Blackfeather Woods I send a pestilence, a plague

AW but @Vaati @Koume especially welcome?

There was so much he had missed in his absence. So much that he failed to pay attention to.

His sister gone, Mother off to follow, eventually returning. The Dark Mistress fading away, and a new Master (who was once Master but dethroned) took her place with the woman's daughter at her side. All the while he kept to the Temple and the Redgrove and the Weeping Tree, the sacred, mystical places where magic thrived.

He had tended to Mother's herb stores as best he could, but he lacked the art and knowledge she had locked within her, and could not perfect the poultices and fetishes that she devised. When he wasn't staring at the sky, thinking, he trained, sparring with his nuncle. He had grown and was still growing, his body thickening with every session.

He wasn't sure what to make of himself yet. Everyone was so set on one particular path — spy, assassin, priest — but he felt himself straddling rather than following it straight forward. Why couldn't he be a warrior-priest? Why couldn't he be a Sorcerer-King?

He pondered this as he sifted through Mother's stores, organizing the new herbs as she had instructed, his life's goals distracting him.

As he was looking for his dear sister that day, Sheogorath happened upon his nephew instead. Ragged ears perked forward to catch the nephew sifting around the herb storages. He wondered at first if he was taking anything but upon closer inspection he instead seemed to be merely organising the different herbs.

Sheogorath wondered if these were only healing herbs or if she kept them mixed with poisonous one — though a thing he wouldn't recommend — as he approached. "Good day," he greeted upon approach. "Are you helping your mother today?" Sheogorath wondered where she was, that sister of his, but he didn't ask, focussing on his nephew for the moment. They spent too little time together, he realised, though he cared little for the child; not like Cicero would have, anyway.

this looked lonely <3

Mind if we forward date it?

Ganondorf was absorbed into his work, the monotony of it stealing him away. It took a voice to shake him out of it. He did not startle, but merely turned towards it, curious as to who it belonged to.

He saw one of his uncles there. Cicero. Ganondorf nodded. Yeah. Organizing.

sure, we can present-date this :)

Ragged ears perked forward and then fell to the side again as Sheogorath approached. He watched as the boy busied himself with the herbs, feeling that though he had heard he was not doing well, he was at least being obedient and helpful. Sheo wondered what would have caused such a change in a boy that he would throw becoming a priest away for... well, this.

"What sort of herbs are they?" Sheogorath asked and he came closer to have a closer look at the herbs and see which ones were in there — and, specific to his interests, if there were any poisonous ones there.

He figures that by now everyone in the Woods knew of his agnosticism and misotheism. It was quite a big deal in a religious cult, even bigger because his mother was a priestess, and even bigger because he had attempted to become a priest. He accepted the societal shunning he was given, especially that by his family, so Cicero's continued interest in him confused him. Especially the mundaneness of his questions. He turned to his uncle, a perplexed expression on his face. Shouldn't you know? He asks. Muña says that you like using herbs for weird things. He says it a third teasing, a third confused, and a third intrigued, wondering just what his uncle got up to with their herb store.

Sheogorath chuckled as the question was directed back at him. A clever boy, but perhaps that was the exact reason why he had so fallen from grace to the rest of the pack. "Just because one knows something, it doesn't mean that they won't ask for it from another." The sentence sounded a bit too Cicero-esque to Sheogorath as he spoke it. Too philosophical.

"Weird things, eh? That's what she said?" Seemed like an understatement, but on the other hand also a completely untrue statement. 'Weird' was relative, anyway. "The uses of poisons are very straight forward. There's little weirdness about it."

He didn't know what to make of his uncle's statement. He was not used to the cryptic statements that Cicero had once been famous for, so he merely squinted at him, hummed, and then turned his head back to the herbs. Something like that, He murmured, sifting through the leaves and bushels. He at first thought that this was some casual, boring conversation, but a single word led him to turn back to his uncle. Poisons?

The boy quickly lost interest, but there was one word that drew him right back in. Sheogorath grinned as the boy repeated the word, testing it upon his tongue, curious to know more about it. Time would tell if it would draw him in like it had Cicero before he even knew the name they carried to the rest of the world. "Poisons, yes. Your mother never told you about that?" He tut-tutted; to know how to heal someone with herbs, it was invaluable to know how to damage someone with them too. And at the very least it was good to know what the wrong choice of herb might do.

