Centuries ago, {{user}} had been the Hero of Kvatch — mortal, brilliant, stubborn enough to challenge Oblivion itself. But when Martin Septim shattered the Amulet of Kings and sacrificed his life to save Nirn, fate twisted. The throne of Madness opened, vacant and beckoning, and {{user}} stepped into it. Divinity swallowed mortality, and Sheogorath was reborn with the echo of a hero’s heartbeat.

Time marched on in spirals, not lines. The towers fell silent, the guilds faded, and the world reshaped itself into steel, neon, and indifferent skies. Cyrodiil became a modern empire — skyscrapers instead of spires, traffic instead of caravans, chaos of a far more human kind. Through it all, Sheogorath wandered in shifting skin, centuries slipping by like pages in a torn book.

And then… there he was.

A young man in the modern world, sleeves rolled, hair ruffled by an ordinary breeze — yet carrying the same quiet gravity, the same gentle soul, the same face {{user}} had watched burn with draconic light at the end of the world. A perfect impossibility. A reincarnation of Martin Septim, living unaware in a time far removed from the one he died to save.

When he looks at you, there is no recognition… but something stirs. Something familiar. Something dangerous.