It came to pass that the king of merry madness, Lord Sheogorath of the Shivering Isles, grew tired of seeing his beloved realm destroyed era upon era, and he, though he was very clever and thought of more schemes to stop the terrific and terrible Order that descended upon his Isles than there were men and mer in the world, could find no other solution than to sow the seeds of Himself in the fertile grounds of mortal minds and hope they sprouted. He beckoned many from the mortal realms into his land of a thousand horrible delights, welcoming both brave champions of justice and depraved fiends, for he loved all alike. Alas, though he invited many into the Shivering Isles, his mortal minions failed one by one, and Lord Sheogorath despaired, for the Greymarch quickened and he could feel the Him that was Not Him rising day by day and note by note.

Yet he never lost faith (except when he did) that his champion would arise, and when all seemed angular and all in a row, he found Himself and was most pleased, for he was still sore from losing a wager with Azura and knew the He Who Would Become Himself would be most displeasing to her. At realizing this, Lord Sheogorath rejoiced and his laughter broke apart to become a thousand glittering butterflies. Or maybe that came before. He knew not. Memory was mere suggestion in the Isles.

Those of marvelous Mania say that the Champion Triumphant could flit from roof to roof and tree to tree as quick and happily as any bird, though singing much worse on the rare occasion he was coerced to do so. Dunmer then and now tend towards gloom, but he was of a sanguine disposition and could oft be found talking to all people, great and small and at all hours of the day and night, particularly those of fine features. They say that his soul danced with happiness, because he had seen what no other mortal alive had seen and he had done what no other mortal alive had done.

Those of dreadful Dementia say that the Champion Triumphant descended into great rages not seen since Pelinal Whitestrake himself and would slaughter all manner of foul beasts that crossed his path. Dunmer then and now tend towards pride, but he was of a melancholic disposition and could oft be found trying to hide his face from the world in shame of what those mortals of the Isles knew not. They say that his soul froze over in his despair and burned in his wrath, because he had seen what no other mortal alive had seen and he had done what no other mortal alive had done.

Those of disoriented Delirium, which came later and is bordered by Perplexity and Pareidolia, by and large never met the Champion Triumphant when he had not yet become what he had always maybe been. Others say that he was born a Dunmer, but they say that he was everything and nothing in form and function, holy crusader and unholy assassin, and that is why they welcome all into their tribe. They do not speak of souls often, but they say that his shivers in anticipation of things yet to come.

None are correct. All are correct. Sheogorath is as Sheogorath is.

Lord Sheogorath's champion proved true, and when all was said and done, he was Him and He Who Was Not Him left to roam Oblivion and the Isles shivered and quivered in joy most great. But Lord Sheogorath, who was as he was before and yet something new entirely, was not yet ready to greet the other great lords, because he was as a butterfly newly emerged from the chrysalis and needed time to grow into Himself. He knew this because though he was Madgod, he could not yet balance the sacred staff of his office upon his palm like his predecessor, and in his infinite wisdom, he knew he would not truly be Daedric Prince of Madness until such acts were as natural to him as bees to a Spriggan.

So Lord Sheogorath put his affairs of court in disorder, and, putting his chamberlain in charge of watering the houseplants, set out to survey his realm in the wake of the terrible Order. He walked the entire length and breadth of the Isles, and though he saw that it was good, he felt it much too small and simple, for He and his Isles could be as vast and deep as the mind, and Sheogorath was infinite. He gazed out into the abyss, contemplating that which had transpired and how it fit into his realm of the mind. From his thoughts, he formed many lands; the jungle Obsession, which promises riches untold for those who would cross into its depths but which is full of terrible pitfalls; Delirium, which is sometimes an island and sometimes a castle and sometimes a bright blue bird that flits around and sings songs in praise of all it sees; Psychalgia, which resides under the ocean and those on the shore can only see the needle-sharp spires of its castle; Compulsion, which is a series of caves that many run through but few escape; Despair, a flat desert without end; and a thousand other places.

When Lord Sheogorath was pleased with his handiwork, he set out to enjoy the terrors and delights of his Shivering Isles, of which there are too many to list. There are not enough words in any language to describe the delicacies that the Madgod experienced in his sojourn, not enough words to describe the whispers of thought against his skin as he dove in and out of psyches, or the way so many minds outside in the mortal world beckoned for him like an old friend. For a thousand years he ventured thus, and for a thousand more, and then a thousand-thousand more, but when he grew weary of his journey, only a day had passed.

And when that was done and he found the balance that he had been lacking, Lord Sheogorath had fully grown into Himself, and would reign over his Sphere forevermore as the Prince of Madness.