fucking over the rules of reality

by sheogorath the 2nd

when a madman decides to sacrifice a cheese castle to the daedric prince of madness and finds himself rewarded with a life in a new dimension... with his daughter . what could go wrong ?

Let's just say that killing Alduin might have been hard for a normal Dragonborn—one who didn't come from another world and exploit every known glitch in the game to achieve ultimate power. Somehow, the exploits still worked even when everything became real for me. And yes, I abused them. I swear, I was a menace to society. With 100,638% in Sneaking, I even managed to put a sleeping giant in Vilkas' bed. Don't ask how—I just did it.

The thing is, when I came into this world, I could choose my race—any race from The Elder Scrolls, except for Aedra and Daedra. So, I chose to be a Snow Elf. Yes, a Snow Elf. And no, not one of those blind ancestors of mine—just an average Snow Elf. White-as-snow hair? Check. Pointed ears? Check. Big-time frost resistance? Check. Affinity for magic? Oh, absolutely. I was basically born with a silver spoon in my mouth... well, ability-wise. My home situation? Not so much.

It was more of a cave situation. I was born to a Falmer. Yeah, you can imagine how awkward that was. Honestly, I don't even know how to describe it. The first thing I did once I was strong enough was raze the entire cave. There was no way I was letting those creatures represent my race. Call me heartless if you want, but they deserved it.

Thanks to the Skyrim system, I became ridiculously strong. I abused it to the max, and by age 20, I was powerful enough to one-shot Alduin. Shoutout to the Ring of Wielding for that.

Oh, and somewhere along the way, I managed to contract the vampirism curse. Don't ask me how—it just happened. But hey, we ball.

All in all, I had an interesting time in Skyrim, but after Three thousand years of wreaking havoc, it got boring. People barely flinched when a wheel of cheese spawned in their bedrooms at 3 a.m. every night for a decade. I even built an entire castle out of cheese—a literal cheese fortress—and not a single soul batted an eye. Like, hello? I'm the Dragonborn! Show some respect for my artisanal dairy architecture.

I mean, come on. I'm the Dragonborn, wielder of the Thu'um, the last living Snow Elf (not counting the army of kids I've got running around thanks to some... enthusiastic one-night stands—don't worry, I left them all a pile of gold. Call it inheritance). I'm the bane of Alduin, unifier of Skyrim (still not sure how that happened, but you know what? We ball), Archmage of the College of Winterhold, a Companion of Jorrvaskr, Guildmaster of the Dark Brotherhood and Thieves Guild, and a bard who's mediocre at best but loud enough to fool people. Oh, and let's not forget: slayer of Lord Harkon.

So, after Three thousand years of absolute cheese madness, I finally sacrificed my magnificent cheese castle to Sheogorath. Why? Because, let's be real, he's the only Daedric Prince who might actually get me. I mean, the guy's even more unhinged than I am —he might actually help, or at least laugh at my problems. The others? They'd probably just tell me to "go talk to my therapist" or something equally useless.

And thus, the voice of an angel appeared:

"Wow."

Of course, he's behind me, isn't he?

"Well, yes I am. Where else would I be? In your imagination? No, no, I prefer to be physically present when there's cheese involved. You do have some, right?"

I turned slowly to look at him, arching an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of a confused mammal. "Uhhh...?" I wasn't sure what to say at this point. Don't judge me.

"Oohhh, yeah, I was there once, you know. Ten years into the future. It's really fun. You get to watch the destruction of time itself. But why would I be there when you specifically called me here? Ah, you're a peculiar one, aren't you?"

And wow, I just can't process the nonsensical energy radiating from this guy.

"Never mind that, my prince. I, Gorben the Dragonborn, the bane of Tamriel, the menace to society itself, offer you my greatest treasure—my cheese castle—hoping you'll help me. I wish to transcend to another plane of existence and wreak madness, chaos, and utter nonsense upon those poor souls."

I really hoped he'd help. It's so boring here. I mean, after toying with Miraak—a literal dragon priest who thinks he's a god—the thrill of world-ending shenanigans just... lost its flair.

Sheogorath's face twisted into a grin so wide it looked like someone stretched out his jaw just for fun. "Oh, you want chaos, do you? The madness of other planes? But, darling Gorben, you're already in one of my favorite planes. Skyrim is practically a cauldron of delightful absurdities, from the endless cheese wheels to the poor sap who just wants to know why his goat ran off. Ah, the joys of mortal folly."

