Storm in a Teacup

The dunmer's forehead presses against the cobblestone floor of the basement. Fingers interlaced tightly. Desperate pleas and prayers spilling from her mouth. Glow dust presented on a tray below a statuette, surrounded by spluttering candles. The date, 21st of the First Seed. The woman continues fervently, with such devotion she is unable to hear the thunderstorm that has rolled in overhead.

She watches in awe as the glow dust begins to rise. The telling hum of magic in the air.  A sparkling, swirling vortex slowly growing in size and magnitude. Soon the dark elf is scrambling back on her hands and knees as the gale effortlessly picks up the flames from the candles, incorporating them into its now blinding shimmering mass. She covers her eyes. Between the cracks in her fingers she sees a figure emerge as the light dissipates. It worked. It actually worked! She feels the world sway like a ship underneath her. Her heartbeat in her ears. Only now the exhaustion in her bones. She closes her eyes, trying not to weep.

"Lady Azura-" she croaks, voice strained from overuse.

Step. Step. Clack.

The distinct noise of dress shoes and a cane.

Her red eyes shoot back open, lip beginning to quiver. No, this was wrong. She had done it wrong. What had she done wrong? She considered not looking. Not raising her eyes to meet the Daedric Prince's - for she had successfully summoned one, just not the right one. She desperately tried to calculate if this was to be considered offensive or the right course of action. Then concluded it didn't matter. If He wanted her dead there was not all that much she could do.

"Azura," The Madgod clicks His tongue. "Explains the glitter."

The woman inhales and shakily looks up, finding her mouth dry. The gentleman with a cane - the Madgod, Sheogorath - leans forwards grinning widely, now He's done scanning the room.

"What's your name, little mortal?"

Naturally, she hesitates. He places a hand to His ear and leans in on the balls of His feet.

"Vermonah." She answers slowly, carefully. He doesn't seem to mind the lack of 'my lord'.

Sheogorath nods affirmatively. "And what do you desire, Vermonah?" He puts on emphasis as He echoes her name.

Anticipating this, the dunmer shakily gets to her feet, swaying precariously. The Daedric Prince watches, intrigued. She extends a finger.

"We- we can g- would- wait-" She splutters before making an effort to regain her composure. "Would you like some tea?" Her voice still wavers.

Vermonah bets on the fact that something so unexpected, foolish and frankly trivial will appeal to the Madgod's nature. Appease Him. And maybe, maybe, if things go according to plan - well no plan per se, more go well - she may be able to convince Him to leave. Sanity still intact. Make it into a sort of game and He just might...

"I accept!" He laughs, grin somehow continuing to grow. His voice drops from the shout to something a little more akin to an inside voice. "Travelled a long way to be here, you know. My feet are killing me."

Vermonah turns on her heel, jaw set and storms up the stairs with purpose. He follows unhurried behind her.

"That was a little joke." He clarifies. "I teleported."

Vermonah hopes she doesn't audibly roll her eyes.

"Feel free to take a seat, kitchen is around the corner, if you need me." She says in her best business tone, lingering by the doorway to ensure He is seated and doesn't just wander about; or even worse follow her. Fortunately He seems to respect the rules of the arrangement for now and sits down, scanning the room with an amused grin.