疯神十六约

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疯神十六约 卷六

疯神十六约 卷六

海尔辛的传说

（ANK 翻译版 Lu 修订）

永远都是那么骄傲自大的疯狂君主站在天际陡峭的山峰上，在年中月的5日，招呼海尔辛并要与其定下一个赌约。这一天正是猎人之神现形的日子，他对大胆的谢尔格拉所提出的赌约感到好奇。

海尔辛对此致以不可一世的狂笑——要知道，谢尔格拉的领域里除了傻笑的疯子，浮夸的作家，以及懦弱的残肢者之外什么都没有。疯狂君主总是不断地做些损人不利己的买卖，促成毫无意义的流血冲突，这么做仅仅是为了从他人的迷茫、悲剧和狂暴愤怒中寻开心而已。或许这就是他找上海尔辛当对手的原因。

当这个有些腼腆的君主提出赌约，约定三年后在此地，看看谁养出的野兽在这场致命的战斗中更胜一筹时，海尔辛毫不犹豫地接受了。他的可怕的面孔毫无表情。议定完毕，两位君主消失在漫天的雪尘之中，返回了各自的领域。

尽管海尔辛对此有着极强的信心，不过他也知道谢尔格拉从不按常理出牌，因此他在自己的领域中秘密培育起了一个可怕的怪物。他召唤出了一头先古魔鳄，并为其注入了狼化的诅咒。螺旋的心脏与锯齿状的尖牙，这种怪物有着无法形容的恐惧，即使是海尔辛领域中最优秀的猎人也不是它的对手。

就这样过了三年，到了赌约规定的日子，海尔辛回来了。而谢尔格拉早就靠着一块石头，交叉着双脚，耐着性子在那里吹着口哨。狩猎君主把他的长矛插入地里，放出来他那不自然的、咆哮着的庞然大物。谢尔格拉摘下帽子，如同往常一样狡猾地站起身来，走到石头一旁，展示起了一只色彩斑斓的小鸟。它正尽力地叫着，发出令人毛骨发寒的、却又难以听见的声音。

魔鳄以一种古怪的方式跃上了那个石头，将原本矗立在那里的石头化为一堆瓦砾。正当这头怪兽自以为取得了胜利，那满是血迹的鳔上居然还咧出了个笑脸时，它听到了清冷的空气中飘荡着的柔和的曲调。那只不点大的鸟儿居然跳到了那怒气冲冲的魔鳄的吻上。谢尔格拉愉快地看着眼前的场景——那只小鸟在另一只庞大的生物的仿佛喷射着怒火的目光中差不多就是一粒碎屑而已。怪兽愤怒地嚎叫着，结果狼化后的它为了赶走这眼前的小不点把自己给戳瞎了。就这样过去了数个小时，海尔辛在耻辱中看着他最得意的野兽在与一个毫不起眼的小鸟的决斗中一边不断地摧残着自己，一边在一个空旷的原野上发出凄厉的哀鸣。

被挫败的海尔辛铁青着脸，将它的残缺不全的怪兽烧成灰烬，带回来自己的领域，一边用不为人知的语言咒骂着。他的诅咒至今仍留在这些遥远的高峰上，经过的路人们仍然会对他的愤怒感到深深的恐惧。

迈着欢快的步伐，谢尔格拉唤来那只微型的鸟儿，让它落在自己的肩上，漫步下山，乘着阿贝希恩海岸那温暖的微风和那色彩鲜明地日落，为泰姆瑞尔“最小”的勇士吹起了口哨。

疯神十六约 卷九

疯神十六约 卷九

瓦尔迷纳的传说

（ANK 翻译版 Lu 修订）

戴留斯·夏诺发现自己在以最快的速度奔跑着。

事实上，他并不知道他究竟是从哪里开始跑的——也不知道要他究竟要跑到哪里去。有一个想法充斥着他的内心——巴不得自己能飞起来。他向四周张望，以期能找到个路标，或是什么能作为参照的东西，然而这么做也无济于事——他所在奔跑的草地一望无际，而且景色看起来毫无变化。“只能不停地跑”他对自己说道，“我必须以最快的速度跑下去。”于是他不断漫无目的地跑着，无论是在他眼中还是心中，似乎都没有一个尽头……

而此时，织梦女士瓦尔迷纳，和疯狂神谢尔格拉就站在静静地躺在床上的戴留斯·夏诺的身边。瓦尔迷纳正高傲地看着她的信徒，对她的这个小宝贝信徒自夸起来。

“这是多么大的潜力啊！通过梦的启发，我已经把文学天赋灌输给了他，现在他已经可以说是个新兴的诗人了！在我厌烦前他会获得更多的青睐。”谢尔格拉同样也打量着这个年轻的布莱顿艺术家，似乎已经看到了他在凡人中成名的那一刻。

