A forward? Of course I don't own Skyrim. Sheogorath does.

Daedric Gods: I'm so happy I could just tear out your intestines and strangle you with them!

Shouts/Actions: FIIK, LO, SAH! (Mirror, Deceive, Phantom!)

Translations: {You Can't Be Serious.}

"Dovahhkin..."

Hungry eyes eagerly sampled the doomed madgod slowly, slitted eyes of blood caked with a supernova of yellow as bright as the sun stroked over every inch of Sheogorath slowly from the scaled hide of a beast that put the mammoths to shame. A spiked tail whipped through the Helgen Fortress as ribbons of steel claws tear into the stomach of the warden, paralyzing the audience. Second passed, ages to the madgod ensnared in the creatures tongue, but then all chaos descended as fire burst from the creature's lips to lap at the fortress in a funeral pyre for every last person there.

"What in the name of Oblivion is that? ARCHERS, FIRE!" The balding general screamed impetuously, disbelief trailing his facial features like a man possessed. On que, a storm of arrows flew behind him as the dragon roared imperially, taking to the skies wthout the madman's weight. Beams of candlelit timber and wildfire soon separated the prisoners in a display of ferverent violence, temperature rising as many burned alive in the dirt and mud. Only one way out, a tower not too far nearby in the midst of this aerial raid, but screams as hundreds died shook the air to the beating of cold blooded wings.

"C'mon, CMON! Madman, get up! Sovngarde won't give us another chance!"

Half dazed, Sheogorath wearily broke from the mud and stumbled to his feet as Rolof took him under arm and broke for the keep under panting and sweat riddled with other men's death woes. The door slammed shut to apocalypse soon after, and the nobleman kicked the bar down in a hungry fury. Like wildfire, the doomed groans and moans of wounded were drowned out by the frenzy of their fates, Rolof gripping his leader's tunic in a dead grasp.

"Jarl Ulfric... What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages." A cold iron voice declared as he swung his arm down to break the contact, the furs lining the aging nord's back rippling from the fiery air. A clenched fist, as if slowly struggling to maintain his composure, waxed words of the nobleman's own disbelief at the situation. With a sly smirk painting the Jarl's face though, Sheogorath's suspicions grew by the second. What good were mortals to have men like this leading, when all they saw was opportunity and profit? Not even an easy joke was passed once!

A scream sounded from up the stone staircase, the dragon tearing its way inside like an eggshell broken open. Fire blazed along the keep peak, and it was all the prisoners could do to not lose their heads to panic. One, however, eagery drew his short sword and cut open the ropes tied around the madman's wrists. Rolof gave an wry smile to Sheogorath and gestured to the stairs while Sheo soothed the rope burns along his skin. Without delay, the pair rushed up to the top, where a scene would lay in Skyrim's history very well burned itself into their memories.

"Oh, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt... What has happened to our land?" Rolof moaned, moving a disbelieving hand to wipe the sweat the caked in the heat of the moment. Sheogorath himself siimply sighed in feverent disgust. Not a warm throne to enjoy, after all this... he'd much rather be in New Sheo. Maybe there was a throne in Skyrim he could lounge in for perhaps a night or two?

Pyres of human bodies and ravaged buildings crushed in hundreds lay scattered about Helgen Fortress. Everywhere you go, Imperials baked in their armor or uselessly fortifying the gates gave their lives as a cyroddil battalion marched on the devastation- arrows twanging harmlessly against the scales of a myth. The high mountain air came sharp and hard through the smoke, and their eyes wept unconciously to watch the scene.

All but one pair of eyes, which were focused on retribution in the chaos for earlier taunts. Brown locks absconded with destiny as a sword hilt slammed against Rolof's crown from behind, knocking them both to the edge of the tower ramparts. A cruel calculating gaze from above looked down, and Ulfric Stormcloak coldly spat on Sheogorath's struggling hand as he tried to hold on for dear life aside his new Haskill.

"M-My king?" Rolof Has-Killed weakly asked in the height of betrayal, wincing as the nobleman cruely slammed the heel of his boot into bone with an sickening crack in the palm. Like a concussion the Riverwood militia's eyes were barely open, but the act was quite hard to miss. The billowing robes of a cruel noble were leering down and the jarl spoke slowly, as if to an infant.

"Not yours. Rolof of Riverwood, your services are no longer required." The drawling and mocking tone of Ulfric bled over the man's boot like tar before kicking the pair down, down into the burning buildings below. And the haunted face of a commoner betrayed soon followed.

Reviews:

xUnDeadKittenx: All in good time. What demented kind of author would keep you waiting? Oh...right. Nevermind, then. A hint for your time though: This is not the last we'll see of Ulfric Stormcloak.

Akila-Delpanther-Draconian: What *does* the world eater want with Sheogorath? A pity they were so...rudely interrupted. Pray he lives long enough to find out.

deathshade37: Comments like that are what make me reply faster. Sheo is like... Clark Kent. Only boosting his ego makes him want to show off in more chapters. Silly, isn't it?

Bruised Egomaniac: Nonsense. Death is a conniving son of a mammoth who keeps taking the hard earned experience whenever you come back to life. He also owes me 14 dollars after the daedric god's poker night.

Maralae: Sometimes I think I'm the only sane person in a world gone mad. Or Im terminally infectious! Call me when you make medicine sick, ah ha!