He spun around, hands clasped behind his back. "As for your offer... Mmm, yes, I'll help you. I'll even take a bite of your deliciously weird cheese castle. A little madness is always refreshing. But, mind you, once you're in that other plane? It's not all fun and games—unless you count the screaming. Which I do. I absolutely count the screaming."

He leaned in close, eyes wide, and whispered with a tone far too gleeful for my liking. "But here's the catch—I get to choose the rules. And by 'rules,' I mean 'complete and utter mayhem.' So, if you think Miraak was a headache, just wait 'til you see what I've got planned. Spoiler alert: It involves cheese and confusion."

I... I am not so sure anymore? I don't think it was a good idea to bring Sheogorath here.

Sigh "Alright, my prince, I accept whatever rule you might impose. But please, send me to another realm with... let's see... dragons? Might be fun to devour more souls. And uhhh... maybe elves? Or dwarves? I don't know, I don't remember the other fictional worlds I've read about."

I look at Sheogorath, hoping he'll do it. And he looks back at me... then at the cheese castle... then back at me... then at the baby in my arms.

Wait, what?

Since when is there a baby in my arms?!

"Uhhh?!"

I glance down at the tiny bundle of confusion in my arms. That's my child? Oh, hell no.

"Uh, my prince?" I turn toward Sheogorath, my voice strained.

"Yes, Dragonborn?" He asks, his voice dripping with too much sweetness, like a honeyed poison.

He knows what he did. He fucking knows. His grin says it all. The son of a—

I try with everything I have to not punch him in the face. "Why. Is. My. Newborn. Child. In. My. Arms?" My tone could probably melt stone. "You do realize she's only about four months old, right? She should be with her mother, being fed and... whatever babies do. Not with me! I don't even know how to—"

I stop myself before I completely lose it. I mean, I can't even keep a cheese wheel from rolling off the edge of a table, let alone raise a baby. What the hell is going on here?!

"Please tell me you're not expecting me to raise her in the middle of this cheese-infested nightmare..." I glance nervously at the baby, whose face is scrunched up like she knows something I don't. She has the same confused expression I'm wearing right now.

Sheogorath just smiles. "Oh, I figured a little parenthood would be good for you. You know, bonding time, teaching her the fine art of chaos." He grins even wider. "Trust me, you'll be just fine. What's the worst that could happen?"

"What's the—" I inhale deeply, trying not to lose my mind. "She's a baby! I've never even—how do you parent in another dimension?!"

"Well, you see, it's really quite simple. You just do what I do—wing it! See, the key is a good dose of nonsense every morning, and snack time when the time-space continuum starts looking a little bored."

I shake my head. "No. No. I am not ready for this. This is definitely not what I signed up for."

Sheogorath just watches me with an infuriatingly smug expression. "Oh, don't be such a killjoy, Gorben. Think of all the adventures you'll have! You can teach her how to throw Khajiit into alternate dimensions while still having time for tea and crumpets. It's really all about balance."

I glance at the baby, who now seems completely unfazed by the madness surrounding her. "Well, I guess she's already got the whole 'confusion' thing down."

Sheogorath laughs. "Exactly! You're learning! Now, off you go! Enjoy the madness!"

And everything grew blurry before snapping back to normal.

I stood there, holding the baby, wondering what in Oblivion's name just happened. This… this is my life now. A new dimension. Wonderful.

Where the fuck am I?

All I see before me is an endless sea of green, the kind of landscape so picturesque it looks like someone bribed Kynareth for a personal favor. Rolling hills, rivers glinting in the sunlight, distant mountains… and oh, yeah, a unicorn trotting along like it owns the place. Typical.

I turn around, and there it is. Breezehome.

Yes. Breezehome.

"What the actual fuck," I mutter. The little house from Whiterun, complete with that rickety porch railing I never got around to fixing, sitting smugly in the middle of paradise like it belongs here.

"Ta-da!"

I nearly jump out of my boots as Sheogorath's voice erupts from nowhere, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

"Do you love it? Hate it? Want to set it on fire? I personally think it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the landscape, don't you? Breezhome. In another realm. A marvel of modern madness!"

"Sheogorath, where the hell am I?" I ask, barely holding back a groan.

"You're in the land of Alagaësia!" he declares with the enthusiasm of a bard who's had too much mead. "A realm full of dragons, elves, dwarves, magic, and—oh, let's not forget—fantastic opportunities for chaos!"

"Alagaësia," I repeat slowly. "Wait. You sent me to Eragon's world?"