“唔”谢尔格拉略作沉思，“但是会有多少凡人憎恨你所造就的作品呢？人们总是憎恨比他们伟大的人，而不是喜爱。你确定能做到这一点吗？”

瓦尔迷纳眯起了眼睛，“是的，凡人们既愚蠢又小气，的确，他们中最勇敢的往往被鄙视。不过这不要紧，疯子，我有能力让他获得各种形式上的伟大，憎恨也只是其中的一种罢了。”

“也许吧，织梦者，让我们看看到底是谁有着这样的能力——这一定很有趣。前十年你尽管激发这个凡人的愚蠢以及自大的仇恨，然后我以自己的方式做同样的事情，瞧瞧到底是在我们全力地帮助下，还是旁敲侧击地干涉下，哪一种方式更为有效。”

听到这里，她油然地有了一种自信地宽慰：“疯神的确很强大，但是这样的任务似乎更适合我发挥自己的能力。凡人们对于疯狂地抗拒远甚于憎恨——甚至很少会提防到后者。我很高兴向你揭示这一点，我会一点一点地、在这个凡人毫无察觉的情况下，让他感到潜意识里的恐惧。

于是，19岁的戴留斯·夏诺所做的梦发生了一些变化：一直以来恐惧都是他梦中的主旋律，然而现在又添上了些东西——黑暗悄然进入了他的梦中，吸走了一切的感觉和色彩，只留下空虚。当他惊惧地张嘴想要喊出声时，却发现这种莫名的黑暗甚至将他的声音也吞噬了。他的梦里除了恐惧就是一片虚空，并且每一个梦都有着不同的对死亡的诠释。就这样，当他醒来时，就不再会拥有恐惧感，这恰恰就是他所虔信的瓦尔迷纳女士的目的。

事实上，有一天晚上，瓦尔迷纳自己进入了他梦里的虚空中。她凑近他的耳旁轻声说道：

“仔细瞧，我心爱的！”说着，她将那片虚空抽离，而接下来的每个晚上，她都向戴留斯展示自然中最可怕最反常的一面：一些人们被其他的人所生吞活剥；无法想象的有着许多肢与口的怪物咀嚼着他们；所有的人在火中燃烧——他们的喊叫声充斥着他的每个夜晚。这样的场景侵蚀着他的灵魂，他的作品开始描述起他噩梦中的见闻。他将梦中所见写了下来，他的作品充满了可怕的残酷和彻底的罪恶，引起了人们的关注和深深地着迷：这些作品能够从每个细节上揭示他们的厌恶。有些人开始公开表示对这种充满了令人震惊题材的作品的喜爱，他在这群人中的流行受到了另一群人的憎恨。这样的情况持续了数年，戴留斯招致的骂名也越来越多。直到他29岁时，有一天，这样的噩梦突然停止了。

戴留斯感到一阵轻松，毕竟他不必再去经历那种恐怖的折磨。但是他同样感到困惑，“是我做了什么使得织梦女士不满了吗？”他内心大声地盘问着自己，“为什么她抛弃了我？”瓦尔迷纳再没有回答过她的信徒。没有人能回答这个问题，而那无休止的噩梦彻底地消失了，另一方面，戴留斯从此得以获得深度睡眠。

同样，人们对于戴留斯·夏诺的作品的热情也在减退。他的文章陷入了老套，而他的想法再也无法挑起人们曾经有过的、那种深受震惊的情绪。当这种让他招致骂名的作品和他的噩梦一同消失后，他的心中开始萌发质疑，并埋怨起了瓦尔迷纳，最后这种埋怨发展成了怨恨，怨恨继而产生了嘲笑，久而久之嘲笑又发展成了对信仰的怀疑。这种怀疑使他不由地相信：瓦尔迷纳从来就没有和他交流过；他的梦不过是一种他原本就有的病态的心理罢了。他被自己的潜意识所欺骗，愤怒和耻辱的感觉彻底淹没了他——一个曾经和神明交谈过的人变成了异端。

此时，戴留斯的各种辛酸、怀疑、亵渎集中到了一起，一个创造性的理念，贯穿了他此后的作品。他质疑着神明们以及崇拜他们的幼稚民众、以及腐败的国家，毫不留情地、不遗余力地用夸张的讽刺嘲笑着他们。他在公开场合质疑着神明们的存在，而他似乎丝毫没有受到惩罚，这无疑让他更大胆地嘲讽了起来。这样一来，人们对他的作品的疯狂热情更甚以往。他的早期作品被认为只是表面上的刺激，而新的这些作品被认为是直击人们的心灵。

