She feels like she does. Or she might. Or something between the two of them that is not yet settled. Untethered - and for a moment, she turns away back to the water, checking to see whose face she is wearing. It should be her own, but something squirms up and fills her with doubt.
"You've known a surprising amount so far, mortal! Perhaps you should be the one telling me what it is I'm going to have you do."
As far as she can tell, it's her own face, though perhaps there is the shadow of someone else behind it. It's hard to tell in the ripples, whose perception of the world may be distorted and mad.
"I know some things, and I also know that I don't know a great many others. I know that I do not know what you will ask of me, and I also know that it takes quite the fool indeed to tell the Madgod what to do in the first place."
It's unclear, and somehow this soothes her. A definite answer wouldn't have felt right at all, not in this place. Not where things may and may not be what they seem to be.
"Well, then, let's get you knowing a few more things. Daedra are the embodiment of change. Change and permanency. I'm no different, except in the ways that I am. Now, one of those changes is nearly upon us. The Greymarch is coming. And you're going to stop it."
This is not her story. This is the ripple across someone else's reflection. This is the story she put in her mouth and swallowed and said be part of me. Worm to caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly.
"The details aren't important. At least not right now. Eternity is on a rather tight deadline. We'll get back to that later. For now? You run an errand for me. An important one. Of course, anything I tell you to do is important. My Realm, my rules. You're going to Xedilian, one of my favorite spots in the Isles. It's a little place I use to take care of unwanted visitors. And some are more unwanted than others. The Gatekeeper takes care of most of the unwanted, but he's dead. We'll have to remedy that soon, as well.... Anyway... there are those that have other ways into my Realm, and they're on the move. We don't want them here. Trust me. So, you're going to get Xedilian up and running."
He scowls, then beams. There's a book in his hands where there wasn't one a moment ago.
"Here's a little book to walk you through it. And the Attenuator of Judgement. You'll need that, too. Of course, if you need it said in someone else's words, you can always get more details from Haskill. He's a detail-oriented type of person. A big help. And a snappy dresser. Now, get going. Before I change my mind. Or my mind changes me." And he gives her a gesture to run along, thoughts seemingly already elsewhere.
She steps back from the throne, cracking open the book as she does. Scanning the pages is a little more illuminating, but not enough to make her think she won't have to simply learn by doing instead, and instead she looks to Haskill.
"Which way is Xedillian, when I depart?"
Summarizing a lot because at this point you've watched a let's play
And, with only some level of dry snark, he directs her to Xedilian.
From there, Fever is led from task to task on the Madgod's behalf. She slays and/or drives intruders to the realm mad through Xedilian's mechanisms. She encounters the first stirring of Jyggalag's Knights of Order. She experiences the crippling experience of Felldew addiction. She foils a plot against Duchess Syl's life. She carries a sacred, heatless flame inside her own body, to light the beacon in New Sheoth. She takes Syl's life herself and assumes her station. She battles back an incursion of Knights in the Fringe of Madness. She meets with Relmyna once again, and helps her construct a new Gatekeeper.
It's when she returns from liberating the Wellspring of the Aureal from Order's clutches that she's met with the sight of Sheogorath sitting in the middle of the throne room floor, looking exhausted and despondent.
Things pass as if in a long dream, and perhaps she dreams off and on, her mind and her soul at odds with themselves. So much passes, so much happens, and she allows it, feeling as though she's wearing someone else's skin the entire time. But it does happen, and the Isles in all their maddening, beautiful glory must endure, she knows. Even this short time spent with them is enough for her to love them. They cannot be overcome and destroyed again.
To see him in such a state raises alarm.
"My lord?"
After all of this, she has no fear in approaching, in crouching down to be more on his level instead of hovering above.
"Time,” he mutters, voice hoarse, “Time is an artificial construct. An arbitrary system based on the idea that events occur in a linear direction at all times. Always forward, never back. Is the concept of time correct? Is time relevant? It matters not. One way or another, I fear that our time has run out. As I feared it would, My plan has failed. The Greymarch is upon us, and I must go. I thought we had more time. I thought we had a chance. My plan has failed. And we were so close...."
"How can you say that, my lord? We still are here - we have not failed yet. Not as long as we still live and breathe. There is still time, regardless of how the Greymarch advances."
