The lone wolf prowled up the side of the hill, slowly, taking its time, its powerful legs revealing the sheer running force it could achieve if needed. It was the middle of the night, a full moon, and it raised its head to howl, as was expected of it by narration everywhere.

There was the sound of crashing branches and trees, and something massive moving towards it, the wolf's fur prickled and it bared its teeth, growling.

The forested hilltop was silent again, nothing but the sound of the wind breaking the impenetrable noiselessness. The wolf eased slightly, ears still prickling.

BANG!!! The metal fist collided with the side of its head, powerfully enough to take the wolf off its feet and into a tree. Then the massive metal man charged at it, unarmed, but all the more dangerous for that, and the wolf's life was over.

Sort of.

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Deep in the woods south of the Imperial City, there rests a small shrine, known only to the most loyal of Hircine's Hunters. Upon the stony platform there stands a terrible visage, a Man with the head of a deer, and the body of a man, a hunting wolf by His side. All is quiet in the dark woods, although in the white moonlight, one could almost make out the vague shapes of dark figures crouching in bushes… but by that time it is already too late.

The sound of crashing branches and trees had every one of the three worshippers of Hircine arming arrows to their bows in a flash.

"Sergeant, is that you?" Vahjira, the Khajiti huntress asked to the night in general. In response, the corpse of a wolf was thrown into the middle of the circle, blood leaking from its jaw. Vahjira sighed. Sergeant always had an unfortunate love of the dramatic. In the twilight she could make out the shape of a heavily armoured Nordic man, panting loudly.

"Yar."
"Oh good. Honestly, the noise you make in that metal armour I'd think you were a guard. We're all so jittery about them finding out about this…"
"They already 'ave. Trus' me on thith."
"Really? Why di-"

"Thave it. No time."

The other hunters nodded.

"Right then, Sergeant, you're going to have to be the one to talk to Hircine, of course. None of us are Level 17 yet."
"Wha'?"

"Um, I mean, none of us are powerful enough to speak to him ourself."
"Oh. O' course."
A crashing noise filled the clearing again. The hunters once again leapt to their weapons.

"Who goes there?" asked Hunt-Tail.

"Damnit, Private Metal-Foot, I told you we should have left the horses behind!" came the voice from the forest. The hunters steadied their weapons on the trees.
"Hircine damn them!" whispered Boroneth. "They must have followed Sergeant here!"

Sergeant had got down on his knees in front of the statue, and was muttering to himself, speaking quickly in a strange tongue no-one could understand (well, as it was Sergeant's tongue it was a strange tongue that people could understand less than they normally did).

The hunters' eyes narrowed.

A soldier stepped forward into the clearing, and fell down as three arrows pierced his body.

Sergeant let out an ear-piercingly high pitched scream.

And then Sheogorath's scrying glass broke down.

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"Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!" Sheogorath screamed. "Whhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!! Not now!!! Please not now!!!" He fell to the floor, sobbing and pounding His fist on the marble floor of His palace. Haskill stood calmly beside his Lord, waiting for Sheogorath's tantrum to subside.

"Wanna, wanna, new scrying glass!" Sheogorath cried.
"Sire, if I may-"

"Waah!"
"Sire!" shouted Haskill, and to his surprise Sheogorath looked up. "We need to do something about Hircine!"

"Hircine can wait. Pabodie! Come hither!"

Pabodie, the new castle wizard, looked up from the books he was studying, and replied. "Yes sire?" Sheogorath pointed at His scrying glass. "Fix it."
Pabodie put on his glasses, sighing mentally. He had been taken from High Rock when he was seven, offered to Sheogorath by his Daedra-worshipping parents. The life of a mage in the Realm of Madness was a hard one. He knelt to examine the wide glass.

"I don't think I can, Sire."
"You think I should hire a new wizard?" asked Sheogorath in a vaguely threatening voice.

"Nonono, Sire! But this has been severely damaged by a burst of magic. Whatever you were watching, it was powerful enough to cook this thing inside out," diagnosed Pabodie. And, he added mentally, after the whole "Dark Seducers Gone Wild" incident, I'm not even going to ask.

"What? That can't be- ah yes, the Elder Scroll. I imagine that Hircine tapped its power to… hmm, I have no idea why He'd do that…"
Haskill put a hand on his Master's unholy shoulder. "Sire, perhaps it would be best if we discussed… the Orb plan."
Sheogorath was silent, then nodded. He swept to His feet in usual dramatic fashion. "My royal subjects!" He barked. The various Dark Seducers and Golden Saints (the guards of The Shivering Isles) stood to attention, as did the other men and women in the hall. "Haskill and I need some alone time." The people shuffled out. Pabodie did not grumble, of course, because only heretics grumble, and he wasn't heretics, not in any way at all, nope, haven't even considered it, not even at the end of a bad day with Sheogorath barking orders at you to bugger off and make him a sky-boat. Nope, not even then.

"Right, Sire," said Haskill, when the assorted people who make things run had left the hall. He brought some paperwork into the world from the unknown place clerks get paperwork from. "I have studied protocol for situations like this one, and I have discovered that Daedra Lords may, if they feel that the situation requires it, choose a… well, a Chosen One, really."
"Hmm, well, how interesting that isn't."
"…Quite, Sire. Anyway, I have narrowed down several possible applicants for Chosenship, and put them down on this list."
"You are such a nerd."
"Just as you please, Sire. there is a battlemage wandering the land as we speak, practicing her skill in order to better serve You, my Liege. Perhaps she could be of some use?"
"Nah, too clichéd."
"Um, all right Sire, there is a young wizard who is consistently showing more skill than plausibly possible for his age, perhaps You could-"
"Too Marty-Stu for me."
"Sire, most Daedric Princes are not unduly concerned when They break a literary convention."
"Yeah, well, am I a normal Supreme Overlord, Haskill?"

"…No, Sire."
"So is there anyone else?"
Haskill sighed. "Not really, Your Madnessness. There's a dark, mysterious assassin-"

"No."
"A farmboy destined to inherit the throne of-"

"No! All of these are so boring! Aren't any of My worshippers just normal people?"
"Um…" Haskill searched through his notes. "Not exactly, Sire."
"Alright, lets just make do with what we have!"
"Excellent Sire!" Haskill clapped his hands. "About that battlemage…"
"Go have a chat with this Conrad Munro chap, then."
"Um, don't you think-"

"No, I don't, Haskill. Not at all."

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Twenty metres below sea level, a puff of red smoke appeared in the smelliest, dampest, and slimiest cell in all Bravil. Indeed, the cell had been the all-round winner of the annual Cell-You-Wanted-That-Murdering-Psychopath-Locked-Away-In award three years running, and the guards now treated it with a sort of civic pride. Upstairs, the clock stopped. People froze in the streets. Haskill pinched his nose and surveyed the room.

"Quite disgusting," he muttered under his breath. A dark lump lay on a bed of straw in the corner of the room, snoring quietly.

"He's sleeping, Sire," he said, his words absorbed by the dark room.

"Well bloody wake him up then!" came the Voice in his head. Haskill tapped the sleeping form on its shoulder.

"Mr. Munro? Time to wake up now," said Haskill quietly beside Conrad's ear. Conrad rolled over and looked Haskill in the eye.

"That does it then," he groaned. "I really have gone insane."
"Excellent!" Haskill clapped his hands together. "Now I think we can really start to work together!"