他的作品的长度和激烈程度都大大提升。寺庙，贵族和平民无一不是他蔑视的对象。最后，当他39岁时，戴留斯写下了“最高贵的傻子”，极尽所能地嘲笑着帝王神泰伯·塞普汀跻身圣灵一事。而丹尼亚的君主，一个曾经被戴留斯羞辱过的人，看到了报复的机会——因为他对帝国的亵渎，戴留斯最终被处以极刑：他在数百名欢呼的人群前被仪仗刀斩首，他用满口的鲜血完成了他最后的苦涩遗言。

定下赌注的20年以后，瓦尔迷纳和谢尔格拉在戴留斯·夏诺无头的尸体前碰了面。织梦女士非常期待这么一次会晤——这么多年来她无时不刻地想要对谢尔格拉的毫无作为有所表示，不吐不快。

“我被你欺骗了，谢尔格拉！我履行了自己赌约的那半份，而后来的十年你甚至没有和那个凡人有过任何接触！他的伟大和你的天赋或者影响都毫无关系！”

“胡说八道”疯狂神哇哇大叫，“我一直跟着他！你的时间结束后我就履行着自己的赌约，你的信徒耳中再也没有听过你的话。于是我将对于他最愉悦、最重要的信仰的渴求隐瞒了起来。在离开了他的女主人后，他的性格中早就种下的不满和仇恨很快地就成熟了。现在他的痛苦已经形成，完全为他的疯狂所支配，成为了我的领域中永恒的仆人。”

谢尔格拉转过身对一旁的虚空继续说道，

“显然，戴留斯·夏诺作为凡人得到了他的荣耀：被他嘲笑过的人民、他的君主甚至神明所鄙弃。作为胜利者，我将纳下60名瓦尔迷纳的崇拜者为我服务——这群梦想家们都将被唤醒成为疯子”

谢尔格拉给瓦尔迷纳上了一课：没有疯狂，就没有梦想，遑论创造。瓦尔迷纳永远都忘不了这一个教训。

疯神十六约 卷十二

疯神十六约 卷十二

玛拉凯斯的传说

（ANK 翻译版 Lu 修订）

早在奥辛纽姆建立之前，那些被流放的兽人族群就已经比他们的后代要遭受更严重的驱逐和迫害了。而为了让自己的族群能有一处栖身之地，许多欧瑞斯莫的英雄们选择了四处游历，希望能找到一处桃花源。那些英雄的传说至今仍在流传，其中最有名的便是诅咒军团，秃头葛罗马，以及兽人贵族埃蒙哥·格罗·凯兰的故事。这位本该成为整个泰姆瑞尔传奇人物的后起之秀，因为受到了魔神们的特别关照，导致他理应是传奇的一生变得特别悲催。

埃蒙哥·格罗·凯兰是个私生子，而他的母亲在他幼年时被杀。之后，族里一位巫师收养了他。这位名为葛瑞里卡玛噶的巫师居住在如今被人们称为普高山脉的群山之中。在他十五岁那年的成年礼上，埃蒙哥亲手打造了一副华丽且实用的鳞甲。在一个大风天里，他给这副铠甲镶上了铆钉，并配以宽大的黑色斗篷，之后远离了家乡。从那以后，有关他的功绩不断传回家乡，譬如帮助商队抵抗盗匪的侵袭，或是解救了受奴役的兽人族群。有关这位高贵的兽人战士的传闻甚至在布莱顿人中传了开来，当然其中多少带些恐怖色彩。

他在短短两年间便声名远扬。一天夜里，当格罗·凯兰宿营时，一个细小的声音从深邃的黑暗中传了出来。他很惊讶能从他的族人口中听到一种明显不属于兽人的语言。

“凯兰领主”，这个声音说道，“你的义举已广为流传，而我也听了不少。”凝视着这浓郁的黑暗，埃蒙哥眼前浮现出一个被斗篷包裹着的黑色身影，伫立在忽明忽暗的营火前。单听这个声音埃蒙哥以为这个造访者可能是个法师，但在此人现身的时候他却发现那只不过是个瘦弱的老头子。除此之外，他没法再发现更多的细节了。

“也许吧”这个机警的兽人回答道，“但我所追寻的并非荣耀。你是谁？”

那个奇怪的声音没有回答他的问题，而是继续说道，“你为何而来并不重要，欧瑞斯莫，荣耀找上了你，而我带来了一个与此相当的礼物”造访者解下了身上的斗篷，显露出一个在苍白月光下闪闪发光的扣子，以及一个摆放在扣子和营火之间的包裹。埃蒙哥冷静地打开了包裹，却被里面的东西给吸引了：那是一把宽阔的波形剑，其剑柄的装饰华丽得异常炫目。这把剑很重，而埃蒙哥相信在挥舞这把剑时，剑柄部分看似华而不实的设计其实掩盖了它是在平衡剑身重量的意义。再往下也没什么可看的了，这个兽人贵族如此想着，倘若拭去这把剑上的污渍并重新镶嵌上一些珠宝，它的确会是一把值得任何一个识货之人出十倍价钱买下的利器。

