There was no noise as Haskill appeared, impeccable, dignified, and always slightly bored, in the palace of New Sheoth. Sheogorath tapped impatiently on his throne for about four seconds, then poked his chamberlain in the shoulder.
"Well?"
He shrugged. "It appears, my lord, that you have a champion."
"Excellent! Wonderful! Frabjous delight of the Aeons!" The madgod threw back his head and laughed, that deep-throated maniacal note that still made Haskill's hair stand on end. He went on for a moment, then slammed his staff down, drew breath, and narrowed his eyes down at the chamberlain. "You are engaged in neither frabjous delight nor merriment, my dear Haskill."
Haskill turned from the empty palace hall and looked back up at his prince. "I suppose not, my lord," he said- must it be spelled?- dryly.
Sheogorath studied him for a moment with those burning eyes. "You disapprove," he said, finally. "Of the plan, the moment, or the man?"
He couldn't help but smile- though it didn't show, save in his eyes, turned away from the outer walls. "The latter," he replied with a slight shrug. "The mortal is so... normal. Makes me look interesting, by comparison."
The Madgod grinned at him, briefly. "Ah, faithful Haskill," he intoned grandly, "Surely you have not forgot!"
"I know, I know. It is quite obvious, even if I had, my lord. The first three to come through the Door snapped neatly- if that is the word for it- enough. Omnicidal, paralyzed with paranoia, and one was... a mage. I cleaned the bits off the room and the Fringe, after. To step into the Shivering Isles, mortals must have one foot firmly either in Your domain or..." he trailed off.
"Yes, yes, yes!" Jovial again, Sheogorath sparked from the eyes and the staff in excitement, gesturing at the windows. "It's the only way we can pull this off!" He laughed silently for a moment, shaking a bit, then calmed enough to look back at Haskill, frowning. "So why are you upset, dear Haskill? We have plotted for this for a long time, and you have been most helpful."
Haskill sighed, and looked away for a moment. "Yes; I am your servant in this, as in all, my lord. This mortal, though- I wish dearly that it had been another." Sheogorath found himself, oddly enough, surprised at the uncharacteristic show of reluctance from Haskill; he was normally quite blunt. But he knew his chamberlain about as well as the few milennia their history shared would allow, and he merely leaned back and raised an eyebrow, waiting for his chamberlain to continue.
"The first words out of their mouth, my lord, or near it- 'But how can they be cured?' Cured!" He nearly spat the last word, again quite unlike himself in vehemence. "Cured, as if- as if they were lepers, as if you were, were Namira, or..." he trailed off again, shaking his head in wrath.
Sheogorath only looked at him, a smile playing gently over his eyes. "Haskill," he said quietly, drawing the chamberlain's gaze to his. "This is perfect; it fits every detail of the plan, you know it." Haskill nodded silently; that was not the point. "I know it chafes, I know. But they will change- I will see to it. And the realm will do its work, and the staff will do the same, and in a thousand years, you'll not even know the difference."
Haskill was, in most respects, an extension of the will of Sheogorath. But today was a day of firsts, and he surprised both of them by shaking his head; a silent denial, and no more was required. The Madgod reached forward, and touched his shoulder for a moment, before withdrawing to his own thoughts, dark or wild as they might be.
Silence fell in New Sheoth, the calm before the storm; the potent silence that befit an island under siege, in an ever-rising sea.