline.  Patience.  The scourge closed upon her, snarling, stinking of cheap spirits and long-rotted self-indulgence.  Let the fiend expend her fury upon empty air.  Let her froth like some deranged animal while Vayniya’s blade, measured and unhurried, kissed flesh and peeled it away with slow, loving artistry. 

 

At the outset, all unfolded as Vayniya dared envision.  Karin’s attacks held only the mangled valor of a beaten hound whose wits had left it.

 

Yet, somehow her design faltered.

 

Vayniya marked the phial Karin swallowed as one of those healing draughts costly enough to shame even her purse.  That surprised, yet suited her well enough, for to draw out the humiliation was her challenge.

 

Then, lo, the assassin's manner altered into...something else.   She recalled Karin’s fondness for her own brew, how it could lend the feral vigor and reckless speed of a lunatic.  This bore no resemblance to those frenzies.

 

“Thou art a serpent indeed,” Vayniya hissed through clenched teeth.  “What enchantment grips thee?”

 

Little cared she for the harlot's retort, for Karin had fallen unnaturally silent.  Not an oath, laugh, nor even the loathsome grin that was omen to so many unpleasant things. 

 

The nightmares revealed unto Vayniya every strike that preceded every life Karin had extinguished.  It was not that there was no sense in Karin’s madcap movements to her, for there was.  Yet ‘twas if she were inventing new forms and counters upon the instant to answer Vayniya’s blows.  This skill could not exist in any foe, let alone a depraved wastrel.

 

Worse, Karin’s gaze did not even meet hers.  It passed through her, oddly distant, as though Karin were student who didn’t full grasp lesson.

 

That stoked Vayniya’s ire more than any slur.  After all her lofty boasts, Karin was not even present.  She fought as an addict ensnared in dreams, not a warrior embracing fate.

 

And Vayniya was being driven back.

 

Hot coils of fury unfurled within her and Vayniya loosed all her arts.  She had ceased aiming to cripple, but now struck from every bitter hour spent honing her sword, fully exploiting the difference in their weapons to land any blow she could.  Yet the fiend contorted in ways that defied Vayniya’s full understanding, answering with form as artful as it was inexplicable.  To comprehend a fraction of it could unveil entirely new schools of thought in swordcraft. 

 

She could not afford to ponder further as the assassin’s blade found fault in her defense and opened a searing line across her collarbone.

 

Never.  She would never lose to one such as Karin.  Better her heart should burst and cease from night terrors. 

 

Vayniya wheeled in a blur of controlled hatred, drawing her sword back and over in a whirling arc, guiding each limb in vicious harmony.   The edge bit home finally, carving deep across the bitch’s forearm.

 

At last!   Pain she could trust!

 

 

11.

 

It came slow and overwhelming, like a bolt from sky gathering afore strike, and verily it set Karin’s thoughts to dance in wild caprice.  Lightning had ever made her fleet, filled her with the sweet lie of invincibility and steeped her in pleasure.  But this was no wandering fancy, ‘twas a crushing knowledge.  Each time she clawed above it, it thundered back upon her like tidal wave swallowing shore.

 

She walked the assassin’s path, aye.  Sometimes she triumphed at paths end, yet more oft she bought herself a meager grave.  If not by steel, then from drowning in poisonous pleasures her body could not bear.   Success could be a failure crowned in gold.

 

Vayniya was upon her again, striking from every flank, as if she occupied two spaces at once.  Karin parried each blow by reflex older than memory, eyes fixed past those enraged violet eyes.  The all-devouring ambition of cutting Vayniya’s tits off and donning them as a cap had dwindled to a trifle.

 

“Behold me!  GAZE UPON ME!”  Vayniya roared.

 

Karin’s hands moved faster than a dream, more cunning than myth, with the skill of a thousand lives lending her might.  Yet no delirium howsoever fanciful could stay Vayniya’s blade.

 

"I have thy measure now, wench,” Vayniya hissed, “thy deceits be but old tales to me!"

 

Blood spilled. The dark elf bellowed. Yet Karin heeded it not.  'Twas naught but clamor.

 

Lovers and failures.  Hundreds of thousands of maidens and dames, of every form, kindred and humor had wandered into Karin's embrace.  With some she tasted joy, though seldom e'en in the fairest of realms. 

 

In every tenth world, perchance, her fancy turned to men.  Oft had she pondered such, yet 'twas a revelation bittersweet, for it made the quest for one who could stomach her no easier.

 

E’en in such worlds, children were a rarity.  Few Karins yearned for babes.  They beheld them as a cage, poised to clamp shut, and Karin could scarce argue from her own experience.

 

Sometimes her lovers already bore young of their own, and those Karins too seemed to discover that hidden devotion within that she had found with Kahira. 

