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."
"This is-" and she catches herself, shakes her head with a self deprecating look. Of course it's insanity. Look where she is. Putting her of all people on any throne was a very bad idea, but all they have is this.
"Fine. We'll recreate the staff. We don't have much time - which way to the Hollow?"
The seeming root dungeon of Knifepoint Hollow gives way to an old stone ruin, and at the end of a long hall, Fever can easily tell that she's where she needs to be when a wall of silver crystals fall away, revealing a sorry-looking man who appears to be absolutely ancient.
"Step forward, herald of madness. Speak with me if you would." He sounds vaguely irritated, crisp and pronounced, despite him being little more than a bag of skin and bones. He's like Haskill, without the sass.
He looks at her blankly with gray, mirthless eyes. Fever can feel it: beneath his immeasurable age and stark gauntness lies something unrelentingly certain.
"I have been waiting for you, Your Grace. This day, as all days before and after, is well known to me. There are no surprises to Dyus of Mytheria. Sheogorath has fallen and you seek the means to foil the machinations of the Prince of Order. You seek the Throne of Madness. However, no mortal may sit upon the throne without the staff. So here you are in my prison, seeking to supplant the one who placed me here. If you wish to take the place of Sheogorath, then ask me what you will."
"I wish to recreate the staff, and thus sit the throne, so that the Prince of Order may not find it empty. How do I do that?"
Foresight to that degree. What a terrible, terrible curse laid upon him. No happy surprises, no spontaneity, no possibility that he can hope for a better day.
"I can create the physical shell of the Staff, but the divine essence must be gathered elsewhere. Apotheosis is no simple matter and the creation of the staff is no simple task. I will require two sacred items in order to complete it."
"The Shivering Isles hold many secrets but few remain unseen by mortal eyes. The Staff is a tool of great vision and thus, requires the eye of one who has witnessed one of these unseen secrets firsthand. Ciirta resides in the Howling Halls of Mania. Find her and bring me the eye that has seen that which no other has."
"The trees and branches of this Realm feed from a deep font of madness and mystery. One of the oldest trees, named the Tree of Shades, lies in the halls of Milchar. Milchar is a place of ruin, root, and mania. Go there and bring me a branch of this tree, but be warned -- the tree will not surrender its secrets to one who has not earned them."
It's a wonder how this man can look so condescending with so little affect.
"You were expecting a book when you entered this place, an ancient tome filled with the secrets that you seek. But instead, you have found me: the last remnant. Individuality is an illusion. The details of my existence are no more important than the history of a stone. However, if you insist: I once served as the keeper of the great library of Jyggalag."
"The great library was the height of logic and deduction. Contained within its walls were the logical prediction of every action ever taken by any creature, mortal or Daedric. Every birth. Every death. The rise of Tiber Septim. The Numidium. Everything. All predicted with the formulae found within Jyggalag's library. When Sheogorath discovered the library he had it burned, insisting that it was an abomination and that personal choice defied logical prediction. I am all that remains of the knowledge contained within the great library of Jyggalag."
"Following each cycle of the Greymarch, Sheogorath has cast out or killed every aspect of Order found in the Shivering Isles. I alone have survived. Sheogorath cannot bring himself to destroy the knowledge that I possess. Instead, he has confined me to this place and forbidden me to die. I have not seen another creature until fate, predictably, sent you to me. Spare me your pity. My imprisonment is as meaningless as my immortality. Time and place are nothing. Constructs of a feeble mortal mind attempting to categorize and understand the world around it. If you were one of the fortunate few, you would one day understand and accept this. However, you are not and you will not."
"And it is fortunate nevertheless for you that I am not, for otherwise, you wouldn't have anyone to talk to today. You already know then that should I accomplish my aims, I shall do the same as my predecessor, and you shall continue to live."
There's a passing thought in her mind that she wishes she could introduce this man to several people she's known in her life, just to watch the fireworks. But Dyus's fate is not hers, and time is running shorter as the Greymarch nears.
"I'll return once I have the items in hand. Thanks for being forthcoming."
