The realm reflects the Princes…

I mumbled incoherently and punched my pillow a couple of time before stuffing my face into it.

The purple air swirled violently. Coiling, roiling, bristling and shoving. Light streaked beneath the angry dark purple cloud, flashing blindingly and rumbling deeply. A raging storm. Thunder crackled and wind howled as the fierce air swirled in a maddening pattern.

A glimpse of grey could be seen beneath the angry purple; the grey obsolete, unchanging and adamant under the shifting purple storm. It looked like an island… frozen, bleak piece of grey slab and the purple storm, like an unstoppable force, was trying to tear it apart.

The Isles… just sat there like an immovable rock. The just storm crackled as if chuckling while it sweeps across the surface.

At the Isle's center, where the storm seemed circle around, stood yet another grey stubborn metal figure, fixated onto the very spot, not toppling against the presence of the storm. Jyggalag.

The storm seemed to dance around the Prince, as always in its maddening pattern while the wind lashed and tried to push the Daedra into its embrace. Lightning even struck the stubborn metal yet not a single flinch or stagger from the Prince. Jyggalag, pelted with hails, blizzard, wind, lightning, even sand, stood there adamant to be the only order in the raging storm.

A sinister purple figure was waiting, just outside the edge of grey circle Jyggalag stood in. Appearing and disappearing with the wind, but always there, watching for the fall. With golden cat eyes fixated on its grey metal prey, Jyggalag was a mouse within the storm's presence, caught in its claws.

But now Jyggalag isn't there anymore. The Order no longer inside the Madness, no longer the anchor, the barrier that holds it back, instead I stand there in place, in the mercy of the storm.

I woke up with a start, gasping as cold sweat clam my clothes against my body. In the dark, I sat there on my bed.

'By the Divines,' I whispered hoarsely as my hands shook when I brushed my face.

I'm no Prince of Order. Yet I'm going to stand against a massive storm like that, against… infectious madness without falling? I don't want to go mad. I don't want to go mad. Staring at my hands, I looked up sharply at the walls closing in around me. Walls don't move… unless it's a trap. A spark snapped from my fingers. I jumped out of my reverie and quickly extinguished the fireball spell forming.

Calm down, calm down. I breathed in deeply and blinked rapidly. You're in New Sheoth, within your palace filled with the demented and the manic. You are not at the Asylum. You are here in your colorful flamboyant bedroom… that once belongs to the previous Sheogorath… which is kind of creepy now that I think of it since I'm sleeping in… his bed. Do Daedric Prince even use bed? If they do, I shudder to think how Sheogorath use it. I need to tell Haskill to get a cleaning crew in here. Actually, get pyromaniac mages to burn this room—no, no, no. Too excessive. Just clean everything.

'HASKILL!' I bellowed.

'Yes, my lord,' a voice sighed. The chamberlain appeared suddenly on my right, as if he was always there and been waiting.

'Get the servants to pack some food into my bag. I'm going,' I ordered. I need to get out of HERE!

'Again, my lord?' There was a disapproval tone in Haskill's voice.

I need to leave this place. Just for a while. Just to get my head sorted out. These dreams… I've been having are not normal. No Vaermina's since there's no sadistic cruel touch of hers.

I glared at my chamberlain. 'Just pack. I need to check Cyrodiil anyway. I have other duties in Tamriel also.' Mages, Dark Brotherhood, Fighter's guild, helping Ocato, the Blades, etc. 'You do know that, right?' I asked my somber chamberlain.

'Whatever you say, my lord,' Haskill said politely before walking out of my grand room.

I watched him go. While everyone is weird and crazy, he seems to be the only one sane and unchanging on this Realm. Strange… maybe he's leaching my sanity and that's why he's so sane. He's definitely no mortal.

I slapped my forehead at the thought. Stupid paranoia. I've been having weird thoughts, panic attacks and even hearing voices. And the dreams… I breathed in. I really need a break from Shivering Isle.

I groped the inside of my pack and picked up the Cyrodiil Brandy. Uncorking the bottle, I stuffed the liquid down my throat before staring at the statue in front of me.