“它的名字是耐博新月”这位瘦弱的造访者看着面露喜色的格罗·凯兰介绍道。“我用一匹马和一个在温热之地的秘密换来了这把武器，然而我的年纪已不适合举起这把武器，这把剑只适合像你这样的勇士；带着它一定能永远地改变你的命运”埃蒙哥从欣赏那把武器精美的样式中回过神来后，便将注意力转移到了造访者身上。

“您说的没错，老人家”埃蒙哥毫不掩饰他的猜疑说道，“但我可不傻，你来这里可不只是卖把剑而已，对吧，你到底想要什么？”造访者闻言，肩膀便沮丧地垂了下来，而埃蒙哥则很乐于发现自己揭开这个造访者的真正目的。他靠近这位造访者，花了一笔钱买下了这把剑，还和他交易了一些野兽毛皮以及熟食。到了清晨时分，这位造访者才满意离去。

在埃蒙哥和那位造访者交易之后的一周内，耐博新月一直没有出鞘。因为他还没有在森林里遭遇任何敌人。而他的伙食都是以弓箭狩猎飞禽而解决的。就这样平和地过了一段时日，但到了第十七天，当浓雾仍然环绕在低垂的树枝周围时，埃蒙哥听到了一阵踏着积雪以及碎木而来的脚步声。

埃蒙哥使劲嗅了嗅空气中的气息，但因为逆风的关系，他却无法看到或是通过嗅觉判断来者何人。不过他也因为风向的关系知道来者在哪个方向。埃蒙哥的护卫顿时起身警戒，而他也将耐博新月从剑鞘中拔出。因为他不知道下一刻是否会有场恶斗。

而在他失去意识前所记得的第一件事就是当他拔出耐博新月时那把剑仿佛划破他面前的空气一般，飞溅的血液染遍了森林。第二件事则是一种可怕而狂热的嗜血感控制了他，在那之后他立刻看清了受害者，那是一个比他年轻的女兽人，她的身体已遍布可怕的伤痕，这些伤痕足以让最强大的兽人战士死上十次。

埃蒙哥的良知最终战胜了控制他的嗜血狂热，而当他完全恢复意识时，他立刻将紧握在手上的耐博新月丢入水中。伴随着一阵逐渐被风雪声所掩埋的金属碰撞声，太阳正冉冉升起，埃蒙哥拉起斗篷上的兜帽，在红日的审视之下，带着羞愧与惊骇离开了那里。

埃蒙哥·格罗·凯兰在狂热中杀死那个人的手段可谓残忍到令人发指。在尸体脖子以下的部分已完全剥皮，血肉模糊的伤口恶心得让人不能直视。而死者的脸上虽然没有伤痕，但那因极度恐惧和痛苦而被扭曲并且冻结在脸上的表情却比那些伤痕更加令人不寒而栗。

但那个人的葬身之处也正是疯狂之神谢尔格拉召唤玛拉凯斯的仪式之地，这两位魔神很快便出现在这具被虐杀致死的尸体旁争论起来。

“为什么向我展示这个，疯子？”玛拉凯斯问道，难以言喻的愤怒随着他降临到这里的第一时间便爆发了。“你是以观察我的子民被痛苦的杀死来取乐吗？”这位兽人守护者喉咙里迸发出低沉而可怕的嗓音，盯着他的同类质问道。

“我那被放逐的兄弟啊，为了你的降临，她就是祭品。”谢尔格拉严肃地答道，“但从她的行动看来，她也是我的子民；我为此感到的悲伤和愤怒并不亚于你。”

“我可不这么认为！”玛拉凯斯咆哮道，“要如何裁决这些罪行是我的事，我想这与你无关了，滚开”在这位可怕的魔神推开谢尔格拉并走过去时，疯狂之神开口了。

“我并没有打算挡在你或你的复仇之间，实际上，我打算帮助你；我在这片荒地上有大量的耳目，他们可以告诉你哪里可以找到我们共同的敌人，我只要求你使用我的武器，用它的利刃伤到我的敌人，并将他赶入我的领地，这样我才能释放我的愤怒，也能给予你执行制裁的权利。”