She speaks the words with such conviction that it sparks in her, sets something to burning. Respect she has, but her passion outstrips it, to speak so plainly.
"I had intended to give you My staff, the symbol of My office. But life has gone from it, as it goes from Me. It is now dead wood. A useless twig. With the staff, there was hope. But now, hope is dead. I am dead."
There's none of the usual growl or jauntiness in his voice. He sounds hollow.
"What happens now is what always has happened -- what always will happen. I crumble, I fade, the Realm dies. And you with it. Flee while you can, mortal. When we next meet I will not know you, and I will slay you like the others."
"There's a flaw in your planning, my lord. You cannot kill me. And you will not. Hope lives while I live, and since I will not die, it cannot die either."
He sounds hollow, and she sounds ever more certain.
"I will bring you back. I will pull you back from the oblivion you fade into, and restore you upon the throne of the Isles. That is not a promise, it is my oath. The Greymarch will not win again."
How she's supposed to do this, she has no idea. Honestly, she's terrified, but showcasing that when he's in such despair isn't the right call. So she'll have to improvise, and pray a path opens up.
Soon means there's still time. There has to be. The dream doesn't end here. The dream burrows deeper and deeper, into roots and amber and the heartbeat of the star.
"I had intended to give you My staff, the symbol of My office," he admits.
"But life has gone from it, as it goes from Me. It is now dead wood. A useless twig. With the staff, there was hope. But now, hope is dead. I am dead. The Realm...."
He shudders, head snapped back, and for a moment Fever sees unfamiliar eyes, grey irises with oddly bright yellow irises. He screams as jagged metal edges tear through his skin, a form almost twice his height forcing its way out from inside of him.
For a moment, it's like a frozen storm has taken form in the Throne Room.
"The realm is dead! Sheogorath is dead!! All shall crumble before Jyggalag!"
The figure of the Prince of Perfect Order towers over her, resplendent and flawless. Then, the world turns in on itself, and Jyggalag vanishes, leaving the room as it was.
She's arrested in place by the sight, horror flooding her veins, almost unaware that she took a step back. Jyggalag has risen again. Slowly, petrified with fear, her head turns, seeking out someone, anyone-
"...Haskill, I'm so sorry."
She failed. She failed this task. And the weight of that is a crushing vise that squeezes all the air out of her lungs to have failed like this, she can practically feel her heart being gripped and frozen in place, forced to stop beating as her body screams.
Despite the horror of the whole situation, Haskill’s expression remains neutral.
"He is gone, but hope is not lost. We have a rare opportunity here, but I hesitate to do what must be done. If the Throne of Madness remains empty when Jyggalag storms the palace, he will prevail. But there is a chance that the throne may not be empty. My duty now is to the Realm. By serving you, I serve Lord Sheogorath. The only way to protect the Realm from the Greymarch is to place you in the Throne of Madness."
"Unfortunately, when Sheogorath faded, the power of the Staff faded with him. It must now be remade. The Staff is the symbol of power in this Realm; He who rightfully holds the Staff may hold the throne of the Shivering Isles. However, the secrets of its construction are lost. But there may be a place where those secrets may be found."
He pauses.
"Lord Sheogorath suspected that the knowledge of the Staff's creation may be needed someday, so he sealed the instructions for it away, in a place called Knifepoint Hollow. Seek the hidden chamber in that place, and we might yet have a chance."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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She feels like she does. Or she might. Or something between the two of them that is not yet settled. Untethered - and for a moment, she turns away back to the water, checking to see whose face she is wearing. It should be her own, but something squirms up and fills her with doubt.
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As far as she can tell, it's her own face, though perhaps there is the shadow of someone else behind it. It's hard to tell in the ripples, whose perception of the world may be distorted and mad.
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It's unclear, and somehow this soothes her. A definite answer wouldn't have felt right at all, not in this place. Not where things may and may not be what they seem to be.
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This is not her story. This is the ripple across someone else's reflection. This is the story she put in her mouth and swallowed and said be part of me. Worm to caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly.
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Fine. She'll go through it all. Somehow, there has to be time. Or she'll be thrown out in the middle of the process.
"Will it be apparent when I get there what the problem is?"