 

This knowing almost soothed her spirit, aye, almost justified every failure she tallied, until she remembered herself.

 

She yet struggled against Vayniya.

 

Stealing a glance toward the cavern, she spied her daughter watching her fearfully.  With effort, she sought to fix upon HER child, yet 'twas as grasping at a single raindrop amidst a downpour.

 

Nay, Kahira was more than that.  Dimly, Karin caught the din of battle, and striving not to stray from the path anew, she found herself retracing it.

 

She slew Shana.  Shana slew her.  She delivered Shana to the Abbess for a hoard of septims, as was her original intent.  They fled the temple and Shana forsook her in the hush of night, a load too burdensome, yet too delectable a frolic to put to grass.

 

Their tryst ended as it must, and so too Karin ended her own pregnancy in a pool of gore and self-disgust so great she succumbed anon to an overdose of skooma.

 

Erik ne'er found her upon the road to Karthwasten.  Erik bent to her abuse and wished her fair winds with a gentleness she now begrudged.  Karin perished in childbirth as Jouane "tended" unto her, her life offered up like grain for harvest.  Kahira perished as Karin labored to birth her unaided in a squalid cavern, not unlike the one her daughter stood afore now.

 

Paths.  Forks.  Tapestries of regret. Many souls graced her byways whom Karin deserved not.  Yet never Kahira, save in this one haphazard thread of fate, as reliant upon a chattering bird or the morn's drizzle as upon the gravest choice Karin e'er wrought.

 

Her vision faltered now. Of Vayniya, e'en of Kahira.

 

There were realms where a great plummeting stone from the stars wrought grand cataclysm, where one mote devoured another and thus reshaped the very weave of all.  Nirn herself was but a paltry speck, as silly and inconsequential as Rorikstead was to the breadth of all Mundus.

 

She saw all possibilities now, the near-certain to the absurd whimsies, and with horrified wonder comprehended the fragility of the strand upon which she hung.

 

All being was a dismal jest that one could only laugh at to cling to one's wits.  Yet ‘twas also a majesty beyond words, as noble as a throne of stars.

 

What weave of that chaos one endured sprang from trifling choices by a trillion souls and beasts, entwined with blind fortune.  Everything was interconnected, and everything was meaningless.  Existence was both a lunatic choking on its tongue as it played in its own shit, and the fierce and unyielding love of a new mother.

 

Karin was dimly aware the ravine was now at her back.

 

She raised her hands, in ward or sightless plea, and Vayniya severed them both at the wrist with a vengeful arc.  Karin felt it not, but marveled as they soared hence, whither she knew not.

 

Farewell hands, she thought with the slightest pang of regret.

 

Vayniya’s boot caught her full in the chest, and Karin plummeted backward into the ravine.

 

She perceived naught save shadow and stars and selves beyond number as she whirled and whirled.

 

Karin killed, and begged, and baked loaves.  She waged wars.  She whored herself out for fifty septims a ride.   She fashioned shoes.  She lived upon an isle in tranquil pursuits amidst kinfolk, without any sorrow in the world.  She grappled in mud, clad in naught but the scantest garb with another maid to the roars of a raucous and drunken throng.

 

She was the Dragonborn and slayer of Alduin. 

 

There were yet stranger worlds, without end or sense.

 

Karin rode a mount of steel that roared as she hurtled upon a mighty road at speeds beyond mortal ken.  In her grasp, a ludicrous contrivance that belched forth hot barbs of metal like tiny arrowheads at her pursuers.  Lights of crimson and azure flashed, and Karin snorted white powder through her nostrils and cackled in glee.

 

More.  Ever more, and yet more besides.

 

Realms where dwelt no man nor elf, but hairy brutes with pendulous limbs and snouts that wriggled in thought.  Cities taller and grander than Solitude that were consumed in blasts of fire that mushroomed like an emperor's parasol, scattering waves of crackling dust that knocked the life from the bones of any wretch in its wake.  Vessels that voyaged upon seas of stars, the moons so nigh one might tread upon them if garbed in alien raiment.

 

The infinities were like a spider’s threads, where e'en a paragon of failure such as Karin wielded power to sway fates, to end and even begin lives. 'Twas absurd gutter filth, yet beautifully profound.

 

She reached out with hands she no longer possessed, grasping for any purchase…

 

And clutched the thread hanging before her!

 

 

12.

 

Karin plummeted, crimson spurting from the stumps of her arms. 'Twas but fleeting moments, yet stretched unto eternity, affording Vayniya satisfaction and a gnawing dread that she had offered unto Vaermina a spectacle too brief to quench her Mistress’s thirst.  For all her skill, she had lost mastery of herself at the end.

 

She blinked, and in that briefest dark, imagined Karin’s form altered somehow.  When vision returned, the wretch neared bottom, striking 'gainst stones ere plunging into the river's embrace below.  Verily, she lay slain beyond doubt.