玛拉凯斯接受了他的建议，带上了谢尔格拉的魔剑离开了。

玛拉凯斯在那个杀人犯的必经之路上现身了，他那被斗篷覆盖的身躯围绕着冰寒的雾气。他高喊着异常邪恶的诅咒令四周的树木尽数枯死。随后他拔出了魔剑，以超越了野狐般迅捷的速度飞速穿行着。伴随着无尽的愤怒，他挥动魔剑，干净俐落地往他面前敌人的脖子上削去，之后将魔剑狠狠刺入这个罪人的胸腔之中直到剑柄完全没入为止，以确保鲜血持续不断的涌出，将那罪人沉重的护甲和斗篷完全染红。

正当玛拉凯斯还在为如此顺利完成复仇而感到意外并喘着粗气时，敌人的尸体已向后倒去，他的头颅靠在一块宽阔而平坦的岩石之上，而他的遗言如同闪电一般划破了死寂。

“我·我很抱歉……”埃蒙哥·格罗·凯兰艰难地说，玛拉凯斯睁大了眼看着这个已被断头，鲜血顺着伤口不断留下，却还能说话的人。他的眼中闪着狂野的光芒，并试着看清眼前的玛拉凯斯。这双眼睛曾属于一位意气风发的英雄，然而现在他的眼中已看不到骄傲，只剩因痛苦和悔恨而充盈的泪水。

从他的恐惧中，玛拉凯斯意识到他所杀死的这个人不仅仅是他那欧瑞斯莫的子民，还是一位受他祝福的兽人女子所诞下的英雄。他们四目交接，彼此都感到非常的失落与悲伤。

之后，在死一般的寂静中，谢尔格拉出来清理了战场。他拿起埃蒙哥被斩落的头颅并将它收入了一个小而灰暗的麻袋之中。谢尔格拉从尸体上收回了耐博新月然后转身离开。玛拉凯斯站了起来，但随后又跪了下去。他知道自己已不可挽回地让他的子民们中了谢尔格拉的诅咒，而他只能如同他那悲鸣着消失在冰冷地平线上的子民一般沉痛地吞咽下自己的失败。

Sixteen Accords of Madness Volume VI

Sixteen Accords of Madness Volume VI

Hircine's Tale

Ever proud and boastful, Oblivion's Mad Prince stood one fifth day of mid year among the frigid peaks of Skyrim, and beckoned forth Hircine for parlay. The Huntsman God materialized, for this was his day, and the boldness of Sheogorath intrigued him.

Wry without equal, Sheogorath holds in his realm giggling loons, flamboyant auteurs, and craven mutilators. The Mad Prince will ply profitless bargains and promote senseless bloodshed for nothing more than the joy of another's confusion, tragedy, or rage. So it was that Sheogorath had set a stage on which to play himself as rival to Hircine.

Without haste, the coy Prince proffered his contest; each Prince was to groom a beast to meet at this place again, three years to the hour, and do fatal battle. Expressionless behind his fearsome countenance, Hircine agreed, and with naught but a dusting of snow in the drift, the Princes were gone to their realms.

Confident, but knowing Sheogorath for a trickster, Hircine secretly bred an abomination in his hidden realm. An ancient Daedroth he summoned, and imbued it with the foul curse of lycanthropy. Of pitch heart and jagged fang, the unspeakable horror had no peer, even among the great hunters of Hircine's sphere.

In the third year, on the given day, Hircine returned, where Sheogorath leaned, cross-legged on a stone, whistling with idle patience. The Prince of the Hunt struck his spear to the ground, bringing forth his unnatural, snarling behemoth. Doffing his cap, sly as ever, Sheogorath stood and stepped aside to reveal a tiny, colorful bird perched atop the stone. Demurely it chirped in the bristling gusts, scarcely audible.

In a twisted, springing heap, the Daedroth was upon the stone, leaving only rubble where the boulder had been. Thinking itself victorious, the monster's bloodied maw curled into a mock grin, when a subdued song drifted in the crisp air. The tiny bird lightly hopped along the snout of the furious Daedroth. Sheogorath looked on, quietly mirthful, as the diminutive creature picked at a bit of detritus caught in scales betwixt the fiery eyes of the larger beast. With howling fury, the were-thing blinded itself trying to pluck away the nuisance. And so it continued for hours, Hircine looking on in shame while his finest beast gradually destroyed itself in pursuit of the seemingly oblivious bird, all the while chirping a mournful tune to the lonesome range.

Livid, but beaten, Hircine burned the ragged corpse and withdrew to his realm, swearing in forgotten tongues. His curses still hang in those peaks, and no wayfarer tarries for fear of his wrathful aspect in those obscured heights.

Turning on his heel, Sheogorath beckoned the miniscule songbird to perch atop his shoulder, and strolled down the mountain, making for the warm breezes and vibrant sunsets of the Abecean coast, whistling in tune with the tiniest champion in Tamriel.

Sixteen Accords of Madness Volume IX

Sixteen Accords of Madness Volume IX

Vaermina's Tale

Darius Shano found himself running as fast as he could.