"Indeed! Thought you'd enjoy it. Dragons to devour, elves to confuse, dwarves to outdrink… and don't get me started on the Urgals! Oh, and magic! Wonderful, wonderful magic. They call it the Ancient Language, but if you ask me, it's just a bunch of overly dramatic tongue-twisters. Pfft, amateurs."

I blink, processing this. "Okay… and you brought Breezehome? Why?"

"Why not?" he retorts. "It's cozy, it's familiar, and let's be honest, you're hopeless without a proper house. Besides, I thought the locals might enjoy a little Skyrim architecture. Spice things up a bit. Maybe I'll add a cheese moat later!"

I glance down at the baby in my arms. "And speaking of things that don't belong, why is my four-month-old here?"

"Oh, her?" Sheogorath says, as if he just remembered. "Well, someone has to keep you from getting bored! Plus, she's adorable. Like a tiny snowflake, but with more screaming. Ahrolok! That's her name, by the way. Snow Child. Aren't I clever?"

"Sure, Sheo. Brilliant." I sigh, already regretting my life choices.

Before I can say more, there's a WHOMP and a crate materializes on my foot, accompanied by a chorus of kazoo music and the faint scent of burnt toast.

"ARGH! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!"

The crate explodes in a shower of glitter, cheese wheels, and what I swear are miniature juggling mudcrabs. Nestled inside, glowing like some kind of cursed holy relic, are rows of bottles filled with an unsettlingly creamy liquid. Scrawled across the crate in jagged, rainbow-colored handwriting are the words:

"Breast milk mixed with cheese. For little Ahrolok. From your beloved Uncle Sheo. Don't ask how I got it!"

I stare at the crate, then at the baby in my arms, then back at the crate. My brain flatlines.

"Sheogorath… WHY?"

"Why NOT?" he exclaims, suddenly standing beside me, dressed in a chef's hat and wielding a ladle like it's a staff of ultimate power. "I call it Fromage Maternal à la Madness! Full of essential nutrients, chaos, and just a hint of existential dread! Perfect for a growing snow elf!"

"YOU PUT CHEESE IN BREAST MILK!" I shout, waving my free hand at the crate like it's the single most offensive thing I've ever seen.

"Of course I did!" he replies, stirring the air with his ladle. "You're welcome! Now toss it into your inventory before it starts philosophizing about the nature of lactose intolerance. Nobody wants a bottle of milk asking why it exists."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, muttering curses under my breath. With a wave of my hand, the crate vanishes into my inventory with a shoop. I swear I hear one of the bottles scream, "I AM ETERNAL!" as it disappears.

"Now then!" Sheogorath claps his hands, his grin wide enough to make a sabre cat nervous. "Welcome to Alagaësia! Land of dragons, elves, dwarves, and probably some guy named Steve who really shouldn't be trusted near open flames!"

I blink at him, utterly lost. "Wait. You sent me to Eragon's world? Why?!"

"Why not?!" He twirls his ladle like a baton, somehow setting a nearby bush on fire without even touching it. "Dragons to nibble on, elves to bewilder, dwarves to outdrink! And oh, do keep your hands off the dragons' souls, would you? The locals get terribly uppity when their fire-breathing pets start vanishing!"

I sigh, already exhausted. "Look, I'm not going to eat the dragons. Probably. Unless they start something."

"Good lad!" Sheogorath beams, tossing his ladle over his shoulder, where it promptly explodes into a flock of screaming sweetrolls. "But if you do decide to eat one, chew thoroughly. Dragon indigestion is no laughing matter. Except when it is, of course!"

I stare at him, trying to process this madness. "I… I don't even know what to say anymore."

"Then say nothing!" he exclaims, throwing confetti into the air. "Silence is golden, except when it's purple and smells like cheese! Anyway, toodle-oo, Dragonborn! Try not to rename their mountains anything too offensive! Unless it's hilarious. Then, by all means, carry on!"

"Wait, what—"

With a pop and a rain of pickled horker noses, he vanishes, leaving me standing there, holding a baby, staring at Breezehome, which is somehow perched in the middle of this strange, beautiful new world like it's always been here.

I glance down at Ahrolok, who giggles and grabs my nose. "Well, kid," I mutter. "Welcome to Alagaësia. Let's try not to set the entire place on fire in the first week. Or do. Honestly, at this point, why the fuck not?"

From somewhere in the distance, I hear Sheogorath's laughter. I swear it sounds like he's shouting, "Don't forget to milk the dragons!"

I won't ask. Nope. Not going to ask.