 

Vayniya awaited any portent, perchance a spectral whisper in her mind.  Naught stirred, and fear enveloped her.  Silence was ever the most dangerous answer a god could give.  If this torment still knew no cease, what availed all her deeds?  Might it wax e'en more grievous yet?   Mayhap she ought to sever her own thread then, here and now.

 

Silence reigned, save for a foreign sensation. The taut vigilance, the ceaseless unrest that harried her flesh and spirit ebbed away, like venom borne aloft upon the wind-swept plateau.

 

Strength forsook her, and she drove the edge of her Avakiri into the earth, sinking to one knee whilst clutching the hilt as a drowning soul.  Naught she desired more than to recline upon her back amid the dust and yield to slumber's call.  Joy welled, tears coursing down her cheeks, and in her mind voiced gratitude unto Vaermina.

 

Wearily, she raised her head to meet Kahira’s gaze. The maiden loomed o'er her, tears etching trails from cloudy blue eyes, which beheld Vayniya with a void without passion.

 

"Lass, 'tis ended.” 

 

The maid said nothing, countenance blank but for the tears. 

 

“Mine torments hath ceased.  Thine as well.  We have both tendered our tithe unto Vaermina, and freedom is ours.  We are both finally free!  Dost thou comprehend?"

 

The girl proffered neither smile nor scowl, yet she slowly inclined her head.  The breeze thinned the wet lines upon her cheeks.

 

"I too have tasted the sorrow of a mother's untimely parting.  ‘Tis no easy burden.  Yet in time, thou shalt grasp I wrought only what duty compelled.  Thy days henceforth shall bloom brighter.  Thy entire span of years!"

 

 

 

 

The child nodded again, as a puppet jerked by strings, and with efforts akin to those which had felled Karin at the last, Vayniya arose and enfolded Kahira in her arms.  The young artist uttered a faint sob and seemed to melt into the Dunmer's hold for solace. They were twain survivors of the same tyrants.  Kahira’s slender shoulder proved softer than any cushion, and Vayniya loosed a profound yawn unbidden.

 

"I shall atone unto thee, Kahira," she murmured, warring 'gainst slumber’s tide. "What marvels might I achieve, now unshackled!  Thou mayst accompany me, an thou wilt.  I ken Rorikstead be thy hearth, yet thy talents rival those fit for kings and queens.  Whithersoever, whatsoever thy heart desires, lies open before thee now."

 

The lass spake naught, but withdrew from embrace, and Vayniya regarded her through eyes half-veiled by fatigue.  Kahira appeared to gauge the opportunities.

 

Then, still bound, she charged furiously, driving shoulder and form into Vayniya’s breast.  Slight was the girl, and she a seasoned warrior.  Yet the ravine's brink heeded not such trifles, and the soil proved treacherous.

 

Vayniya toppled, ever downward, tracing the same path as Karin.  Time and vigor failed her for terror or ire.  She sealed her eyes for the last and surrendered to the whirl of wind in her ear, the insistence of gravity, and her heart surging upward as if to choke her.  She let it lull her to sleep.

 

Scarce more than a brace of moments could it have endured, yet blindness prolonged them.  Or perchance she already waned, in that haze ere slumber claims dominion. It was not the pinnacle of grace, yet...'twas fine.  No nightmares. No dreams.

 

Merely boundless, hushed night.

 

It was fi-

 

 

13.

 

Kahira gazed down upon the deed, and within her breast stirred naught but hollowness.  A chill pervaded her spirit as she beheld Vayniya's form adrift for a span ere it snared in the shoals.  Her gorge rose in revolt.  Naught issued forth, yet she yearned to expel all that dwelt within until her throat scorched raw.

 

Not for Vayniya's sake, but for that which she had slain within her own soul.  Her dam had prattled idly of slaying brigands, as one might upon dispatching wasp or gnat, yet 'twas naught alike.  All within teetered upon the brink of ruin, yet 'stead of shattering, she with care parted her bounds with the keen edge of Vayniya's blade and claimed it for her own.  One of her mother's daggers had flown from hand amid their fray, and this too Kahira secured ere seeking descent from the lofty plateau.

 

The path downward demanded time, and she tread with caution, lest she join Vayniya...and her mother.  Her throat convulsed anew, lungs seized as in a vise, and she halted to gather the tattered remnants of herself.

 

Kahira stood afar from Rorikstead now.  Seldom had her dam or uncle permitted her such venture, e'en in their watchful company.  Outlaws and perils yet more dire prowled this vale where few folk of civility abided.

 

As the sky darkened, Kahira espied the broken form of her mother.  She had been borne some distance by the current, and come aground upon a stone farther hence.  As Kahira drew nigh, the stone reared up, flourishing pincers, and chattered in menace.