He had no idea what he was running from or towards, but he didn't care. The desire saturated his mind -- there was nothing in the world except flight. He looked around for landmarks, anything to place himself or to use as a target, but to no avail -- the featureless grasslands through which he was sprinting extended as far as the eye could see. "Just have to keep running", he thought to himself. "I have to run as fast as I can". On and on he ran, with no end in sight or in mind....

Standing over Darius Shano while he lay quietly in his bed were his mistress, Vaermina the Dreamweaver, and the Madgod Sheogorath. Vaernima looked down with pride at this disciple of hers, and was boastful of her little jewel.

"Such potential in this one! Through dreams of inspiration, I have nurtured literary talent into fruition, and now he stands in acclaim as an emerging bard and poet! He will gain much favor before I tire of him." Sheogorath, too, gazed at the young Breton artist and saw that he was indeed famous among the other mortals.

"Hmmm," mused Sheogorath, "but how many are there who hate this mortal whom you have built? It is the hatred of the mortals which confirms greatness, and not their love. Surely you can accomplish this as well?"

Vaernima's eyes narrowed. "Yes, the mortals are indeed often foolish and petty, and it is true that many of their most bold have been despised. Do not worry, mad one, for I have the power to achieve many forms of greatness with this one, hatred among them."

"Perhaps, Dreamweaver, it would be amusing to show who has this power? Inspire foolish, arrogant hatred of this mortal for ten years, and then I will do the same. We shall see whose talents are most efficient, free of aid or interference from any of the Daedra."

At this, she relaxed into confident pleasure. "The Madgod is indeed powerful, but this task is suited to my skills. The mortals are repulsed by madness, but rarely think it worthy of hate. I shall take pleasure in revealing this to you, as I bring the more subtle horrors out of this mortal's subconscious."

And so, in the 19th year of his life, the dreams Darius Shano had been experiencing began to change. Fear had always been part of the night for him, but now there was something else. A darkness began to creep into his slumber, a darkness that sucked away all feeling and color, leaving only emptiness behind. When this happened, he opened his mouth to scream, but found that the darkness had taken his voice as well. All he had was the terror and the void, and each night they filled him with a new understanding of death. Yet, when he woke, there was no fear, for he had faith that his Lady had a purpose.

Indeed, one night Vaernima herself emerged from the void. She leaned in close to whisper into his ear.

"Watch carefully, my beloved!" With that, she pulled the void away, and for hours each night she would reveal to Darius the most horrible perversions of nature. Men being skinned and eaten alive by other men, unimaginable beasts of many limbs and mouths, entire populations being burned -- their screams filled his every evening. In time, these visions gnawed at his soul, and his work began to take on the character of his nightmares. The images revealed to him at night were reproduced on the page, and the terrible cruelty and hollow vice that his work contained both revolted and fascinated the public. They reveled in their disgust over every detail. There were those who openly enjoyed his shocking material, and his popularity among some only fed the hatred of those who found him abhorrent. This continued for several years, while the infamy of Darius grew steadily. Then, in his 29th year, without warning, the dreams and nightmares ceased.

Darius felt a weight lifted, as he no longer endured the nightly tortures, but was confused. "What have I done to displease my Mistress?", he wondered aloud. "Why has she abandoned me?" Vaernima never answered his prayers. No one ever answered, and the restless dreams faded away to leave Darius in long, deep sleeps.

Interest in the works of Darius Shano waned. His prose became stale and his ideas failed to provoke the shock and outrage they once had. As the memory of his notoriety and of his terrible dreams faded, the questions that raced in his mind eventually produced resentment against Vaernima, his former mistress. Resentment grew into hatred, from hatred came ridicule, and over time ridicule became disbelief. Slowly it became obvious -- Vaernima had never spoken to him at all; his dreams were simply the product of a sick mind that had righted itself. He had been deceived by his own subconscious, and the anger and shame overwhelmed him. The man who once conversed with a deity drifted steadily into heresy.

In time, all of the bitterness, doubt, and sacrilege focused in Darius a creative philosophy that was threaded throughout all of his subsequent work. He challenged the Gods themselves, as well as the infantile public and corrupt state for worshiping them. He mocked them all with perverse caricatures, sparing no one and giving no quarter. He challenged the Gods in public to strike him down if they existed, and ridiculed them when no such comeuppance was delivered. To all of this, the people reacted with outrage far greater than they had shown his previous work. His early career had offended only sensibilities, but now he was striking directly at the heart of the people.

