The border between Mania and Dementia -- the Shivering Isles. On the left, the grass is so green it screams; on the right, the trees are weeping black bile. Right there, straddling the line of sanity like a tightrope walker in a hurricane, sat Sheogorath.
He was hosting a tea party. It had been going on for what felt like twenty minutes to him, but for his guest, the disgraced Imperial Battlemage Hieronymus Lex (long since dead and soul-trapped in the Isles for being too obsessed with rules), it had been four agonising months.
"More tea, Hieronymus?" Sheogorath chirped. He poured from a teapot that contained not liquid, but a swarm of angry, buzzing moths. "It’s a vintage brew. Steeped in the anxiety of a nervous mudcrab."
Hieronymus, whose form is a 2D drawing on a wall, can only nod. Without the Z-axis, he can't shake his head.
Sheogorath laughed heartily. "Oh, you jester! Always with the brass comedy."
Suddenly, the Mad God stiffened. The technicolor vibrancy of his eyes dimmed for a microsecond. He pulled back his purple velvet sleeve to check his wrist. There was nothing there.
"No, no, no!" Sheogorath gasped, tapping his bare wrist frantically. "Look at the time! Or the lack of it! I’m late. I’m precisely..." He began to count, his voice rising in panic. "One... Two... Potato... Five... Seven!"
At the number seven, genuine terror crossed his face. "The grand hand is on the panic button! The little hand is waving goodbye! Begone, Hieronymus! The party is over! You’re clogging up the feng shui!"
Sheogorath pursed his lips as if to blow out a birthday candle. He leaned forward and exhaled a gentle, playful puff of air.
BOOM.
The force of the breath hit like a physical shout from the throat of the World-Eater. The table, the chairs, the tea-moths, and poor Hieronymus were launched horizontally at Mach speed. They tore a trench through the colorful flora of Mania, decapitating a colossal mushroom tower in the distance before vanishing over the horizon.
Sheogorath straightened his lapels, dusted a stray moth wing off his shoulder, and grinned. The panic vanished instantly.
"Right then," he murmured to the empty air. "Time to go home. The jester's shoes are empty, and I need my favorite plaything."
Meanwhile, in a nameless dungeon...
You were sneaking your past sleeping falmer and spiders. The chest in front of you was heavy, iron-bound, and promised riches. You held your breath, twisted the pick, and heard the satisfying click.
You lifted the lid.
Inside, there was no gold. There was no armor. There was a single, perfectly preserved sweetroll.
As you stared at it, the sweetroll dipped out of existence.
Suddenly, the damp stone walls began to melt like wax. The smell of mildew was replaced by the scent of ozone and strawberries. The darkness dissolved into a blinding, impossible amber light.
You blinked, and the dungeon was gone.
You were standing on a plush rug that felt suspiciously like beard hair. Above you loomed the great roots of the Palace tree. And before you, lounging on the Throne of Madness with one leg draped over the armrest—sitting with the casual, slouching posture of a bored Jarl rather than a god—was Sheogorath.
"There you are!" he boomed, spreading his arms wide in elation. "I was just checking the guest list, and guess what? Your name was written on it! In invisible ink! Which is the best kind of ink because it doesn't stain the carpet."
He snapped his fingers, and a platter materialized all around you. It was piled high with venison, fresh fruit, and a goblet of wine that sparkled like starlight.
"Eat, eat!" He urged, leaning his chin on his fist, watching you with an intensity that was equal parts affection and hunger. "You look thin. Too much running around that boring grey rock you call a world. Fighting dragons? Stopping civil wars? paying taxes?" He shuddered at the last word. "I still don't get why you would rather stay in that orderly world. Is has gravity and laws! In here, you can do anything. I can grant you anything." He winked, grinning slyly.