 

Beyond fear, Kahira hewed one claw clean away with a stroke of the sword, and poised the blade to end the strife.  The mudcrab scuttled down the river's verge, attending its matters elsewhere.

 

Kahira had forsaken Vayniya's husk where it lay, averting gaze save to note it.  But her mother lay slain beyond any doubt.  When one beholds the truly departed, 'tis not as slumber's gentle guise.  There was a truer stillness of the limbs and the absence of breath's rhythm. 

 

She would not behold her mother, uncertain her heart could endure the sight.  Instead, she hauled her along the river's bank toward Rorikstead.  Her dam proved too burdensome, yielding but a few paces at each heave.

 

Twilight descended, and Kahira knew the peril of lingering so far afield, e'en with a warrior's arms.  Yet she dreaded returning to find some beast having despoiled her dam’s body.  Mustering valor, Kahira turned her mother o'er.

 

The visage bore marks of blood and impact from the plunge, yet remained whole.  The eyes stared, bereft of the jests and pride they once harbored.  She appeared faintly perplexed, and oddly serene.

 

'Twas a strangeness, but Kahira sensed more than breath had fled her dam’s shell.  Some other equally vital spark she could not name was absent.

 

From the wilds, a wolf's howl cleaved the dusk, jolting Kahira.  She hastened down the river toward the road ere night enveloped all, vowing to return in morning’s light for her dam.

 

In Kahira's mind she thought she heard a quiet chuckle .  Yet whether ‘twas Vaermina, Sheogorath, or even the mischievous spirit of her dam, she could not say.

 

 

14. 

 

The ground was very hard and surprisingly level and the world was all clamor.  Karin focused on the evening sky and found it strange.  The back of her skull had cracked like an egg and her brains were trying to leak out.

 

Abruptly, Sheogorath’s visage filled her view.

 

“Well, it certainly was a dimensional jump wasn’t it?  Just not a very good one.  I suppose I can’t expect much for your first.”

 

Karin tried to speak, yet only produced bubbles of blood.  The world was hazy and cold.

 

“Oh Christ, what a grossout!”

 

Karin became aware of other voices, the sounds of retching, screams, and a blaring din like discordant war horns.  The air hung thick and difficult to breath.

 

“Give her some room, let a doctor through!”

 

“Doctors cost money, she's fine!”  Sheogorath assured the strange voice.

 

“Bbbb-bbb…bbb.”  Karin gurgled.

 

“No, no, none of that.  No more lying about in the middle of the street, it’s not civilized!  Up with you now.”  Sheogorath offered his hand.

 

Karin yearned for naught, but the same instinct that made her grasp the thread made her stir her arm.  Somehow, she had hands once more.

 

She felt his grip, like roiling insects, and rose.  One moment she wanted to die, the next she was whole.  There was a gasp from the strangers around them.

 

“I saw her take that bus right between the eyes!  Oh my sweet Jesus in heaven!”

 

Shegorath turned and wagged a finger at the throng.

 

“Not quite.  Not to worry, we’re but jesters of the Tik-Tok!”  He tried to disperse them though most of the throng murmured and continued to stare.

 

Karin looked about.  She was in a city of towers, full of alien objects she dared not put a name to.  In the street were caskets of iron on wheels, perhaps caravan wagons or even houses, because they had windows and people peered out from inside them.  Directly afore her was a great and lumbering manor of one, the front smeared with blood.

 

She took a wobbly step as Sheogorath continued to grin.

 

“Whither are we?”

 

“I don’t really want to hang about and deal with the insurers, it’s such a bother.  Come now, I’ll take you to a place as close to Sovngarde as you’re likely to see.

 

 

15.

 

It was a tavern with a banner depicting a tankard with steam rising from it, upon which what appeared its absent handles.  The rest of the runes were babble.  It was all in hues of orange and rose that offended Karin’s sight, as gaudy as Sheogorath’s garb.

 

This city made Solitude seem a backwater hamlet.  She’d seen a great many more people than she’d ever seen in one place just on their trek hither.  Nords and Imperials and Redguards and foreigners of a like she’d never beheld.  Yet nary an elf, orc, Khajiit or Argonian.

 

Not merely the world was different, but Karin herself.  Vigor felt absent from her muscles, leaving her feeling as commonplace as any townswoman.  At least the aches that had plagued her gut seemed gone.  Karin noted when she pulled up a sleeve that the scars she knew like her own face had vanished.  She had many questions but Sheogorath would answer naught until he had struck his bargain.

 

“I'll have two extra-large iced coffees, pumpkin spice, and I want a shot of every syrup, all of them, do you hear me?  Four sugars in each and four creams.”

 

“Sorry sir, we stopped serving that at the end of last month.”

