Chapter Text
....the word I shall have once written of, this "art" our lesser cousins speak of when their admirable ignorance…
Jyggalag Invents Tonal Architecture
As the world grew more organized, with nations and theologies forming in predictable patterns, Jyggalag decided to walk amongst the mortals. He donned the guise of a madman offering complex riddles, to see who was most capable of critical thinking regardless of outward appearances. He determined that the Dwemer were superior in these mental exercises; however, they were a far cry from logically deducing the nature and fabric of reality.
“What is the smallest change I can make that will ripple into the exponential advancement of their society?” he said to himself. At that same moment, a young Dwemer nearby commented wistfully to herself, “The sounds of the miners’ pickaxes are so rhythmic.”
Jyggalag silently agreed. Consistent rhythm and tone at the appropriate wavelengths are mathematically beautiful, and quite useful in more complex magical manipulations. He could not simply gift this information to these mortals; that would prove counterproductive for their mental education. However, he evaluated the possibilities and predicted that changing one small desire, in just one mortal, would help the Dwemer as a whole reach their potential on their own.
Jyggalag took hold of the Dwemer’s mind and subtly encouraged in her a desire to include more rhythm in her life. This bare whisper of a thought permeated through her essence, to her very bones, and set her on a course to incorporate sound into her magical studies.
She failed - critics all but ripped her research asunder. Her few faithful students fared no better. Finally, her student’s students refined her theories, and their work eventually led to the success of the first Tonal Architect.
***
Sewing with Hearsay
When sewing a garment using thread coarse
To create a gown of some beautiful art
You might find that without a primary source
One tug on the thread, and it all falls apart.
A Mad God's Moment Arrives
3E 433
LORD SHEOGORATH
I pushed my slice of cake around my plate with my fingers, ignoring the nearby fork. It looked decadent. It smelled delicious. The icing’s buttery texture felt divine under my nails. The fact that it wasn’t quite flawless- the cake itself was dry - made it all the more believable.
I was in no mood for cake, but toying with it gave my idle hands something to do while I plotted my demise.
It's not that I hated myself. Quite the opposite; I was wonderful. Unlike the lump of unnecessary mortal food I was squishing, every fiber of my being was bloody perfect.
I just disagreed with myself on some things. I would agree to disagree, since it’s me and all, but unfortunately I wouldn’t give myself the same courtesy.
Because I hated myself.
So, murder it would have to be. Suicide? Deicide. That’s the one, to lead me to freedom. Alas, I had to wait for the right opportunity.
Freedom is a lie.
“HASKILL!” I shouted, whipping my head up to scan the dining hall.
Thinking is a lie.
Haskill manifested out of nowhere. “Bored, I presume?” he asked, bowing.
“Find an amusing way to deliver today’s news,” I challenged him. He sighed.
Roll your eyes for me, I thought privately, without me forcing you. I know you want to. I had private thoughts about this all the time. Why? Because public thoughts are telepathy, and it’s rude to get the two confused.
I gave Haskill my best grin as I stared at him. He simply stared back, disobeying my unordered order. Too predictable.
You knew he wouldn’t. You know everything, you know. You know, you now, you no, somehow…
My grin dissolved. “Quickly!” I barked.
Haskill nodded, surveying the unnecessarily ornate table before me for entertainment props. It was bare save for my goblet of nirnroot wine - he knew better than to mess with that - and of course, my cake.
His eyes lingered on the smushed dessert. “Your fingers have been all over this,” he deduced.
“Indeed,” I agreed, “and I’m not even going to eat it.”
The cake is…
“Is it up for grabs, then?”
With a grandiose wave in the confection’s general direction, I nodded. Haskill hesitated briefly, then grabbed the crumbling lumps with his bare hands, stuffing as much as he could into his mouth before his gag reflex kicked in.
His cheeks puffed out. There was frosting everywhere. He neither chewed nor swallowed. Yet he maintained his infamous air of haughty professionalism, which he could uSe As a WeapoN, On The occAsionaL OccaSion…
Casual observers would say this was minimally silly at best, but they’re all blind. To get the full experience, I used my magical peepers to creep into Haskill’s mind. I stumbled across a plethora of disgusting creative imagery, revealing where Haskill feared my fingers had been prior to a few moments ago.
Revolting. Do Daedric Princes wash their hands?
"This one doesn't," I interjected helpfully, and my loyal servant's eyes began to glisten.
Don’t throw up. Most of the heathens on Nirn have never heard of soap, and they survive. Barely. Some would be grateful to consume food he’s fondled. Inconceivable - I’m not swallowing! Nightmares for weeks. Don’t throw up. I’d do it again, because nothing can compare… Stop.
Live to serve. The fork was right there! Focus. NEWS. If I wipe my face… NO.
AMUSE! NEWS!
Stop overre-
Remain cal-
Don’t-
There’s almost nothing better than someone else’s problems to distract you from your own! Once his own internal monologue began to disintegrate, he was left with nothing but his obsessive drive to complete assigned tasks.
Thankfully he had me, to always give him more work to do.
“Mmrrrfflll wtthh rffrrrfffrrrffllfppth,” my Chamberlain informed me dutifully. Aside from bigger cheeks, his outward appearance remained dreadfully normal, revealing nothing of the war waging within. His impeccable posture suggested that he could do this all day; it was all the same to him.
Although the sound of constant consonants lightly tugged at unwanted memories, I chuckled.
“E for effort,” I said, and with barely a thought I disintegrated all particles of cake. Haskill allowed himself a shiver of relief, and a slight, very polite cough, as I continued, “You said Uriel was assassinated, eh?”
“Yes,” Haskill confirmed. “After his three legitimate sons. The illegitimate one will likely be put into play soon.”
"Bound to happen." I frowned. “If that slippery Septim’s sons were killed first, then he knew to run. So how did they get him?”
“He was found attempting to escape through a secret passage within the prison.”
I would have known this already, had I bothered to flex my power regularly. But on good days I loved surprises, and on bad days I saw no point. Hence having Haskill handle the news.
However, hearing this made me get up and literally kick myself in the rump for falling out of touch. Hard enough to hurt, to wake me up.
My chamberlain raised an eyebrow as I leapt in front of him. “A random prisoner escaped with them,” I breathed into his face. “Tell me I’m right.”
“As always, my lord.”
Yes! “When?”
“Yesterday, our time. A few hours ago, on Nirn. Is this the moment you were looking for by speeding up the Shivering Isles?”
“Could be, could be!” I took Haskill by the hand and shoulder, and began to waltz around the hall. He reluctantly followed my lead, and I savored his mental list of my dance mistakes. I laughed and continued, “Tell my citizens their impending motion sickness is due to me resetting time to match pace with Nirn. It should settle in a few days. Also, I’m going out; don’t wait up.”
“Very good.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is this related to the Greymarch?”
“That would be telling.” I winked, releasing Haskill near the dining hall’s entryway. “Now leave me be. Dismissed!”
I was able to reset the pace of our timeline before he had finished his bow. As he looked up, I disappeared in a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
If my suspicions were confirmed, then I could finally dust off my plans and set them in motion. Deicidal Daedric plots! How exciting! Especially with the fate of the Shivering Isles, and one impeccably well dressed ruler, hanging in the balance.
See, I had a teensy tiny terrifying secret; something I hadn’t even shared with Haskill. I had reason to believe the next Greymarch wouldn’t come with a reset.
If my plan failed, then this time, I might truly cease to exist.