'Hi Martin,' I said blandly to the statue. 'How's life as a statue?' I continued drily, ignoring the looks people were giving.

They should have gotten use to this. While everything in my life is unpredictable and had no decent schedule, this was the only thing constant in my life. Every week, one day would be spent drinking in front of the statue. At least, talking to it… even though I'm not the type to talk much. I started this habit after… the end of Greymarch. Probably a sign of my growing insanity.

'You know Ocato looks more stress… and old,' I said and slumped myself against one of Martin's dragon leg. 'Probably with the Elder council and little upstart thinking they can take your throne,' I snickered and gulp down another mouthful of brandy.

'I had to kill three morons as an assassin. Another one in a challenge.' I rolled my eyes, remembering the time I had to equip the Emperor's armor and armor is stuffy even though I'm used to wearing for hours on end. 'You know me,' I shrugged. 'The Champion of Cyrodiil. Your unofficial right hand man.'

I raised my bottle at that. No regrets there, my friend. I smiled at the looming huge dragon stuck frozen in a triumphant roar. 'If someone is going to take the throne, it would be someone with a sense of decency for you,' I grumbled and thump my head against the hard stone surface of Martin's leg

'We could have bloody rule the whole of Tamriel,' I said quietly as I stared up at the silent roaring dragon. 'I would get the chance to laugh at your face while you fumble and stumble at ruling the Empire. And you will get responsibility,' I grinned then frowned darkly.

'But you had to die on me, didn't you,' I muttered sourly, my eyebrows crinkled. 'All the pain I went through. I bled, fought, clawed, struggled just to get your ass on the goddamn blimming throne, but you hardly get to warm it before Dagon came out the bloody Oblivion and went all out rampaging like a…' I stopped in my mid-rant.

Good gods, I'm more insane than I thought or it might be the alcohol. I stared at the brandy. It's spiked. It's spiked. It's spiked by Sanguine, I narrowed my eyes. Immediately, I threw the brandy down the hard courtyard, smashing the glass into million pieces. Pulling out Wabbajack, I gave a blast at the spilled liquid, promptly changing it into millions of ants. Well… that's new. I didn't know I could change inanimate obj—

'Stop! You CRIMINAL SCUM!' I heard the imperial guard barked.

'Oh shut up!' I yelled back and raised my staff.

I got my ass handed on a silver platter for disrupting the "peace". But not without turning a group of city guards into farm animals and unleashing a troll onto the unsuspecting citizens of Cyrodiil. I snorted as I lay at the back of my jail cell. It's been more than four hours now, and the guards about to change shift.

'Valen Dreth,' I called out to the Dunmer next door, knowing that bitter dark elf was waiting to say something spiteful when the guards finally leave. 'Say anything about this and I'll personally come out of my cell and strangle you. Got it.'

I heard the sharp intake of a response coming only to be interrupted by scuffing footsteps and loud protest.

'Your grace, this is no pl—'

'You sir, had imprisoned the Champion of Cyrodiil,' I heard Ocato's calm collected voice interrupted. 'Stand aside now.'

'But—'

'Stand back, soldier!' another voice barked. The commander no doubt.

'Yes… sir.'

Opening an eye, I ended up staring at a disapproving glare of a High Elf imperial battlemage.

'Morning,' I raised my hand in greeting and smiled at the high elf.

Ocato's stare grated through the bars of my jail cell.

'Do you want to stay in here?' he said coolly and gestured at the cold drab jail cell.

'No, but…' I let it hang.

'Quit drinking on every Fredas then,' Ocato said, his voice hard and determined on this.

Hmm… I thought about it. 'You won't let me out until I stop drinking, right?'

He nodded.

I sighed. 'Fine,' I grumbled. 'No drinking days with Martin.'

Ocato's face softened when hearing this. 'You are acting like a child. Martin wouldn't want you grieving,' he scolded gently. 'Not like this and by the Nine Divines, you are the Champion of Cyrodiil. Act like a proper citizen.'

'Martin shouldn't die then if he didn't want me to be a drunkard,' I muttered this under my breath as I got up.

