The Mad Baker

[SoulofChrysamere]

When a mortal meets the nonsensical enigma that is Sheogorath.

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The Mad Baker

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There once was a baker of bread loaves and sweets,

Whose shop’s fine aromas flooded Anvil’s streets.

Everyone partook of the delicious eats

Baked from special dough in golden-brown sheets.

 

The man’s name was Wensert, and he plied his trade well,

Hailed by all Anvil’s people as friendly and swell,

But his merry existence one day did dispel

When he met a strange elf with a will to compel.

 

One morn, a Dunmeri lass alighted his door,

Clutching a sack, with her face sly and sure.

Wensert asked, “Hail, young girl. What are you here for?”

Before answering, she plopped her bag on the floor.

 

“Name’s Nivala, and I’ve brought you a gift

To give your renown a considerable lift.

I pray my forwardness has not made you miffed,

And if you suspect poison, you’re welcome to sift.”

 

Wensert replied, “Well, you seem to be fine,

But though your present’s piqued an interest of mine,

I’m afraid I must politely decline

For my fortune is safely naught short of divine.”

 

Nivala insisted, saying, “It’s a unique spice

That will improve your grand pastries’ flavors thrice!

It’s free, so you don’t need to increase your price,

And they’ll be hailed as ambrosial instead of just nice!”

 

“But Miss,” Wensert said, “I’m not in the habit

Of taking random gifts, so I don’t want to grab it.

Nivala replied, “It’s charity, sir. Dagnabbit,

What suppose you I’ve brought? A decomposed rabbit?”

 

Wensert said, “So you donate to townsfolk?

Don’t reckon you’re native. I know each local bloke.

If you scheme and mock kindness, it’s quite a crude joke,

And the town watch’s displeasure’s not hard to evoke.”

 

Nivala answered, “Really, kind sir, I work

At my hometown’s chapel, and always, I shirk

The allure of scamming, and instead I perk

My nobleness up as a general store’s clerk.”

 

Wensert then pressed, “And you sometimes go out

To distribute your surplus among and throughout

Other cities and towns of each whereabout?

Nivala answered, “Indeed. I’m no dishonest lout.”

 

Wensert then asked, “So, just where are you from?”

Nivala answered, “Skingrad is from where I come.

My shop is my own. I hope that sways you some,

For if I’m refused, I just might turn glum.”

 

Wensert said, “That’s quite a long distance to tread

Just to bequeath some spices to a baker of bread.”

Nivala retorted, “Sir, truth is in all I’ve said.

I’m an honest young elf. I’ve never misled.”

 

“I see.” Wensert quipped. “Well, I guess I could test

Your spice and determine its peculiar zest.

If only because you’re a persistent pest

Whose acceptance alone will afford me a rest.”

 

Nivala sighed and cracked an innocent grin.

She said, “Oh, I knew you’d see that I mean no sin!

You’re welcome to all that’s packaged therein,

And there’s even a scoop – just some old unused tin.”

 

Wensert replied, “Yes, very well, young miss,

And expect to receive my opinion of this.”

Nivala joked, “Maybe I’ll be your apprentice,”

And then flirted, “or I could do with a kiss.”

 

Wensert said, “Afraid not to both, silver-tongued elf;

And as for the spice, don’t delude yourself.

If I find it revolting, it comes off my shelf,

And the only dejection will be in your own self.”

 

Nivala replied, “Trust me. You’ll love it.

My stock of it’s something that multitudes covet.

If shunned, though, I guess you could tell me to shove it.

What’s your name, by the way? I’ve yet to know of it.”

 

Wensert answered, “Wensert would be my name.

You’re not here often, or you’d by now know the same.

Anyway, goodbye, Miss Charitable Dame.

I’ll soon send you word of my disdain or acclaim.”

 

Nivala bowed and turned to go with a blithe kick,

Saying, “Bye, Wensert. I pray your day’s terrific.”

Wensert replied, “Thanks, Miss. Though, you never can pick

The whole day’s events from the first hour’s schtick.”

 

The Dunmer departed and Wensert started the day,

Shelving the spice to keep it out of the way.

He intended to test it that night, free from delay

To see what kind of enhancement it could convey.

 

By and by, that day’s jolly hours hastily sped

With Wensert selling cakes and nice, toasty bread.

At last, the day was done, and the sunlight was dead.

He barred his door, but trotted not to his bed.

 

The stoic baker remembered his mission

To see if Nivala’s promise would come to fruition.

He was hardly nervous for his strong intuition,

And his creative mind knew no inhibition.

 

He took the spice bag and set it on the floor,

Then snuffed all but one oven, and stoked that one more.

He opened the sack to see just what it bore

That would be the focus of his evening chore.

 

It was a greenish powder that smelled very sweet.

He knew big amounts would make its taste indiscreet,

So he chose a quick, easily-balanced eat –

A simple crepe for the spice’s inaugural treat.

 

So a blackberry crepe, Wensert resolved to make.

Once it was formed, he put it on to bake.

He dearly hoped that the elf was no hoodwinking snake

Whose miracle spice was just a sweet-scented fake.

 

The crepe baked in the oven to a rich golden brown,

And Wensert took it out to let it cool down.

