The room continued to bustle with the intense erratic behavior it’s the inhabitants. The shouting bounded wildly against the high ceilings of the anteroom with enough force to push the reserved Breton further and further against the shadow draped walls. In late passing years Yves hadn’t much involvement with the affairs of outside world and it’s people, instead he isolated himself in a cozy nook between the wilderness of the Reach and Hjaalmarch. Occasionally Yves would travel into settlements for trade, but this was done discreetly and with the least amount of verbal exchange possible.
Haskill, visibly exhausted by his audiences tireless blather, parted ways with a polite, yet vague, dismissal. Yves started, a crucial question he’d yet to formally ask bursting on his lips just as the air swallowed the irritable chamberlain. In the fleeting moments before Haskill drew introductory to a close the sudden idea struck him that he, nor his unlikely companions, had the slightest notion where the Lord Sheogorath held residence. Unfortunately he had acted on this inclination a moment too late. Like it been issued the cue to exit on stage for it’s solo performance the masonry began to squirm, rippling and moving as if alive. Before Yves could utter a warning the walls burst into a multitude of delicate butterflies. He froze with an expression of absolute stupefaction and watched in a stunned silence as the thousand pairs of fluttering wings ascended into the rich purple twilight of the heavens overhead. The Breton had a certain affinity concerning insects. In fact, he had a vast collection of insects littering his home--they were contained inside glass jars and assorted by color. This was potentially the closest he had ever become to established organization.
It could rival even the sunrise, he mused as the last butterfly faded into the twinkling firmament. The giddiness of enrapture withered quickly as he took into account the new environment that had so flamboyantly been unveiled. The scowl pulling at the corner of his mouth deepened as he scanned the exposed horizon. It was a dramatic landscape as vast and forbidding as it was magical and inviting. The expanse divided itself by strong characteristics mirrored in opposition by it’s significant other half. Yet between Mania and Dementia, the names he would later learn to call them, both still managed to retain a lingering sense of congruency. Deep in his thoughts, Yves propped the point of his elbow in one hand while he traced the dips and peaks of the terrain in the air with the finger of the other. He had a limited knowledge regarding Daedra, and what he did know he lacked in an imagination that could not truly immerse himself in the reverence of their existence. Having, indirectly, been summoned to the physical realm of such a being was difficult to wrap his mind around. He was unreservedly fascinated, yet utterly terrified, all at once. That being said this was the most alive, the most engaged, he had felt in ages. While the circumstances were not necessary ideal he was determined to relish the event in all it’s bizarre, nightmarish glory.
Yves’ gaze wandered to the desk and chair still standing in space they had occupied when encompassed by walls. He thought it peculiar for the furniture, of all things, to have remained behind. Then again, in a land no longer bound by the restrictions of logic he shouldn’t think too much of it. Still, it was worth investigating while the others were distracted by petty dispute. Yves’ bare feet padded silently on the cool slab floor, which had also resisted transformation for unknown reasons, as he skirted around the colorful gathering. In a few short steps he stepped on the rich tapestry of the floor rug that circled the carved desk and poured over the adornments of it’s surface. Unfortunately the polished desk held nothing of interest save for a book, which he hesitated to read recalling the events less than an hour ago, and a metronome engraved with the same spiteful laugh that made up the portal mouth. When he was permitted to return home he might attempt retrieving the musical device to return with him.
Yves sighed defeatedly and slumped in the plush chair behind the desk. Contrary to his first impression the seat was not made for a person of his size and he found it quite uncomfortable. He folded his hand behind his head, slung his long legs over the desk, and returned his focus to the group whom had already taken to bickering among one another, again. He listened halfheartedly to the heated discussion exchanged, even chuckling when the sooty, cloaked figure perched on a foreign tree reprimanded the two Mer below. Yves took immediate liking to the ash-clad women, if only for her candid approach. The masked Imperial spoke then, his slick voice addressing Yves personally.
Yves, mildly surprised by the directness, shifted in his chair and prepared to answer. The cloaked woman, however, interrupted him. She seemed to glide across the floor with an unnaturally fluid motion that made Yves skin prickle. Mourner, as she revealed she was called, spoke simply, with which everything Yves nodded in agreement. Mourner even spoke of things that he would have mentioned himself should she had not interjected. When she proposed an exchange of names, Yves introduced himself as Yves Leroux with a playful exaggeration of his accent. After this, Mourner rallied a night watch to which Yves would have willingly volunteered if Kir had not. With the mundane settled and the chill of darkness seeping in, each member of their band attended to their respective tasks. From behind the desk Yves’ gaze passed along the group with a dwindling interest that ultimately subsided all together. The fire stoked by Kir caste roaming shadows that moved like an ocean tide across the brooding features of Yves’ face and his dark eyes consumed the warm light of the dancing flames. His mind began to drift from his body to a state not unlike sleep, to his private sanctuary from the shackles of worry or regret, into the familiar embrace of oblivion. He would have sunk deeper and deeper until he no longer existed, until he could not be awakened, if it weren’t for the gentle swish of air that passed near him.
Yves, drawn from his habitual trance by the minor disturbance, reluctantly adjusted his position and turned in time to see the silhouette of Kir slipping through the foliage. Slightly piqued he had been disturbed the man stood, ignoring the objections of his cramped muscles. Once he had composed himself he noticed Mourner and the atmosphere of unease emitted by her tense body language. He followed to where he assumed she was looking and, as expected, it aligned with the Mer’s direction. It was evident there was an unidentified danger near and Kir, in all his zealous bravado, took it upon himself to eliminate the threat without consulting better judgement.
“Tch. You shouldn’t have let him run off alone,” he managed to say between busily biting fingernails that had already been chewed to ragged slivers. He paused to spit and approached Mourner. As he neared her, he neared the fire also, and made a subtle jerk of his body as he rounded it. It was a wonder that he didn’t cling to it’s heat when he wore nothing but a pair of trousers too short for his legs. Yves scratched is chin, observing the night and listening intently. The luminance of the shrinking fire reflected brightly on his pale complexion, inherit of the Breton lineage which he favored, and highlighted his ribs which protruded over a sunken stomach. The man looked sickly and could easily be mistaken as a reanimated dead. “No, apologies, he isn’t a child; certainly not yours. Still, whatever possessed him to make such a rash decision? Something is out there, isn’t there?”