 

“No pumpkin spice!”  Sheogorath lamented to Karin as if ‘twas the final crime.  “Well, what do you have?”

 

“Peppermint Mocha.”

 

“Gah!  Fine, two of those with all the syrups, and a dozen donuts.  I'll take the three blueberry, two butternut, that apple cinnamon, and plain.  Fill the rest with plain!”

 

“That'll be twenty-nine forty-three.”

 

“Everything here costs an arm and a leg and a spleen!   Aren't you forgetting the old employee discount eh...Josh?”

 

The lad's eyes seemed to glaze and he appeared on the cusp of a fit before they cleared and he shook his head.

 

"Oh sorry, I forgot.  I'll cover it."

 

The other lass behind the bar looked at her fellow like he was mad, but in the end, they filled a box with the round things that might be cakes and gave them two cups as cold as a hagraven’s tit.

 

“Wherefore do I-“

 

He held up a hand, toasting her mockingly, and quaffed his drink.  Unsure what to expect, Karin did likewise.  The drink had a stalk akin to that she’d used to slurp hist sap once.  It was sweeter than moon sugar, and Karin gulped it whole.

 

“Try the apple cinnamon!  But please don't touch any of my plains.  I wouldn't want to have to kill you after all this.” 

 

“Wherefore…why dost…you and I…talk like this?”  The words came strange to her now.  “What did you do?”

 

“Not much.   It's just dimensional synchronicity, one's rarely the same as another.  A very small child could have told you that.  No matter, you’ll catch up.  Now eat.  Don’t waste Josh’s gift, the poor lad only makes minimum wage!”

 

“I need answers ye lunatic!  What am I doing here?”

 

“Oh, you picked this world, not I!  All I did was expand your mind and give you a little spin.  You scoured the infinite possibilities and settled on this gem.”  He sucked down more of his drink and smacked his lips.

 

“How?  Why?  You said you’d aid me in besting Vayniya!” 

 

“I never said anything of the sort!  I said with my aid you might live, and so you do.  You were never going to defeat Vayniya.  That would have been downright silly.”

 

Her head throbbed, from the drink and his nonsense.  He looked sympathetic.

 

“How does one steal another’s shoes?”

 

“What does th-“ 

 

“Tell me how.”  Unsure of the point, Karin thought a moment.

 

“You…snatch them when the marks not wearing them.  Or kill them and claim them.”

 

“Exactly!  This world’s Karin was on her way out.  That is the ‘why’ of this particular world.  I can see you don’t understand, so there’s no point explaining the ‘how’ beyond its mostly a matter of wanting to.”

 

“I understand none of it.”

 

“How tiresome is the mortal need to understand.  This is just another thread of the spider’s weave. Even the denizens of this thread like to say this is the worst timeline.  The common person here hates their nobles with a passion even you couldn't imagine.  It’s so dreadfully boring.  No Daedric Princes, no frost trolls, no amorous Argonians, but a much better variety of cheese.  There’s even one made with live maggots!  Alas, madness just doesn’t have the same flavor here.  Watch!”

 

He glanced over shoulder and bellowed at the tavern: "MRna vaccines cause sterility!"

 

"Go back to the renaissance fair fascist!"

 

"Suck it commie!"

 

“Hey, fuck you too fucko!”

 

A loud and oath filled argument began, and Sheogorath smiled even wider.

 

"See there?  No Daedric zing required at all.  It's fun, but not as much.”

 

His grin frayed somewhat at Karin’s withering glare.

 

“I do not want to be here.  I want my daughter!  You hear me?  That’s all I want!”

 

“And I wanted pumpkin spice, but you can't always get what you want, as the bards sing.  You haven't thought this through, surprisingly.  Your daughter has a home and wealth from her craft.   As well as Erik and Rorikstead to look after her, if she needed them.  Which she doesn't.”

 

“I care naught!  She needs me!  I have to get back!  Show me how to get back!”

 

“No.”  He replied simply, spilling crumbs into his beard.

 

“Why not?”

 

“My, but you’re an ass.  Because I don’t want to.  I’ve done young Kahira more than enough favors.”

“Listen, fancy fop.  I am not spending the rest of my life in this shithole, nor do I care about ‘dough knots’.  Send me back!” 

 

“Or what?  You’ll stab me with your house keys?”

 

Karin felt her speech altered as much as her body, and struggled to center herself as well as contain the old impulses. 

 

“I ken I probably cannot wound you, but what if I jammed my arm down your self-satisfied pig-fucking throat?  Woulds’t thou enjoy that?”

 

He appeared to ponder it.

 

“I might!  Though if you did try that, I'd most likely turn you into a flopping salmon, and we're in the right place for cream cheese spread.  Would be a good example for these mortals!” 

 

Karin stifled a snarl, there was nothing else for it.