His body of work grew in size and intensity. Temples, nobles, and commoners were all targets of his scorn. Finally, at age 39, Darius wrote a piece entitled "The Noblest Fool," ridiculing The Emperor God Tiber Septim for integrating into the pathetic Nine Divines cult. The local King of Daenia, who had been humiliated by this upstart in the past, saw his chance -- for his sacrilege against the Empire, Darius Shano was executed, with a ceremonial blade, in front of a cheering crowd of hundreds. His last, bitter words were gurgled through a mouthful of his own blood.

20 years after their wager was first placed, Vaernima and Sheogorath met over Darius Shano's headless corpse. The Dreamweaver had been eager for this meeting; she had been waiting for years to confront the Daedric Prince over his lack of action.

"I have been deceived by you, Sheogorath! I performed my half of the bargain, but during your ten years you never contacted the mortal once. He owes none of his greatness to you or your talents or your influence!"

"Nonsense," croaked the Madgod. "I was with him all along! When your time ended and mine began, your whispers in his ear were replaced with silence. I severed his link to that from which he found the most comfort and meaning, and withheld the very attention the creature so desperately craved. Without his mistress, this man's character could ripen under resentment and hatred. Now his bitterness is total and, overcome by a madness fueled by his rage, he feeds me in my realm as an eternal servant."

Sheogorath turned and spoke to the empty space by his side.

"Indeed; Darius Shano was a glorious mortal. Despised by his own people, his kings, and even by the Gods he mocked. For my success, I shall accept three-score followers of Vaernima into my service. And the dreamers will awaken as madmen."

And thus did Sheogorath teach Vaernima that without madness, there are no dreams, and no creation. Vaernima will never forget this lesson.

Sixteen Accords of Madness Volume XII

Sixteen Accords of Madness Volume IX

Malacath's Tale

In the days before the Orsinium's founding, the spurned Orc-folk were subjected to ostracism and persecutions even more numerous and harsh than their progeny are accustomed to in our own age. So it was that many champions of the Orsimer traveled, enforcing what borders they could for the proliferation of their own people. Many of these champions are spoken of yet today, among them the Cursed Legion, Gromma the Hairless, and the noble Emmeg Gro-Kayra. This latter crusader would have certainly risen to legendary status throughout Tamriel, had he not been subject to the attention of certain Daedric Princes.

Emmeg Gro-Kayra was the bastard son of a young maiden who was killed in childbirth. He was raised by the shaman of his tribe, the Grilikamaug in the peaks of what we now call Normar Heights. Late in his fifteenth year, Emmeg forged by hand an ornate suit of scaled armor, a rite of ascension among his tribe. On a blustery day, he pounded the final rivet, and draping a heavy cloak over the bulky mantle, Emmeg set out from his village for the last time. Word of his exploits always returned home, whether defending merchant caravans from brigands or liberating enslaved beast folk. News of the noble Orc crusader began to grace even the lips of Bretons, often with a tinge of fear.

Less than two years after ascending to maturity, Gro-Kayra was making camp when a thin voice called out from the thickening night. He was surprised to hear the language of his people spoken by a tongue that obviously did not belong to an Orc.

'Lord Kayra', said the voice, 'tales of your deeds have crossed the lips of many, and have reached my ears.' Peering into the murk, Emmeg made out the silhouette of a cloaked figure, made wavy and ephemeral by the hazy campfire. From the voice alone he had thought the interloper an old hag, but he now decided that he was in the presence of a man of slight and lanky build, though he could discern no further detail.

'Perhaps,' the wary Orc began, 'but I seek no glory. Who are you?'

Ignoring the question, the stranger continued, 'Despite that, Orsimer, glory finds you, and I bear a gift worthy of it.' The visitor's cloak parted slightly, revealing nothing but faintly glinting buttons in the pale moonlight, and a bundle was withdrawn and tossed to the side of the fire between the two. Emmeg cautiously removed the rags in which the object was swathed, and was dazzled to discover the item to be a wide, curved blade with ornately decorated handle. The weapon had heft, and Emmeg realized on brandishing it that the elaborate pommel disguised the more practical purpose of balancing the considerable weight of the blade itself. It was nothing much to look at in its present condition, thought the Orc, but once the tarnish was cleaned away and a few missing jewels restored, it would indeed be a blade worthy of a champion ten times his own worth.

'Her name is Neb-Crescen' spoke the thin stranger, seeing the appreciation lighting Gro-Kayra's face. 'I got her for a horse and a secret in warmer climes, but in my old age I'd be lucky to even lift such a weapon. It's only proper that I pass her on to one such as yourself. To possess her is to change your life, forever.' Overcoming his initial infatuation with the arc of honed steel, Emmeg turned his attention back to the visitor.