"Ahh! For fuck's sake, kid, stop twisting my nose. It sort of hurts, you know?" I groan, prying her tiny hands off me. She just giggles like she's won some grand battle. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "What in Oblivion am I even supposed to do now?"

Suppose I should feed her. "Alright, lil' demon, let's get inside, and Daddy will give you some food. Just… please don't be a vampire like your old man. Is that even a thing? Can babies inherit vampirism?"

Curiosity gets the better of me. I tentatively stick a finger into her mouth to check for fangs. All I feel is soft, squishy gums.

"Ehh, guess not. You got lucky, darling—looks like the sun won't be your mortal enemy. For now." She gurgles in response, thoroughly unimpressed with my existential crisis.

Shaking my head, I push open the door to Breezehome and step inside. Everything looks exactly as it did in Skyrim—down to the dust motes floating in the sunlight. My Skyrim map is still spread across the table like I left it, my alchemy and enchanting tables are tucked neatly into the side room, and… yeah, nothing too out of place.

I make my way toward the bedroom, only for something to catch my eye in the corner of the side room. There's something… glowing.

"Wait, what's that?"

Turning on my heel, I run back down the stairs and crouch near the enchanting table. There, nestled beneath it like some bizarre treasure, is a glowing cheese wheel.

"A glowing cheese wheel? Seriously?" I mutter, staring at it like it's personally offended me. "Why is there a glowing cheese wheel under my enchanting table?"

The baby in my arms burbles and reaches for it like it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. Meanwhile, I'm starting to suspect Sheogorath has struck again.

I stare at the glowing cheese wheel for a moment, trying to wrap my head around this new artifact of madness. But before I can make any real conclusions, my daughter lets out a gurgle and grabs at it.

"Don't touch that," I mutter to her, already knowing it's a terrible idea, but she doesn't seem to care. In fact, she seems far too interested in the glowing cheese wheel for my comfort. It's as if it's calling to her.

"What is it with you and cheese?" I groan, shifting the baby in my arms as she kicks her tiny feet in excitement. "You already got the supply crate, don't tell me you're going for the wheel now."

I look closer, only to notice an inscription on the cheese wheel that wasn't there before: Wabajack's cousin—one cheese wheel to rule them all.

"Oh no," I mutter, rubbing my eyes. This is already going downhill.

The Wabajack? I remember Sheogorath's curse of a weapon all too well. The chaotic staff that can turn anything into anything—completely unpredictable and madness-inducing. This glowing wheel probably isn't any less dangerous, but hey, it's cheese, right? Maybe I could use it to bribe a dragon.

I sigh and move on to the rest of the house, hoping the rest of this place isn't riddled with worse madness. Stepping into the living room, I freeze when I notice something on the mantle. A book. Not just any book—it's a heavy tome, and it's glowing with an eerie, golden light.

"What in Oblivion…" I mutter, making my way over to it.

The title reads: The Complete Guide to Disappearing Things and Why You'll Never See Them Again. I'm about to open it when I hear my daughter giggle, a sound that shouldn't be as unsettling as it is.

I turn back to look at her. She's staring at the book too, her tiny hands outstretched. Her eyes gleam with an unnatural focus, a sense of knowing that shouldn't belong to a baby.

"Kid, you sure you're not some ancient curse? Because you're freaking me out," I mutter. She giggles again and reaches for the book, causing it to shimmer and vanish out of thin air.

"What the—" I look around, bewildered. The book has disappeared, like it never existed in the first place.

And then, from behind me, I hear a familiar voice, full of mischief.

"Well now, that's a bit of a problem, isn't it? Losing books that shouldn't exist and all that."

Sheogorath.

"WHAT THE FUCK, SHEO?" I turn, clutching my daughter a little closer to my chest, already bracing for whatever delightful disaster he's brought with him this time.

"Well, you see," Sheogorath says, strolling into the room like he owns the place, "That book was really useful if you needed a good laugh. Every time you opened it, something would disappear. A sock, a shoe, an entire dinner—perfect for confusing people! But, naturally, it's gone now, so enjoy that mystery!"

"You put that book in my house?" I deadpan, already knowing the answer.

He shrugs, seemingly unfazed. "I figured you might enjoy the challenge of figuring out where it went. You know, for the mind games. Not that I think your mind is all that intact to begin with—oh wait, you're probably right, it isn't!"

I roll my eyes and sigh. "Is there anything here that won't cause me a headache?"

"Of course! The cheese wheel," Sheogorath grins, "It's delightful, and will never cause any problems. Ever. No sir, not one." He winks and then pulls a strangely familiar object from his pocket.