 

“I…I’m sorry.  Please just help me!  I need my daughter and she me!” 

 

“No, I don't care to.  What do you have to complain about?  You're alive, Kahira's alive, Erik's alive.  You have hands!  I even yielded the apple cinnamon!  You can fall on your knees in rightful gratitude and worship now.”

 

‘Twas futile.  He would never aid her no matter how she begged, she would be lucky if his babble started making sense. 

 

“You shouldn’t fret,” he continued.  “Everyone thinks they’re the main character in their story, but sometimes your grand purpose is nothing more than to pass the ball.  And so you have.  You ought to understand that much as a mother.”

 

“What am I to do here?  There's nothing for me here.  Tis more pointless than a flin binge.”

 

“Well, were I thee, I’d find my own way back.  Your first body is dead and a bit chewed up in that other reality, so it would do to find a different door or maybe even a window to shimmy through.  Trust me, I used to be a Redguard I think.  Come to think of it, maybe I was even a woman!  Course, Vaermina would figure out the switcheroo, so it’s probably for the best you won’t.”

 

Those words filled Karin with a cold panic.

 

“Then bring Kahira here so we’re together at least!”

 

Sheogorath tapped his own head, as if deeming hers soft.

 

“Vaermina,”  He drawled.  “Besides, Kahira lives upon that thread alone, she has her role to play in it.  Well then, I’ve lingered much too overlong anyways.  Your names Karen Frost, you live in Broomfield, and you're an IT support specialist whatever that might be.  You have a family you don't speak to and a girlfriend who's already cheating on you.  Knowing all that, I expect you’ll be running this reality in a year.  Oh, and don't forget to use those coupons before they expire!”

 

 

With that, he began to put the dough knots back into their box, even reclaiming Karin’s half eaten morsel .

 

“Where are you going?  You’re not going to just pluck me from my hearth and strand me here without my daughter?!” 

 

“Try to take it easy on the random slaughter, that might disappoint Kahira.  Or don't, if you like.  You’ll just have to find your own way back ‘Karen Frost’.”

 

“How do I do that!?  What do I do now!?”

 

“Who cares?  I've people to do and things to see!”

 

He arose abruptly and spread his hand. 

 

"Everyone!”  He proclaimed to the wide-eyed assembly.  “Watch this closely!  You've never seen it’s like!"

 

Whirling upon his heel, he dashed out the door, the sweets beneath his arm!

 

In a moment Karin was up and after him.  She looked about the strange world before her, and though it was loud and disorienting you'd think a fool like Sheogorath would still catch her eye.   She spotted him, waving to her from around the corner.

 

She ran hard after him.  Her legs lacked the swiftness she’d taken for granted and the odd shoes made her struggle to keep balance.

 

She rounded the corner and ran straight into something large and unyielding.  She sat down hard, the stone painful on her ass and palms.  Cursing, she looked up…and the words died in her throat.

 

16.

 

Kahira did not sleep upon her return unto Rorikstead, for through the veil of yesternight, dawn's light, and the sun's weary arc, she had been assailed by all.  Tightness clutched her heart as if to crush it.  She yearned to weep, or at least slumber, but could do neither.

 

Her first deed was to seek aid from Mralki.  Erik slumbered still, yet Jouane assured her the draught’s grip waned apace.  They listened to her tale, and thereafter the folk of Rorikstead were gathered at the Frost-Fruit inn to recount its grim end.  Pity for Kahira’s plight met her from most quarters.  E'en those whose hearts must have danced at her dam's demise had the grace to cloak their glee in veils of sorrow.

 

Reldith’s son Ennis led a band of hardy townsmen forth in the hush ere dawn's first light to brave the wilds and reclaim Kahira's mother.  Karin had been little loved, yet in death's chill grip, she might claim kinship among them and grudges might now slumber eternal.

 

Mralki consoled Kahira by cooking her a breakfast fit to sate a giant.  In hushed voice he revealed the pact Karin had struck with Jouane and warned the maid to guard herself against his wiles.  He vowed upon his honor he and Erik would shield her as kin, and from any scheme from Jouane whate'er sorceries he might unleash.  Yet she must endure until Erik stirred from his dreams. 

 

Kahira agreed numbly as she stroked her sheathed sword.  She claimed it not as spoils, nor e'en a bloody memento.  Despite all betwixt them, she sensed Vayniya would have bequeathed the blade to her with glad heart, and grimmer delight if it drank deep of an ancient viper's entrails.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yet when the healer slithered nigh that morn, Kahira's restraint failed.  Scarce a day had she cradled her grief ere Jouane beset her, pressing his tutelage as a shield and a ladder to worldly ascent.  Kahira beheld him then, ignorant of the shadows' guise that clung to him, yet perceiving enough to recoil in revulsion.  With loud voice, she proclaimed for all the tavern's ears that she would gladly let him share in her gift by rendering a portrait unveiling his true essence and unsung deeds.

