Theodyn Ashcroft had only ever been drawn to a few specific things: fun, adventure, and gold. The latter two usually landed him into trouble, but that was often fun in of itself.

He'd found himself getting into trouble from a young age, usually getting caught doing something illegal. Stealing food, pickpocketing, picking the lock of a building so that he wouldn't have to sleep outside on a particularly cold night. Sure he would end up in prison on the odd occasion, but hey, free food and a place to sleep? He could think of worse fates.

Still, the Breton was far from selfish. He would help people out when he saw fit: give a beggar a few coins, get rid of some bandits, kill a few people for a Daedric Prince.

Then of course there was that time he hadn't expected to get out of prison at all. He'd been stupid and careless to have ended up there in the first place. Noticing a man on the streets who was clearly poor and offering him a few septims if he caused a distraction. Sure, the Imperial had been all for it at first, until he realized that Ashcroft was going to steal the money from a merchant, and then he had started calling for the guards. That was the last time the Breton would ever make that mistake again.

Seriously; he thought it would be the last time he even had a chance to ever make a mistake again, fearing that he would be sent to the chopping block as the Dunmer in the adjacent cell had suggested.

"That's right—you're going to die in here, Breton! You're going to die!" the elf had jeered.

That's when the madness began.

A secret door; and they didn't even try to prevent him from going through it. He'd never bothered trying to escape from prison before, but it was as if the world was practically asking him to.

Then the Emperor of Cyrodiil told him that he was some sort of prophesized hero. Theodyn was fairly certain that the man was deluded, but he had died just like he said he would. He'd been right about one thing.

"Just think of it as a quest," Theodyn had told himself. The idea of doing as the emperor had asked posing some sort of challenge made the idea more appealing to him. Even if his request had seemed rather simple; not that it had been.

That Martin fellow had been rather stubborn, refusing to leave until the ominous portal of doom was dealt with so that he was certain the people would be safe. How noble.

So Theodyn had been forced to enter the blasted thing and try to figure out how to stop it. He had stepped into the depths of Oblivion itself. Strangely enough, he hadn't really been fazed. Threats and people trying to kill him for no apparent reason appearing around practically every corner; all it needed was a drunk or two and a couple of cutpurses and it would have felt like home.

And he'd done it. He had closed the portal, almost disbelieving that he had actually done so, but this was merely the beginning. Only the start of what would come to be known as the Oblivion Crisis.

It had opened up a variety of new opportunities for the young Breton. He'd spent the majority of his life in the Imperial City, but this gave him a chance to explore. From city to city, taking on whatever tasks people had for him that he found to be of interest. Giving a beggar a coin and learning of the notorious Thieves Guild. Murdering some people for Mephala and ending up coming face-to-face with a member of the Dark Brotherhood.

But it had all become rather boring after a while, to be honest. Sure dealing with Mehrunes Dagon and his lackeys was rather enjoyable. It even looked like things were beginning to take an exciting turn when the Daedric Prince had crossed through the plains of Oblivion and entered Nirn itself, but Martin had cut that spectacle short when he decided to turn into a dragon god. Hardly sporting, to say the least.

Even his adventures with the Thieves Guild and the Brotherhood seemed to come to an end, as if the climax had come and gone, leaving him with its boring resolution. Theodyn became master of the Thieves Guild, and what did he have to show for it? A nice fox hat that was barely enough to keep out the cold. Soon after the Dark Brotherhood began to lose his interest; one can only assassinate so many people before it begins to lose its thrill. Not to mention having to sit around and listen to the Night Mother. He'd never been much of a listener.

It all began to seem rather dull; the life he had once found exciting, adventurous, crazy and unpredictable, now seemed rather… normal.

Then a new opportunity arrived when a strange portal was said to have appeared at Niben Bay. Well, the last time he had stepped through a strange, otherworldly portal he'd ended up having quite the adventure, and so the idea of going through the portal seemed rather appealing to him. Stepping into the unknown, into the planes of a realm neither man nor mer had yet to return. What seemed like madness to everyone else was simply a pleasant change of pace for him.

It was insane. Ashcroft had seen a lot of crazy things in his time, but this took the cake. Eventually he conquered even this, taking on the role of Sheogorath and knowing that this, too, would eventually lose his interest. If not, he still might have to leave anyway; if this dimension would eventually eat away at his mind as it had with Sheogorath then he wanted no part of it.

And yet it was strangely enjoyable, and he couldn't help but want to stay, the thrill of this unpredictable realm a neverending source of entertainment.

He had told all this to dear Pelagius, of course, though the man was such a grouch, unable to share in the joy which Ashcroft—or rather, Sheogorath—constantly felt. Fine, let him continue on with his miserable afterlife. It was no skin off the Daedric Prince's back.

But what was this? A mortal, come to visit him in the mind of Pelagius, perhaps? He stood still in amusement, watching out of the corner of his eye as the confused Nord woman timidly moved toward him, looking disoriented, yet confident in her gate.

"How rude! Can't be bothered to host an old friend for a decade or two," Sheogorath said once Pelagius left and the Nord woman had approached him.

"I was sent to deliver you a message," said the young Nord, deciding it would be best not to question things and instead just go with it. Quite like he always had.

"Reeaaaallllyyyy?" he mused. "Ooh, ooh, what kind of message? A song? A summons? Wait, I know! A death threat written on the back of an Argonian concubine! Those are my favorites.
"Well? Spit it out, mortal. I haven't got an eternity! Actually… I do. Little joke.
"But seriously. What's the message?"

"I was asked to retrieve you from your vacation," she said.

"Were you now? By whom? Was it Molag?" he guessed. "No, no… Little Tim, the toymaker's son? The ghost of King Lysandus? Or was it… Yes! Stanley, that talking grapefruit from Passwall.
"Wrong on all accounts, aren't I? Ha! No matter! Honestly, I don't want to know. Why ruin the surprise? But more to the point. Do you—tiny, puny, expendable little mortal—actually think you can convince me to leave? Because that's… crazy."

He giddily noted the bug-eyed look on the woman's face as she finally came to the realization that Sheogorath was completely insane.

He was absolutely mad—and he knew it. He had once been so confident that he would be able to retain his soundness of mind even in this world where madmen and fools alike resided, but he'd lost his grip on reality just as all the others who entered had. His sanity had been taken out from under him before he could even realize it. A terrifying thought, honestly.

He was just another madman—albeit, an important one—in his world of lunacies and paranoia, all equal parts insane.

But the maddest thing of all… was that he didn't mind it.