Ocato gave me the hard stare. 'What would Martin say if he saw this?'

I made a stormy face. Oh yes, I can imagine what that priest would say.

'My friend, you need to stop for your own good.'

Remaining silent, I stood there, in front of my cell, under Ocato's disapproving gaze.

'What am I going to do with you?' Ocato said under his breath before gesturing the guards at his side. The door to my cell unlocked and screamed open. 'Compare to you I've got bigger problems,' he added when I marched out and brushed past the guards.

'What is it?' I asked, curious and knowing this might be a potential to get my mind off my worry… such as my sanity.

Ocato turned to stare at me. 'You weren't really drunk when you lashed out, weren't you?'

'I don't need to be drunk to go on rampage,' I replied drily. Not with the current state of my mind, I frowned at the added thought.

'Thalmors. They're riling up the High Elves. Taking the chance at the empty Imperial throne,' Ocato said, his voice curt but I'm hearing the sound of anger beneath those layers of diplomacy training.

'Thalmors?'

'High Elf supremacist. They believe that they stopped the Oblivion Crisis, and that it proves they are the superior race,' Ocato said in disgust. I raised an eyebrow when I heard this. 'It's Mer like them that destroy good diplomacy,' Ocato added this as he escort me out of the dungeon.

'Want me to go on an expedition and thump them back into place?' I suggested innocently.

The Chancellor stopped and stared at me with that gaze that clearly made High Elf famous. 'We will not intrude the trouble within Summerset Isles. These are High Elf problems, not the Imperial's. And I have faith that my race would see through this trouble with common sense.' He went back walking and I promptly followed him.

That's the thing about the Elder Council. They want to be "neutral". Complacent, I mean.

'I am the Champion. I act as the Emperor's right hand. Actually I am the Empire's right hand,' I added. 'It wouldn't be wrong for me to assist.'

Ocato sighed. 'You have... connection,' he admitted, 'to Cyrodiil's assassins, thieves, mages, and fighters. And that makes your service undeniably valuable,' he grumbled.

'You know of the illegal factions?' I said quietly and looked over my shoulder, seeing the two guards following behind. I thought he's the type of guy who's careful and too busy to notice some… dark things about me.

'They're safe,' Ocato told me as I eyed the guards. 'I'm not blind or deaf, you know. Why else would I let you accompany Martin then?' he said ruefully. 'You make an excellent Champion because you have a place in the underworld and the common world of every day citizen.'

'It does make things easier to know where dangers coming,' I said as we stepped out of the dungeon.

'That's why I made you a Champion. Martin would need someone like you until he has a secure hold on the throne,' Ocato said sadly. 'Even he's gone, the Council will need people like you for the hard time to come.'

'Ocato. I would never abandon the Empire. I bled too much for it even though I never wanted to do anything for it before.' I shrugged. 'I promise, I will never leave the Empire at its dire time,' I said and gave a reassuring squeeze on his tall shoulder.

All was not well for the citizens of Shivering Isles. The realm, the Madhouse, had changed drastically throughout the decades.

Oh it still has its charming colorful Mania side and of course the bleak dangerous Dementia, but let say the land and the normal rule of reality is now far much broken up than it usually was, literally. As in the land, the Isles have become pieces of floating islands scattered in an illogical pattern all over the void; all precariously held by some unknown force that defied the normal laws.

Beneath all the random drifting islands, was once the ground but now an abyss filled with colorful turbulent of an angry storm. A storm that changes randomly from arrays of thunder and lightning, to sandstorm, blizzards and even a hurricane. Thankfully these violent storms happen beneath the Shivering Isle, not above.

If there was a certain logic to the Isle's change, Haskill would thought it as an ironic symbol of what madness is like now that order is no longer part of it. That madness was now embodied into the body of a hero, and the hero was fighting it.

The realm was simply reflecting the losing battle. Despite the effort, the Hero was now more like the former Sheogorath than not.

Haskill snapped out of his reverie when heard the rattle of metal clinking marching up from behind him. He turned around and stared at the Golden Saint.