While waiting, he paced with a slight, thoughtful frown,

Wondering if he’d a new treat to show the town.

 

When the crepe was cool, Wensert gave it a bite.

It was sweet – very sweet – with a tang nicely slight.

It seemed that the gods had smiled upon that night.

The spice tasted amazing. The Dark Elf was right.

 

Wensert finished the crepe with measured elation,

Intent on the spice facing tougher tribulation.

Still, he reckoned he’d found a new kind of creation

And would send Nivala word of her just vindication.

 

However, no more trials transpired that eve,

For Wensert’s old bones sought some comfy reprieve.

He stowed the spice, doused the oven, and went to leave

For his bedroom where his rest he could rightly receive.

 

Wensert sauntered up and stretched out his back,

Then gave a great yawn and plopped into his sack.

Unfortunately, he was cut no slack.

That night, his dreams came under heavy attack.

 

His dream-state self awoke in a grayish expanse,

And he felt weird and woozy, as if in a strange trance.

Suddenly, various lights spawned and started to dance,

Then lumped together into a rainbow lance.

 

A voice then spoke, and it’s tone was quite frantic,

Fast-paced and choppy as if it were manic.

“Dear mortal,” It said, “Your luck’s quite gigantic,

And your conversion will be naught short of titanic.”

 

The illogic of dreams took hold of Wensert now,

And caused him to respond as best he knew how.

“And what is this ‘conversion’ you so assuredly vow?

Am I to shrink or grow, or turn into a cow?”

 

The voice answered gladly, enjoying its fun.

“Oh cows, how lovely! Nay though, you won’t become one.

You’ll become nothing and everything once we’re done,

Unlike all else that rests under the Tamrielic sun.”

 

Wensert then asked, “But what of my confections?

I bake them to honor the good Anvilans’ affections.

I’d like to continue without insurrections,

And humbly serve all their meek predilections.”

 

The voice simply laughed and spoke a blunt reply,

Saying, “Mortal, you’ll be stripped of your own reasoning eye.

Not literally, no. Instead, you shall descry

That reason and logic are just a prison – a lie.”

 

At that, the ground turned from nothingness to grass,

And then part of it crumbled into shards of green glass.

There was water beneath it, and out leapt a large bass

That promptly morphed into a tall man dressed of class.

 

His suit was bright purple with some green mottled in,

Gray hair covered his head, from the crown to the chin.

He spoke, “Mortal, the Madness has invited you in,

To see the truth and free you from your sensible sin.”

 

Wensert replied, “And what virtue are you hawking?

Besides, this is but a dream. If not, ‘tis quite shocking.”

The man answered, “No dream, but two worlds interlocking –

A union that your mind has no hope of blocking.”

 

After the man prophesized this bizarre event,

Wensert wondered greatly when the dream would relent

Though he knew the dreamworld did often dissent

From reality and act without logic’s consent.

 

The man took Wensert’s arm and led him along

The edge of the water while whistling a strange song.

This went on for a time both awkward and long

Before the man paused as if something was wrong.

 

He spoke, “You know, my realm does sometimes inhibit

My thoughts and descriptions, and I must ad-lib it.

Sometimes I squawk, and others, I ribbit,

Although I sound like a daft flibbertigibbet.”

 

Wensert was stumped, unsure whether he should speak,

But his thoughts were interrupted by a piercing shriek.

Then, the vast lake narrowed into a small creek

And sprouted metal bars, all crooked and oblique.

 

“What in the gods’ names is this nonsensical craft?”

Wensert blurted, finding this ridiculously daft.

The man answered not, but just heartily laughed

And then conjured a spear, offering Wensert the haft.

 

“Good baker, I think it’s time that you should learn

What Madness is, and how it makes the mind yearn

For its blissful release. You’ll not want to return

To sanity once you’ve become Madness’s intern.”

 

All throughout the rest of that ill-fated night,

Wensert slowly forgot all he ventured was right.

Sheogorath was removing his logical sight

And purging him of his reasonable blight.

 

By the time morn came, the baker had reneged

On all that he knew, and now his mind begged

For more from the being that now had him pegged

As a disciple of Madness, and how staunchly it egged.

 

The people of Anvil mourned Wensert’s turning,

And hoped that there was some way of returning

His mind to sanity. The healers were yearning

And hoping to see his madness eventually adjourning.

 

Wensert, however, stayed lost to them all,

Trapped underneath the insanity’s pall.

Eventually, he heeded his new master’s call

And left town with naught but his old baker’s shawl.

 

For the rest of his days, he wandered around

The province, letting his craziness abound.

Before long, his madness began to resound

And this worked to make him provincially renowned.

 

The legend was formed of the wandering bloke

Clad in an oversized animal-skin cloak

That said only nonsense the rare times he spoke.

With most, the legend was thought of as a joke.

 

Although, there are a few who have claimed peeks

Of the man in their travels, and they say that he reeks

Of the wild, and indeed, on the rare time he speaks,

He sounds just like those institutionalized freaks.

 

To anyone’s knowledge, the man is still out there

Aimlessly roaming in Sheogorath’s care.

A meeting with him, according to those who’ve dared,

Is rather unique, barring you don’t get a scare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Ithildin]

Amazing work with this, and inspiring! :woot: *gives honorary second kudo*