Author's Note: Eh. I was kind of bored and decided to write this. I plan to continue it -- it was fun. Review/criticize if you want. :x
And, no, there is no OCxSheogorath pairing. She just has an unnatural obsession with the Mad-God.

I originally considered making it a oneshot, but I don't know what to do with it. So I'm just going to mess with the story a bit for now. kthx. :D

There was this door. This giant fucking door, in the middle of the fucking Niben, except it probably couldn't even be considered a door. It was really just a huge cerulean portal, or, if you prefer, the road to hell, paved with insane ramblings and apathetic chamberlains and tri-faced statues of Mad-Gods.

From inside this door, the Mad-God spoke. Oh, He kept taunting me, He did. "Do you think yourself worthy to be Sheogorath's champion?" he would roar. Even after that Dunmer came out of the portal mad, and then was struck down by the filthy Bravil guard, I knew that I would gladly go to His realm and become His esteemed 'Champion' if He wanted me to. The Khajiit that wandered the area of the portal cringed when he spoke, fearful of her Lord's voice, but I stood there and listened, blade still unsheathed as a method of protection. A useless method of protection, of course. No one can be spared from His mighty rule, as it twists and shape-shifts the truth so much that it's not even recognizable – but it's still the truth and you still obey it like a pup obeys its master.

It was in this way that the Shivering Isles was false but real to the point where it was painful, and that pain seared the skin, distorted the mind, and frayed the nerves, because this was, after all, one of the extents of His rule.

A ghost of me entered the portal, unhesitant and chivalrous. The first room was so very black, and there was this quaint little desk. A metronome and a book adorned it as children adorn their mothers, and there was a chair for me and a chair for him. Not Him, but that damned chamberlain.

I adore Haskill, for Haskill can do no wrong. He is the tool of the Mad-God, and anything by the Mad-God – be it miserable or joyous – is good like Him. But sitting across from him in that black room – oh, how very black it was – I disliked him like the Nines disliked me, although perhaps to a lesser extent because the Nines did particularly scorn me.

Haskill – how it does roll off the tongue – hardly explained what I was doing here. What this fucking door was doing here. He said that it was Sheogorath's right to have it here, as they haven't harmed anyone. The Khajiit and the Dunmer weren't prepared for the Isles, and their minds were now the property of Him. I asked him if they could be cured, and he looked at me with the same fucking blank face, replying only with, "You speak as though they were diseased." This was my first revelation, the one that would lead me to those gates. I should've left the minute I heard that sentence, but it did claw at my mentality with the conviction of an angered Timber Wolf. So small, yet such a nuisance.

Instead, I asked him how I could get into the Isles. I told him that I wanted to be Sheogorath's Champion.

The black dissolved into butterflies; thousands of butterflies, painted in colors of midnight and blood and Nightshade. I stood alone in the Fringe of Madness, with the giant portal back to Cyrodiil receiving attention only from my back. Sanity screamed to me, "Leave! Go back! Please, please, please…" She pleaded for so long, just kept saying it over and over again.

Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.


But Insanity bribed my mind to let me off just this once like a thief bribes a guard to turn a blind eye to their crimes, and I craved the Mad-God's blessing, His gratification. I traveled to Passwall, taking in all the lovely sights of this new, strange world. The Fringe frightened me, but I didn't turn around. I never even considered. I just wanted to make Him happy. I just wanted to make sure He had an esteemed Champion. I waltzed around in a reverie, willing to do anything for the Mad-God. Such was the extent of His rule.

I stumbled upon Passwall only to hear of that wretched creature. The Gatekeeper. It was a brute, tearing flesh from bone as it desiccated the foolhardy adventurers. I was smarter than that, though. I asked the man with veins of ice to fashion me arrows made of past Gatekeepers' bones in exchange for his freedom. A sleazy, exhausted woman told me how the Gatekeeper did feel such pain to his creator's tears, and so I stole her wet handkerchief and used it as a poison.

The Gatekeeper fell by my hand. The Lands of Dementia called me to its doors, and I ripped the keys from the monster's body, leaving that wench's handkerchief for her.