I don't own Skyrim, nor do I have a poisoned dagger strapped to my thigh, etc. etc. I DO own a fairly nice set of rain boots, but no one ever cares about that.

This is a random tale that is dedicated to anyone else who loves Sheogorath, and thought that Fjotra's dialogue was completely out of character for a traumatized little girl. Drop a line if you like, even if it just to say 'Hail Sheogorath!'.

Let me tell you a story.

What I remember most that night are the sounds and smells. I think it's because I couldn't bear to see, after the Forsworn took me.

I was terrified. Beyond terrified. Huge, savage men smashed through our cottage door and took me. My Da tried to stop them, and one of them stuck him to the ground with one contemptuous swing of his club. He lay there, bleeding, still. And they took me.

The Forsworn smelled of sweat, blood, and strange herbs that tickled my nose. I knew I was being carried away, securely wrapped in powerful arms, as I heard the shouting from the villagers grow quieter in the distance. I could not imagine what they wanted with me. I was just a little girl, nothing special, except to my Ma and Da.

I thought of all the terrible things I heard about the Forsworn. Bretons, like us, but driven mad with hate and worship of evil things. The elders would always hush their words on it when us little ones were about. The only thing my Ma had ever told me about them was that they would come get me if I didn't eat my vegetables.

I tried to remember if I'd done that this supper.

Perore, the boy who lived in the cottage next to us, was always telling me the Forsworn ate people. They chopped them up and boiled them in a pot for the Matriarchs, the Hagravens.

I think I was crying, but I was so scared I never made a sound. The tears ran down my face and I could smell the salt, taste it on my lips. The night air was cold.

At long last the movement stopped. New hands took me, rough and cruel. I held very still. A hoarse voice congratulated my captors, told them their actions had struck a mighty blow for the Free Reach. I was dropped onto hard flagstones, the smell of filth and musty straw filling my nose.

Then the new voice began to talk to Dibella, the Goddess of Beauty. He wasn't praying, but talking to her like a person, a person he hated.

"Dibella, Whore Queen of the invader!" he sneered. "Do you think we would not know! Our power grows ever stronger! You could not protect you last Sybil, and you cannot protect she who would be Sybil. Your flock, leaderless, will fall to the wolves of the Reach! This little one will die in pain and terror on your desecrated altar, Dibella, and her soul will go screaming to the Old Ones!"

He said more like this, sometimes growing quieter, sometimes louder. Finally he changed to chanting in some strange language I did not know. I lay and tried to breathe quietly, afraid that if I made some noise, the Forsworn's anger would come down on me.

Time passed, I do not remember how much. I do not know if I slept, trapped as I was in a waking nightmare. Was it true? Had Dibella marked me for service? Or had some terrible mistake been made, and it was another little girl who should be there, lying in the dark waiting to die?

Then, suddenly, I heard a scrape at the door. A surprised noise from the rough-voiced Forsworn; he had not been expecting anyone.

"For the Free Reach!" he bellowed, and the crackle and snap of lightning filled the air. The was a scream, the dull clash of blades. The heavy, wet sound of a body falling to the floor. Then, a minute later, the sound of metal scraping on metal close in front of me.

I could not help making some sound, a whimper of fear, I think, as I pressed myself harder into the ground, as if by trying I could make it reach up and enfold me.

"Fjotra?"

A new voice. A man's, smooth and husky, with a strange cultured accent.

"Fjotra, your father sent me to find you."

I couldn't move. I felt paralyzed. Was this some dream? Had I fallen asleep and dreamed someone would come rescue me? If it was a dream, they would vanish as soon as I opened my eyes. He smelled of old books, incense, and ash. Clean and comforting. I didn't want him to disappear.

"We need to go. The hornet's nest is stirring, my thane." A woman's voice, coming closer. She sounded a little angry and afraid, but kind. I smelled steel and flowers.

"Fjotra, we must go. Open your eyes, little one."

He sounded so sure, that I did open my eyes, just a little, and peeked over. By the blessing of all the Divines, he was real, a tall, crouched figure in dark robes. His face was sharp and angular, and his slanted eyes watched me intently. One of the High Elves, an Altmer. A little ways behind him, a powerfully built Nord woman with long, dark hair stood dressed in steel armor, sword and shield in hand.

He smiled at me, a strange, almost shy quirk of the lips that seemed wholly unpracticed. "I am Laschio. May we go home now?"

I hurled myself at him, and hung on for dear life. He rocked back a little with the force of my movement, then held me in one arm as he got to his feet.

"Let's go!" the woman urged again.

"A moment, Lydia," he answered quietly. "We must pay our respects, first."

He took me away from the cage I'd been in, and to an altar. Lady Dibella's statue looked down on me with serene compassion. The Forsworn had done their best to destroy and dishonor her; her eyes were gouged out, hands smashed, filth smeared on her robes; but her lips still curved in a small smile, like she knew a secret they did not.

Laschio knelt before her. "Hail, beautiful one, and well met from the Champion of Sheogorath. Though these fools desecrate your fane, they can never touch your light. Your Chosen is safe. On my life, I will see her safely home."

He saw me watching him, and looked at me. "Do you want to say anything?"

I gulped. Talking to a Goddess seemed very overwhelming, but my Ma always told me to mind my manners. I looked up at the statue again. "Thank you, Lady, for helping rescue me." Then I buried my face back into his chest.

Laschio rose. "Don't be afraid," he murmured to me. "Some of my friends here are frightening, but they serve at my will, and they will not harm you."

I saw what he meant a moment later. Hanging back in the shadows of the round, stone room were several skeletons gripping strange, black weapons, and a living flame in the shape of a woman which danced from place to place joyfully.