'Your words are fine, old man,' Emmeg said, not masking his suspicion, 'but I'm no fool. You traded for this blade once, and you'll trade for it again tonight. What is it that you want?' The stranger's shoulders slumped, and Emmeg was glad to have unveiled the true purpose of this twilight visit. He sat with him a while, eventually offering a stack of furs, warm food, and a handful of coins in exchange for the exotic weapon. By morning, the stranger was gone.

In the week following Emmeg's encounter with the stranger, Neb-Crescen had not left its scabbard. He had encountered no enemy in the woods, and his meals consisted of fowl and small game caught with bow and arrow. The peace suited him fine, but on the seventh morning, while fog still crept between the low-hanging boughs, Emmeg's ears pricked up at the telltale crunch of a nearby footfall in the dense snow and forest debris.

Emmeg's nostrils flared, but he was upwind. Being unable to see or smell his guest, and knowing that the breeze carried his scent in that direction, Emmeg's guard was up, and he cautiously drew Neb-Crescen from its sheath. Emmeg himself was not entirely sure of all that happened next.

The first moment of conscious memory in Emmeg Gro-Kayra's mind after drawing Neb-Crescen was the image of the curved blade sweeping through the air in front of him, spattering blood over the virginal powder coating the forest floor. The second memory was a feeling of frenzied bloodlust creeping over him, but it was then that he saw for the first time his victim, an Orc woman perhaps a few years younger than himself, her body a canvas of grisly wounds, enough to kill a strong man ten times over.

Emmeg's disgust overwhelmed the madness that had overtaken him, and with all his will enlisted, he released Neb-Crescen from his grip and let the blade sail. With a discordant ringing it spun through the air and was buried in a snowdrift. Emmeg fled the scene in shame and horror, drawing the hood of his cloak up to hide himself from the judging eyes of the rising sun.

The scene where Emmeg Gro-Kayra had murdered one of his own kind was a macabre one. Below the neck, the body was flayed and mutilated almost beyond recognition, but the untouched face was frozen in a permanent expression of abject terror.

It was here that Sheogorath performed certain rites that summoned Malacath, and the two Daedric Lords held court in the presence of the disfigured corpse.

'Why show me this, Mad One?' began Malacath, once he recovered from his initial, wordless outrage. 'Do you take such pleasure in watching me grieve the murder of my children?' His guttural voice rumbled, and the patron of the Orismer looked upon his counterpart with accusing eyes.

'By birth, she was yours, brother outcast,' began Sheogorath, solemn in aspect and demeanor. 'But she was a daughter of mine by her own habits. My mourning here is no less than your own, my outrage no less great.'

'I am not so sure,' grumbled Malacath, 'but rest assured that vengeance for this crime is mine to reap. I expect no contest from you. Stand aside.' As the fearsome Prince began to push past him, Lord Sheogorath spoke again.

'I have no intention of standing between you and vengeance. In fact, I mean to help you. I have servants in this wilderness, and can tell you just where to find our mutual foe. I ask only that you use a weapon of my choosing. Wound the criminal with my blade, and banish him to my plane, where I can exact my own punishment. The rights of honor-killing here belong to you.'

With that, Malacath agreed, took the wide blade from Sheogorath, and was gone.

Malacath materialized in the path of the murderer, the cloaked figure obscured through a blizzard haze. Bellowing a curse so foul as to wilt the surrounding trees, the blade was drawn and Malacath crossed the distance more quickly than a wild fox. Frothing with rage, he swung the blade in a smooth arc which lopped the head of his foe cleanly off, then plunged the blade up to its hilt in his chest, choking off the spurts of blood into a steady, growing stain of red bubbling from beneath the scaled armor and heavy cloak.

Panting from the unexpected immediacy and fury of his own kill, Malacath rested on a knee as the body before him collapsed heavily backwards and the head landed roughly upon a broad, flat stone. The next sound broke the silence like a bolt.

'I - I'm sorry...' sputtered the voice of Emmeg Gro-Kayra. Malacath's eyes went wide as he looked upon the severed head, seeping blood from its wound, but somehow kept alive. Its eyes wavered about wildly, trying to focus on the aspect of Malacath before it. The once-proud eyes of the champion were choked with tears of grief, pain, and confused recognition.

To his horror, Malacath recognized only now that the man he had killed was not only one of his Orismer children, but very literally a son he had blessed an Orc maiden with years hence. For achingly long moments the two looked upon each other, despondent and shocked.

Then, silent as oiled steel, Sheogorath strode into the clearing. He hefted Emmeg Gro-Kayra's disembodied head and bundled it into a small, grey sack. Sheogorath reclaimed Neb-Crescen from the corpse and turned to walk away. Malacath began to stand, but kneeled again, knowing he had irreversibly damned his own offspring to the realm of Sheogorath, and mourned his failure as the sound of his son's hoarse pleas faded into the frozen horizon.