It's a tiny, miniature version of the Wabajack, but this time... it has wheels?

"No—no. No, no, no, no—WHAT IS THAT?"

"Oh, it's a Wabajack wheel. You see, I figured the Wabajack needed a little upgrade, so I miniaturized it... and, uh, made it even more unpredictable." Sheogorath looks way too proud of himself. "It can turn things into cheese. Or a puddle. Or a small, harmless rabbit. Or a dragon. Who knows?"

I stare at it. "You're an absolute madman."

"Why, thank you!" he says cheerfully.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Now, now," Sheogorath waves a dismissive hand. "Remember, you're in my world now. No one ever dies—except maybe everyone... but that's beside the point. Go enjoy your cheese, and don't eat it all. The consequences are... disastrous."

Before I can argue, he disappears with a whoosh, leaving me alone in Breezehome with a glowing cheese wheel and a baby who somehow thinks all this is normal.

"Well, kid," I sigh, shaking my head. "At least you're too young to understand the madness. For now. Just don't eat the cheese wheel, alright?"

She giggles, reaching for it anyway. I hold it just out of her grasp. I'm starting to get the feeling that this is going to be a long day.

I sigh, eyeing the glowing cheese wheel still floating in my hands, and I realize something. Shit, I need to feed the kid. She's been grumbling for a while now, and I'm sure she's getting hungry. So, out of sheer panic, I open my inventory, scanning for anything remotely edible.

And there it is—the crate of breast milk that Sheogorath helpfully provided. Of course, I don't know how to feel about this, but... well, it's better than nothing, right?

But before I hand it over to my daughter, I get a brilliant idea. I need to taste it first. Just to make sure it's... okay? I don't know. Don't ask me why, don't judge me. I'm not exactly experienced with babies, or breast milk, for that matter. But I'm a curious guy.

I pop open the crate and take a sip.

And immediately regret it.

It tastes exactly like breast milk.

I try not to gag. "Huh. Yeah, okay. That's exactly how I imagined it would taste... don't ask me how I know what that's like, just roll with it." I mumble to no one in particular, my face flushed red. No one needs to know this part of the story.

I glance at the baby, who's already eyeing the crate with hungry eyes. I wince. "Alright, kid, this is for you, not for me."

I scoop some of the milk into a little bowl (thankfully, there's an actual bowl in the crate) and, with as much grace as I can muster, sit in front of the fireplace. The flames crackle and dance, a pleasant warmth spreading through the room. I tuck the baby on my lap, trying to find the right angle for feeding her without looking like I have no clue what I'm doing.

I glance down at her again.

Something about her... it nags at me. She's got that white hair, of course, but there are those little streaks of black running through it, which makes me stop. My breath catches in my throat for a second.

Wait a minute.

She looks exactly like someone I know. Someone from my past.

She looks like Serana.

"Oh, no," I mutter. "No, no, no. I didn't—this is—"

The pieces start to click, and I realize the truth I've been trying not to face. I remember that wild, insane night with Serana—her, me, a lot of wine, a lot of... other things... and now I'm sitting here holding the baby we apparently produced.

I take a deep breath. "Well, this is... awkward," I say, trying not to make eye contact with the baby. She looks at me with wide, innocent eyes, and I'm suddenly a bit too aware of the weight of parenthood.

But as I feed her, I can't help but notice the resemblance. Her little face, her expression, even the way she reaches for the milk with those tiny hands—it's all too familiar.

"She looks just like her mother," I murmur, absently stroking her white hair. "Little baby Serana, huh?"

As if on cue, she gurgles, a tiny smile forming on her face as she continues to drink. I let out a tired sigh. "Well, kid, I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I'll try my best."

She gurgles again, as if understanding, and I'm hit with a sense of realization.

I'm a father.

And the more I look at her, the more I think about Serana—the woman who's out there, probably doing something equally reckless, probably getting into trouble. And I'm stuck here, feeding a baby, in a dimension I don't even belong in.

I chuckle bitterly. "This is fine. Everything's fine."

The fire crackles again, and for a moment, everything is quiet. I feel the warmth of the flames, and it's almost comforting. But in the back of my mind, I can't stop wondering how Serana's going to react when I find her. And more importantly, what the hell I'm supposed to do next.

As the baby finishes her milk, I glance down at her, still oddly calm in my lap. Maybe this will be alright, after all. Maybe it's just another one of those weird, wild days where life throws a curveball, and I roll with it.

I'm a fucking father...