 

The old man withdrew with haste.

 

Now Kahira sat upon her bed, remembering times with her mother and Erik.  This meager hovel that was a cosmos unto itself, a shelter from the vast and dangerous world beyond.  Whate'er the day’s cruelties, or barbs the village whelps hurled, herein dwelt hearth and warmth.  Now ‘twas a hollow shell.  Still in a cold daze, she went through the rites of sifting through her mother’s relics. 

 

Empty bottles of spirits.  A necklace wrought of fangs, polished stones and plumes, fashioned by her own childish hands in years gone by.  A chain of silver bearing a paltry ring, the only sort of trifling token her mother would allow Erik to bestow.  The chain was meant to keep the bauble from wandering and worth more than the ring.  A drawing of her family, ere her gift blossomed, the daubings of innocence.  Crude straw limbed figures with heads that resembled not so much as potatoes with faces.  Her mother grinned up at her with five jagged teeth.

 

Something inside burst and tears streamed forth.  Kahira wailed as a forsaken babe, staining her pillow until it was damp.  When at last her sight cleared, she saw Sheogorath was now leering at her from atop her easel.  He had not been there before. 

 

Without hesitation, she strode forth and cast upon the sketch one final gaze of icy disdain ere crushing it in her fist.  She heeded not his mad whims.

 

Glancing downward, she spied the canvas of Vayniya, poised in lethal grace o'er her mother.  She drove her foot through it savagely, then again, till naught remained but a gaping wound.  With a scream, she hurled it 'gainst the wall, splintering it in twain.

 

Kahira quelled the storm within and contemplated the barren canvas.  She wanted to cast it too into ruin.  Instead, she arrayed pigments on her palette with deliberate rite, seized a brush, and let her thoughts settle upon her mother.  Not the shape of her face or lines beneath her eyes, but all her jests, curses, failings and clumsy tenderness.  She began to paint, and for a span, forgot her grief in the act.

 

At length she stepped back, trying to use her gift to understand what she had wrought.

 

It was another world, for surely no such place existed in all Tamriel.  Whether ‘twas one of the other threads Sheogorath had prattled of, or e'en the hereafter's halls, she could not say.  Great towers of stone, ablaze with eternal torches, flanked a grand city teeming with clamor and ceaseless frenzy.  A strange whiskered serpent-drake coiled o'er a steaming bowl upon one sign, whilst iron wagons choked the thoroughfares.

 

Her mother stood in the fore, clad in outlandish garb, worn and filthy, but it was undoubtably her.  She pointed to the night sky with an expression of rapt wonder.  Another figure stood beside her, indistinct no matter how Kahira strained to see and know, yet she kenned her mother was at ease.

 

She gazed at the painting for an age, drinking in every detail, trying to comprehend its portent.  It could not be the past, so it could only be now.  Further meaning eluded her, and Kahira staggered back to her bed, feeling the tears come again.  Not sadness or joy but something gentler the painting had gifted her. 

 

'Twas fine. 

 

Aye, it would be fine, she whispered silently, before slumber claimed her.

 

 

17.

 

It was 4^th Ave and Broadway when he was distracted by a pickup truck decked out in orange and purple Christmas lights blasting disco.  As the bass pounded his head the pickup assured him that she was both crazy like a fool, and wild about Daddy Cool.   He was just thinking this was begging for a ticket in downtown when the woman rounded the corner like a human torpedo and barreled right into his chest. 

 

He had a foot and almost a hundred pounds on her but she came so fast, she knocked the wind out of him and then sat down hard on the sidewalk.

 

“You whoring, Falmer cock-sucking, shit stained-“

 

She looked up to see who she’d run into and went silent.  The woman looked at him with such astonishment he forgot what he was getting ready to say.  Her widening eyes were a washed out blue and her haggard face twisted into something beatific in its wonder.  She reached out her hand and without thinking he helped her up.

 

“Erik?”  She asked.  He was taken aback.

 

“Yes, my name’s Eric.  Do I know you?”  She reached out a hand and touched his beard, then gave his ponytail a yank.  He would have said something but she was looking at him like he was the Second Coming. 

 

“What did ye do to your hair and beard?  I favor it!”

 

He’d been growing his hair out for three years now.  He couldn’t place her but there was also something naggingly familiar about her. 

 

“Look, Miss, do we know eachother?”

 

“Yes, you do!  Karin!  I’m Karin!  We do know each other, don’t we?”

 

“I…guess we must.”  He said cautiously.  “Maybe we met at Open Hearth Rescue?  Eric Johannsen?”

 

Her face fell in such disappointment he almost apologized.  He couldn’t be expected to remember everyone who passed through but those were some memorable eyes.  She gestured around.