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"Here's a little book to walk you through it. And the Attenuator of Judgement. You'll need that, too. Of course, if you need it said in someone else's words, you can always get more details from Haskill. He's a detail-oriented type of person. A big help. And a snappy dresser. Now, get going. Before I change my mind. Or my mind changes me." And he gives her a gesture to run along, thoughts seemingly already elsewhere.
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"Which way is Xedillian, when I depart?"
Summarizing a lot because at this point you've watched a let's play
From there, Fever is led from task to task on the Madgod's behalf. She slays and/or drives intruders to the realm mad through Xedilian's mechanisms. She encounters the first stirring of Jyggalag's Knights of Order. She experiences the crippling experience of Felldew addiction. She foils a plot against Duchess Syl's life. She carries a sacred, heatless flame inside her own body, to light the beacon in New Sheoth. She takes Syl's life herself and assumes her station. She battles back an incursion of Knights in the Fringe of Madness. She meets with Relmyna once again, and helps her construct a new Gatekeeper.
It's when she returns from liberating the Wellspring of the Aureal from Order's clutches that she's met with the sight of Sheogorath sitting in the middle of the throne room floor, looking exhausted and despondent.
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To see him in such a state raises alarm.
"My lord?"
After all of this, she has no fear in approaching, in crouching down to be more on his level instead of hovering above.
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She speaks the words with such conviction that it sparks in her, sets something to burning. Respect she has, but her passion outstrips it, to speak so plainly.
"This is your realm. You need not leave it."
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"I had intended to give you My staff, the symbol of My office. But life has gone from it, as it goes from Me. It is now dead wood. A useless twig. With the staff, there was hope. But now, hope is dead. I am dead."
There's none of the usual growl or jauntiness in his voice. He sounds hollow.
"What happens now is what always has happened -- what always will happen. I crumble, I fade, the Realm dies. And you with it. Flee while you can, mortal. When we next meet I will not know you, and I will slay you like the others."
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He sounds hollow, and she sounds ever more certain.
"I will bring you back. I will pull you back from the oblivion you fade into, and restore you upon the throne of the Isles. That is not a promise, it is my oath. The Greymarch will not win again."
How she's supposed to do this, she has no idea. Honestly, she's terrified, but showcasing that when he's in such despair isn't the right call. So she'll have to improvise, and pray a path opens up.
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Beat.
"I'm lying. That wasn't funny at all."
Another beat, and then he continues, even more subdued.
"Soon you and everyone else will be dead, and I will be left a mad god, ruler of a dead realm. Again."
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Soon means there's still time. There has to be. The dream doesn't end here. The dream burrows deeper and deeper, into roots and amber and the heartbeat of the star.
cw: body horror (1/2)
"But life has gone from it, as it goes from Me. It is now dead wood. A useless twig. With the staff, there was hope. But now, hope is dead. I am dead. The Realm...."
He shudders, head snapped back, and for a moment Fever sees unfamiliar eyes, grey irises with oddly bright yellow irises. He screams as jagged metal edges tear through his skin, a form almost twice his height forcing its way out from inside of him.
(2/2)
"The realm is dead! Sheogorath is dead!! All shall crumble before Jyggalag!"
The figure of the Prince of Perfect Order towers over her, resplendent and flawless. Then, the world turns in on itself, and Jyggalag vanishes, leaving the room as it was.
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"...Haskill, I'm so sorry."
She failed. She failed this task. And the weight of that is a crushing vise that squeezes all the air out of her lungs to have failed like this, she can practically feel her heart being gripped and frozen in place, forced to stop beating as her body screams.
It's only a dream. But it isn't.
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"He is gone, but hope is not lost. We have a rare opportunity here, but I hesitate to do what must be done. If the Throne of Madness remains empty when Jyggalag storms the palace, he will prevail. But there is a chance that the throne may not be empty. My duty now is to the Realm. By serving you, I serve Lord Sheogorath. The only way to protect the Realm from the Greymarch is to place you in the Throne of Madness."
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"Me? I'm not - I can't. I'm certainly not qualified for it."
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He pauses.
"Lord Sheogorath suspected that the knowledge of the Staff's creation may be needed someday, so he sealed the instructions for it away, in a place called Knifepoint Hollow. Seek the hidden chamber in that place, and we might yet have a chance."
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(Cutting Forward)
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