'Sir, our lord has disappeared again,' she said grimly.

The chamberlain sighed. The former Sheogorath wasn't this troublesome.

'Call off the search party,' Haskill ordered. 'I will find our lord,' he grimaced, feeling the magical ties to his lord tugging.

Compare to the former, the new Sheogorath is the Gray Fox, and that meant knowing the art of being unseen and sneaking off from responsibility, Haskill thought irritably as he walked out of the Palace.

Haskill stopped before the sight. The Door to Cyrodiil glowed brightly purple at the end of the platform, but it wasn't what made him stop. It was the person that was pounding against it. His lord was practically bashing the portal as if it was some solid barrier barring from entry. Slowly, Haskill stepped up the grey slab of the platform.

'My lord?' he asked carefully.

"Sheogorath" spun around and stared at him, looking frantic with golden cat eyes wide and desperate.

'Ocato's going to be assassinated! I've got to stop it from happening! Only THIS—' He punched the portal only to have the gauntlet-fist bounce off, '—is not letting ME!'

'My lord, it could be you are a Daedra now, as in your body is therefore,' Haskill said the words very carefully as his lord's breathing quickened, 'your… friend's sacrifice is finally affecting you.'

There was silence except for the sound of someone hyperventilating. 'You mean I can't… go back. I can't enter Nirn anymore?' Thunder crackled ominously. 'No. You lie.' The sound of sword unsheathing rang softly in the silent air.

Haskill knew this day was coming. He looked up to the sky that had darkened into deep angry purple. The wind was rising from the low hum in the background.

'You ALL are holding me back here!' the words spat back harshly, but Haskill remained unfazed.

'My lord, I would do no such thing and have no such power to stop you from going,' Haskill said calmly to the angry madgod who had a sword firmly in grip.

'Save your breath,' a snarl was only his reply.

Great a rampaging madgod with trust issue.

The sword swung and Haskill muttered the words, 'Forgive me, my lord,' he said and use the summoning spells.

Silver blade clashed against a golden one and Haskill quickly stepped aside at the arrival of the Golden Saints and Dark Seducers. The weather took this moment to burst into frenzy. Wind howled and hit the chamberlain at full force, sending him stumbling back at the sudden shove from the air.

'My Lord!' a Saint cried through the howling wind. 'Please! We are your loyal serv—!' A blade through the heart cut off the rest.

Lightning flashed from above, and Haskill felt the air crackled. He searched quickly for the Hero, who was surprisingly cutting through the ranks of Saints and Seducers even when overwhelmed.

The sky rumbled as if responding to the murderous presence of the madgod. With a flash, thunder struck, disintegrating numbers of Sheogorath's soldier. The rest were thrown off from the force, including the chamberlain.

The only one standing was the lord of Shivering Isle, unharmed and breathing deeply before collapsing to the ground.

Haskill sighed as he shut the curtain, darkening the bedroom. What a day and is not everyday one is thrown off by a thunder strike. He stared at the Madgod, wonderfully and peacefully sleeping in bed. That's the merit of the new Sheogorath. The guy sleeps, while the former was twenty-four hours awake and causing havoc. Except when the Hero cause a havoc, it's usually more excessive than the former's.

Haskill stared disapprovingly at the sleeping madgod before turning around.

'Haskill,' a quiet hoarse voice called from behind him.

He stopped and braced himself. 'Yes, my lord,' he said in his calm voice.

'I'm sorry.'

The chamberlain stood there in the dark. 'You don't need to apologize,' he replied neutrally.

'I'm supposed to take care of you as promise to the former Sheogorath. I just ended up trying to kill you instead,' a weak chuckle escaped from the grand bed. 'Why in the Oblivion do I feel so damn weak right now?'

Haskill frowned. Perhaps He's not there yet.

'You used your powers,' Haskill explained. 'The thunder you conjured, that's no normal thunder.'

'Oh. Well, I feel like someone had cast Exalted Pain on me.'

The chamberlain frowned deeper. 'Was it Relmyna Verenim that cast such spell on you?'