 

“You, uh…lived here all your life have you?”

 

“Since I was ten.” 

 

She chewed a ragged thumbnail as her eyes rolled about the street.  Eric wasn’t a fashion snob but found these things came in useful with people experiencing homelessness.  She was wearing a blue crewneck sweater and jeans.  They still looked new despite the large rips, smeared dirt, and ominous stains.  She was also missing a coat.

 

She was in her mid-thirties maybe, with disheveled black hair that must have been cut at some point and unblemished pale skin.  She looked more like she’d been in a fight or car accident than gotten that way being on the street. 

 

“Listen, do you need help?   Do you want a ride?”   She raised an eyebrow, seemed to consider, then cackled.  It was both off-putting and somehow endearing.

 

“Some things are the same everywhere.  We only just met!” 

 

After a beat her caught her meaning and shook his head.

 

“I didn’t mean anything by it, I just figured maybe you needed help.  It’s cold out.  Offer’s still open.  Do you…have a home?”

 

“A home…yes.  It’s on a hill.”

 

“Can you remember where?  Is it nearby?”

 

She shook her head and grinned.

 

“Don’t get offended but are you drunk?”

 

“Hah, I wish!”

 

She didn’t look like someone who’d been living on the street, though she sounded it.  She didn’t have the worn-down demeanor he’d expect either but a sort of feral vitality.  He chalked it up to whatever drug she must be on, it might explain why she wasn’t feeling the cold.

 

“Did you take something?  I won’t turn you in but maybe you shouldn’t be on the street like this.” 

 

Maybe she was a junkie, or maybe she’d just eaten an entire gummy without knowing her limit, or even accepted the wrong drink.  You never knew.

 

“Aye…yeah.  I downed a whole bottle of bad Lightning!  Old and bad Lightning at that!”

 

“I don’t know what that is, does it have another name?” 

 

He pulled out his phone and pecked on it and the woman watched him like she’d never seen such a thing.  Yeah, that explained it, though he couldn’t find anything on “Lightning” in the forums.

 

“When did you take it?”

 

“Three hours ago, perchance.”

 

“Listen, I’m not supposed to do this but if you think you can make it nine blocks, I’ve got an office at Open Hearth Rescue with a bathroom and a couch.  You could sleep it off.  It’s not the Hilton but it’s warm and we’ll get some breakfast in you, maybe you’ll be thinking more clearly in the morning.  We can settle up then.  If you’d rather go to a hospital or police station we can-“

 

“You’re going to just help me for nothing?  Just like that?”  Karin’s grin grew even wider.

 

“Well…sure.  Why not?  Besides, we’re already acquainted anyways.”

 

“So we are!” 

 

She reached out, he thought she meant to shake his hand, but instead she clasped his in a surprisingly strong grip and pointed down the wrong street. 

 

“Lead on my red-haired gallant!”

 

Eric tried to tactfully extract his hand a few times but Karin insisted on leaning against him.  This was a good thing because she seemed to have no concept of incoming traffic or crosswalks and he had to jerk her back several times.

 

Whatever she was on must have been good, because she gasped and laughed at every single thing on the street.  There was an ad with Lauren Boebert’s head on a brontosaurus that sent her into gales of jagged laughter.

 

She was jolly and loose and very familiar with him.  He hoped Sheila wouldn’t give him shit, it wasn’t the first time one of the female residents had gotten handsy with him and he knew how it must look.  They were four blocks away when she stopped suddenly and pointed to the sky, eyes shining.

 

“What is it?  What do you see?”  Eric asked.

 

“You only have one moon!  Look at that moon!  It’s so tiny!” 

 

Karin laughed, burying her head into his shoulder before shaking it helplessly.  She laughed so hard it briefly became a sob, then laughed again and squeezed him as if he were an old drinking buddy.

 

What could he say?  He never could turn away a stray.

 

 

I know this chapter was LONG, but I figure if you read this niche story this far you wouldn’t mind an extra word or five thousand.  Also, fun with fonts!  It’s been a strange ride that only came to be from some random quirks, but if Howard the Duck’s daughter can fight a rogue Watcher, I can do a What If where everybody talks in Shakespeare and drop Karin into Suck Earth Reality A.  I got an old gallery I did of scenes, for such a small scale fic I felt it really lent well to art, you can see it at:

 

https://imgur.com/a/her-best-work-red-skyrim-G7ZXAux

 

Newer stuff at my DA:  https://www.deviantart.com/topsidejohnny20

 

I might work with AI again, but I also feel like this was one of those special situations where it wouldn’t work elsewhere.  I’ll definitely write more main timeline evil scumbag Karin but I’m gonna miss middle-aged mom Karin, I felt like she just had that extra dimension.  Or maybe it was all the Shakespeare!