This is not my first attempt at a story, but I plan on actually finishing this one. So, without further ado, I present a week in the life of Sheogorath. Edit: If Anyone knows, how do Indent paragraphs? It doesn't show them as indented to me.

Sheogorath twirled his staff, and then pointed it at Haskill. "PULL!" he cried out, waving his staff at the air. Haskill sighed, and obliged by throwing the last piece of good china in the air of the throne room. The Mad-god gleefully pointed his favorite toy, the Wabbajack, at the sailing dish. With a purple flash, the dish became a very confused Grummite, which promptly fell to the ground, as per gravity. One might think it odd that the laws of reality retained their hold in a dimension of madness, but then again the unexpected is precisely what Sheogorath favors.

The madman in question set the Wabbajack down, smiling proudly at his handiwork. In less than three hours, he had ordered, received, and Wabbajacked an entire 12-person set of dinnerware, plus the delivery boy holding the bill. The end result was a tribe of goblins and a tribe of Grummites, who were currently negotiating territories, one of each elemental Atronaches, a mixed pack of Timberwolves and Skinned Hounds, a troll who was laughing hysterically, a very cramped dragon, and a Deadroth that was trying to eat the bill of sale that it had been holding. Haskill noted that the room would need a thorough cleaning, although the smell was incomparable to last greymarch's clown trench.

Haskill waited until the King of the never-there had grown tired of the display, knowing full well that if he spoke, it would trigger one of his master's mood swings, and he would much rather allow the Mad-god to use up as much time as possible. Unfortunately, Haskill was just far enough that Sheogorath didn't want to walk to him, and Haskill felt the familiar tugging sensation as he was summoned, two feet from his current position.

"Yes, my lord?" he inquired, knowing that Sheogorath had already grown bored of the mix of creatures in the throne room, and it would be very unwise to be in the room with a bored Mad-god.

"Haskill, please escort our guests to the Duchess Dementia's living quarters, along with a bar of lavender-scented soap." "Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?" The Deadric prince stroked his beard, thinking. "Find me a champion. A fun one." Haskill could only bow and oblidge, never questioning his lord's whim. His predescessor did that once. Only once.

Haskill shook off the memory of Sheogorath's last servant and began herding the mix of creatures to the soon-to-be-shocked Dutchess' quarters, pausing to ask a mazken to fetch the soap. When he returned, Sheogorath exclaimed "Wonderful! So, where's the champion? Waiting outside? Is he invisible? Or is he a She? Man, Hiricine will be so jealous when I tell him I got an invisible champion, when he has trouble finding the visible ones!" Haskill simply stated "The champion is in the process of Application." "Oh…" Sheogorath said, trying to remember what the word meant. "… Is it terminal?"