'The cuckoo lady who had a relationship with the former Sheogorath?' The Hero drawled.

Haskill rolled his eyes. Only Relmyna would assume such thing like that.

'Well… yes. But I got some kinky, dirty manacles from her in return…'

Haskill raised an eyebrow but saw the shiver from the small bump beneath the bed's duvet.

'If I'm the new Sheogorath—'

'You are, my lord,' Haskill interjected.

'Whatever. The point is would she… you know… think I'm associated with her, considering I help her make another… child. If so, I don't think I want to be.'

'No, my lord. She would not assume such thing,' Haskill sighed, because he plans to tell that small tidbit to some jealous Saint and Seducer to sort this insecurity out.

'Tell the Mazken and the Aureal I've slaughtered I'm sorry… if they have come back from the water, of course.'

'I'll be sure to tell that to them. Anything else?' The chamberlain waited.

'Pass me the scrying mirror from the dresser,' a hand slipped out from beneath the cover and pointed at the enchanted mirror.

So that's how He knew, Haskill thought privately, remembering the name mentioned. Ocato, was it? The High Chancellor of the Elder Council.

The chamberlain did as he was told, grabbing the big mirror. It was more of a silver plate that could work well as a serving tray. He passed it to the waiting hand that immediately clasped onto it tightly.

'I'm fine now. You can leave.'

Haskill bowed and silently left the bedroom, shutting the ornate door behind. He stopped when he heard the soft sound of murmur coming from his lord's room, then a moment of silent. The sudden sound of glass smashed into thousands burst. The mirror, Haskill assumed and was about to walked back in when he heard the quiet sob.

'I've failed… again,' a muffled moan, barely heard. 'Lucien, Martin, Traven… Sheogorath, and now Ocato.'

Storms howl.

Oh no, not this dream again.

Winds pound.

Wake up!

Thunder crackled. Lightning flashed.

I. Must. Wake. Up.

Sands lash. Hail beat. The mad god awaits.

I stared at the swirling purple vortex around me.

'New Arrival!' a cheerful voice rang crystal clearly even through the storm. 'How about that?' the voice turned sinister. 'To think my champion would think I'm dead.'

A firm squeeze clutched on my cheek before a sharp slap hit me across the other. Ow.

'Sheogorath?' I yelled out to the purple storm swirling around me.

'Who else would it be? Your conscience! Hah, that's a good one. Since you don't have one at all! Or maybe you did… but now you don't.'

'What!'

'Well... I knock the leftover off. It makes it nice and roomy in here,' the omnipresent said cheerfully.

Oh Divines. So that's what Jyggalag meant. That's what the dreams meant. I've not only replaced his position as madgod. I took the curse! Curse… into a body of madness—

'Now, now, I'm no curse. I've always existed even before Princes stuffed me in Jyggalag's body,' the jovial voice chided. 'I was like… Hammy!' the voice brightened up.

'Hammy?' I asked the purple storm incredulously.

'Hermaeus Mora. You know, the tentacle swirly Akaviri black noodle. Very stuffy. Likes hoarding books or any one of your dirty secrets.' Sheogorath's voice explained cryptically.

Hermaeus Mora… the Prince. The Daedric Prince of Knowledge.

'Madness never needed a body since its part of everything!' Sheogorath continued. 'I was in the back of everything's mind!'

'You mean everyone,' I corrected.

'EVERYTHING!' Sheogorath boomed and I flinched. 'Why the very idea of Order is madness also!' The purple storm laughed, strangely echoing against the howling in the background. Yet for some reason I'm hearing two: a sinister laughter and a brightly jovial one.

'Since you're here, WE,' I dreaded to think what's going to happen next, 'are going to have so much fun,' the last part was said darkly. 'In here!' Sheogorath's voice added cheerfully.

And what fun—I couldn't think the rest when I was suddenly slammed by the wind, sent flying, FLYING through the air, and pulled around like a sword swung wildly by a spastic Adoring Fan. Urgh, this is what it feels like to be in a cyclone—wait, scratch that. In a hurricane.

Need to write more of the change from a Hero into Sheogorath.