"Your mother mostly dabbles in herbs that heal, but I work mostly with those that hurt and maim, cause hallucinations and unthinkable pains." He looked at the boy's face, watching him closely to make sure he knew and understood what Sheogorath spoke of; and to see if there was any spark of interest there.

He scoffed, but his eyes betrayed his interest. She taught me to recognize and avoid them, Few of Potema's lessons were intent on teaching him anything malicious. He was intended to be a priest. A guide and healer for the pack. Even still, when he had strayed, he learned nothing on how to wield the poisonous herbs he had often stumbled upon. He simply avoided them.

But his Uncle worked with them. And, if he had the same passion and drive as his Mother, he would be a master at using poisons. Ganondorf put away the last bundle he had made. Who do you hurt?

"Hmm-mm," Sheogorath murmured as the child mentioned that Potema had taught him to avoid poisons. He supposed that was smart enough, for it would avoid unpleasant accidents. Still, it intrigued him to find out Potema wished to have so little to do with poisons, for they could have their uses, and sometimes they were necessary. He would not mind playing out that side of the coin of life however, being the bad but necessary side of things so that she could continue being the good.

Who did he hurt? Ah, too many to mention. He thought for a few seconds before answering, "Those who deserve it in some form or another. Sometimes smaller animals, for experimentation." Another brief pause. "Sometimes me, for the sake of study and experimentation. It is hard to deduce symptoms without experiencing them first-hand." He wondered what the boy would think of that.

He merely murmured instead, which confused the young herbalist. It seemed half understand, half....disapproving. As if that wasn't supposed to be Potema's training regiment. Another thing that his mother seemed to fail on. He loved his mother as a son should, but that was the extent of his affections for her. He did not worship her as Vaati and his sisters did; she was no moral authority for him.

Small animals aren't surprising to him. It made sense. So does the use of prisoners. But himself? Ganondorf was perplexed. Why risk dying? He did not know if he was afraid of death. He knew that his mother and the rest of Blackfeather Woods did not, accepting that there was some dark comforting place after death. But he did not know. He did not like not knowing, but he could not accept the yolk of his family's gods. If you die then you won't live to use your knowledge, It seemed like the most reasonable thing to Ganon, but perhaps that wasn't the case in his uncle's mind.

Sheogorath chuckled at the boy's comment. He said, "I've often thought that, myself." But Cicero hadn't. Sheogorath was not as much a lover as pain as Cicero; it gave him mere madness, not the nearly sensual joy that Cicero got from the stings of pain. No, his tastes lay elsewhere. "But I know my limits." Cicero didn't always. He'd just have to keep him locked up. "The trick is to try only the littlest bit of it at first, so that you can find out its strength." You'd find out about the worst of the poisons before actually dying, then.

To know one's own limit. He wondered what that truly meant. He had no concept of limits in any sense; he pushed until he was pushed back. But here at least...it would practical to be cautious. Snarfing down a huge pile of leaves would not be optimal at all. Anything to start with? He ventured, uneasy but excited with the prospect of overcoming this form of death.

The boy was interested and asked a question, and Sheogorath smirked as he felt the trap close. He wasn't sure if he was interested for the sake of teaching the boy and salvaging him from a godless life or for the sake of passing time, but it didn't matter. "Well, key is to start with tiny bits." Sheogorath tilted his head; "I could give you some sometime, if you please, but maybe you should also look for some yourself. So you can tell me what you took and how it felt, next time we meet." A way of proving himself worthy of being his student, in a way.

It made sense. Small bits, then...go up slowly, he supposed. But he didn't know at what rate, but he supposed that his uncle would teach him. He wouldn't let him die. He knew that. Even if he was that heartless, Mother would kill him.

Will do, He nodded, smirking, the excitement taking him over. He wanted to sift through the herbstore now and try one, but he still wasn't finished organizing. He suppressed it as best as he could for now.

With that, their conversation swiftly came to an end. Sheogorath nodded and turned away without another word. He'd see if the boy would find him again and tell him about what he had learned. He'd see if the boy was alive next time they met. As silently as he had come Sheogorath slipped back into the shadows and let the boy be with his herb-organising.