It seems a lonely, miserable existence, but it's something she can ponder and turn over in her mind while she seeks the staff pieces, while she seeks the Tree of Shades, while she ruthlessly pursues Cintra. If in all this time, he has not seen fit to escape - and surely, all his knowledge might permit him to know how to escape, if he can predict it so - then the conclusion she comes to is obvious. Dyus would be the exact same no matter where he was, so he's everywhere at once while being in one place. And thus, he is not confined.
(Distantly, part of her head boggles at the ludicrous answer she's come to, but she's too deep in the dream to question it outside of her subconscious.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"...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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
no subject
no subject
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."
no subject
"Fine. We'll recreate the staff. We don't have much time - which way to the Hollow?"
(Cutting Forward)
"Step forward, herald of madness. Speak with me if you would." He sounds vaguely irritated, crisp and pronounced, despite him being little more than a bag of skin and bones. He's like Haskill, without the sass.
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"If I intrude on your solitude, sir, it is for good reason. I seek to stop the Greymarch, and was sent to find information that will assist me."
no subject
"I have been waiting for you, Your Grace. This day, as all days before and after, is well known to me. There are no surprises to Dyus of Mytheria. Sheogorath has fallen and you seek the means to foil the machinations of the Prince of Order. You seek the Throne of Madness. However, no mortal may sit upon the throne without the staff. So here you are in my prison, seeking to supplant the one who placed me here. If you wish to take the place of Sheogorath, then ask me what you will."
no subject
Foresight to that degree. What a terrible, terrible curse laid upon him. No happy surprises, no spontaneity, no possibility that he can hope for a better day.
no subject
"The Shivering Isles hold many secrets but few remain unseen by mortal eyes. The Staff is a tool of great vision and thus, requires the eye of one who has witnessed one of these unseen secrets firsthand. Ciirta resides in the Howling Halls of Mania. Find her and bring me the eye that has seen that which no other has."
"The trees and branches of this Realm feed from a deep font of madness and mystery. One of the oldest trees, named the Tree of Shades, lies in the halls of Milchar. Milchar is a place of ruin, root, and mania. Go there and bring me a branch of this tree, but be warned -- the tree will not surrender its secrets to one who has not earned them."
no subject
"Who are you, Dyus? Why are you imprisoned here? And if you know all these things, why have you not broken your own confinement?"
no subject
"You were expecting a book when you entered this place, an ancient tome filled with the secrets that you seek. But instead, you have found me: the last remnant. Individuality is an illusion. The details of my existence are no more important than the history of a stone. However, if you insist: I once served as the keeper of the great library of Jyggalag."
"The great library was the height of logic and deduction. Contained within its walls were the logical prediction of every action ever taken by any creature, mortal or Daedric. Every birth. Every death. The rise of Tiber Septim. The Numidium. Everything. All predicted with the formulae found within Jyggalag's library. When Sheogorath discovered the library he had it burned, insisting that it was an abomination and that personal choice defied logical prediction. I am all that remains of the knowledge contained within the great library of Jyggalag."
"Following each cycle of the Greymarch, Sheogorath has cast out or killed every aspect of Order found in the Shivering Isles. I alone have survived. Sheogorath cannot bring himself to destroy the knowledge that I possess. Instead, he has confined me to this place and forbidden me to die. I have not seen another creature until fate, predictably, sent you to me. Spare me your pity. My imprisonment is as meaningless as my immortality. Time and place are nothing. Constructs of a feeble mortal mind attempting to categorize and understand the world around it. If you were one of the fortunate few, you would one day understand and accept this. However, you are not and you will not."
no subject
There's a passing thought in her mind that she wishes she could introduce this man to several people she's known in her life, just to watch the fireworks. But Dyus's fate is not hers, and time is running shorter as the Greymarch nears.
"I'll return once I have the items in hand. Thanks for being forthcoming."
It seems a lonely, miserable existence, but it's something she can ponder and turn over in her mind while she seeks the staff pieces, while she seeks the Tree of Shades, while she ruthlessly pursues Cintra. If in all this time, he has not seen fit to escape - and surely, all his knowledge might permit him to know how to escape, if he can predict it so - then the conclusion she comes to is obvious. Dyus would be the exact same no matter where he was, so he's everywhere at once while being in one place. And thus, he is not confined.
(Distantly, part of her head boggles at the ludicrous answer she's come to, but she's too deep in the dream to question it outside of her subconscious.)