The Nordic woman, Lydia, returned from where she'd been looking out the door and shook her head, face grim. "We cannot escape that way, my thane. They have gathered their forces, and are massing for an assault. We must prepare to sell our lives as dearly as we can."

My rescuer glanced around the room. There was no other exit besides the door. "When the way seems impassable, ask a friend for help," he told Lydia calmly.

She pulled a face. "Really, Las? Must we? I am sworn to carry your burdens, but He… He is… well, he's Him!"

"Desperate times call for maddening measures," Laschio replied solemnly. Then he addressed the empty space to the left of her "My Lord Sheogorath, I could use your aid!"

I started violently as a man's voice replied from nothingness. "Reaaalllly? What would you use it for? WAIT! Don't tell me. A hat! No no. A testimonial! Er… a perambulator to roll little Tim to the Sundas Fair, haha!" There was a short silence. "Wrong on all accounts, aren't I?" the voice remarked sadly.

The Altmer shrugged. "I prefer to think of it as 'less right'," he said diplomatically. "I seem to be in a bit of a jam, Sheo, and I'm practically positive it isn't strawberry."

A very strange man winked into existence. He was white-haired and bearded, but did not seem old. His clothing was mottled purple and red in a random pattern that made me dizzy to look at. In one hand he carried a short stick with a silver head, and a top hat rested on his head. He smelled like lightning and jam.

His eyes gleamed with power.

"What is this then, eh!" he cackled, looking around. "Oh, Dibella!" he cut a very low bow. "My Lady, though surrounded in filth, thou are the diamond in the rough," he intoned dramatically. Then he scratched his head. "Or was that, the roughest part of a diamond? I never could get that straight."

"Anyhow!" he cried, turning around. "Lydia! How positively smashing to see you again, my dear big crumpet! You may be looking a little worn at the edges, but at least you are still smiling!"

"I'm over here," Lydia said drily. "That is a skeleton."

I couldn't help but giggle. Sheogorath took off his top hat, looking mildly flustered. "Well, you can see the confusion! All you mortal 'have' skeletons, after all. You all look alike to me!"

"Sheo, may I introduce you to Fjotra?" Laschio said gravely. "She is the future Sybil of Dibella."

The Mad God practically vibrated with excitement. "Ohohohohoh! A Sybil! I've always wanted one of those. Wait, or was that a goldfish? You'll have to forgive me, I always confuse the two. Both tend to live in bowls, you see. Regardless, my lady, I am honored to the depths of my boots to make your acquaintance!" He swept into another low bow, and then cursed and rubbed his nose where he had smacked it into the floor.

I giggled again.

"So, what seems to be the issue, my dear little mortal?" Sheogorath continued after collecting himself somewhat. "Is Molag being a grouch again? Perhaps you've lost your way and are late for afternoon tea?"

"A horde of bloodthirsty savages waits without," Laschio explained calmly. "They seem most insistent on slaughtering us all. I did inform them that I had an appointment with you for entrails skipping in New Sheo a week from Loredas, but they do not seem to respect the sanctity of the weekly planner. An issue of poor moral character, in my estimation. That being the case, I thought I would inform you that if I do not make our rendezvous, it will be because I have died. Many regrets, etc. etc."

The Mad God hopped from foot to foot. "No! This will not do! Entrails skipping is useless without a partner! We were all set to win the annual Shivering Isles Skip-A-Thon! And I've already bet all my good quill pens on a favorable outcome!" He scratched his chin.

"Aha! I have it!" he exclaimed. "I will go and reason with them."

Lydia held up a hand as if to stop him as he strode to the door, but then thought better of it.

Sheogorath opened the door and stepped out, shutting it behind him. "Greetings noble savages!" He boomed, his voice muffled through the door. "I come in peace…"

Many clattering and thudding noises sounded. The door opened and the Mad God re-entered, shutting it quickly behind him. Several arrows were standing out of his chest. I gasped in terror, but he just yanked them out and tossed them aside.

"How rude!" he exclaimed. "I have definitely established that they are not reasonable. While I usually admire that as a character trait, in this context it is abominably boring!"

He clapped his hands together and grinned. "Ah, well, on to Plan B! WAIT! That requires a sausage, a soul gem, a sload, and something else that starts with 's' that I can't remember. Never mind. Plan C! The Wabbajack! Huh? Huh? It is or is not a marvelous thing?"

"It both is and is not," Laschio replied promptly, unfastening a long, slender staff capped with a carving of a screaming face from his pack.

"Aha! I love it when mortals know enough of the right answers to make themselves dangerous. Or is that to make it dangerous for them? No matter! The Wabbajack will see you on your way! As I once observed in the Folium Discognitum, if lateral thinking does not work, it is time to think horizontally!"

Laschio inclined his head respectfully. "As always, my friend, it has been a mitigated pleasure. I look forward to sharing a strawberry torte a week from Loredas."

"Of course! And you, little one, I'll be watching you! Don't get stuck in a bowl now, you hear? And if you are ever at your wits end, or the end of your wits, remember to call for old Uncle Sheo!"

"Thanks Uncle Sheo," I mumbled. I felt terribly tired all of a sudden.

The Wabbajack opened a swirling hole in the wall, and we all stepped through to my cottage, where my Ma and Da were waiting for me with open arms.

You know the rest. My family moved to Markarth so I could train at the Temple, since we were no longer safe in Karthwasten. In time I assumed leadership as Our Lady Dibella's Sybil.

And so, young acolyte, the answer to your question of why I will not lend support or credence to the attempts to stamp out the worship of the Daedra lies in the reason I am standing before you today. Uncle Sheo has always looked after me, and I am always proud to call him friend. When I was a little girl lost in the dark, his champion saved me. Laschio still stops by from time to time to check up on me.

If you are lucky, perhaps you can meet him the next time the Dragonborn stops by.