Desperate Conjuring

2nd of First Seed

The addled old wizard struggled to get the bags over his shoulder. Normally, it takes from one to three items to summon a Daedric Prince, but, if Septimus couldn’t remember how to bathe or clap his hands, he wouldn’t be getting even simple rituals right any time soon.

Soul gems of every grade, falmer ears, ogre teeth, one of every vegetable in the guild’s kitchen, soap, gold, a lock of Tolfdir’s hair, and other odds-and-ends that Septimus thought important were all packed into the sacks.

He wandered stark naked into the woods (his robes were also in the bag) begging the brewing storm for relief.

“Please, mercy, please, please, mercy,” he whimpered, “please, please, please…”

He reached a clearing and began to dump out the contents of the sacks unto an abandoned hagraven altar just as thunder began to crash.

“PLEASE!” He shrieked.

“Enough, enough. That’ll do mortal! Haha! That’ll do.” Laughed the Prince, “what can my humble personhoodness do for you, ya length of hoarker fat?”

Septimus had done something right for the first time in a while, his eyes widened and he reached out as if to grab at the robe of the Prince. “Uncle, uncle, uncle.” He whispered.

“Are ya callin’ me yer uncle or callin’ uncle?” Said the Prince, “Oy’ why do I always get the mad ones? Never easy to understand.”

“YES!” Cried out Septimus.

“I aM thE prinCE OF MADness, NOT UNmadness” the whooped Prince “but its easy to understand yer confusion, being mad and all.” His voice became uncharacteristically kind for a moment. The Prince lifted his robe and took a squatting position, defecating as he spoke, “I can only lift half yer madness, the other half is very… um… Nirn-y? Ya saw an Elder Scroll, made love to its sweet, sweet words. Ther isn’t anything to do for that, but I can get you into that sweet-spot of half-crazy again.”

Septimus was gagging and weeping from the prognosis. Not even the Mad God could lift the madness of an Elder Scroll.

“Tell you what, tho, I’m owing a favor to a certain smarty-pants eldritch mass who’s on good terms with the Scrolls. Say I transfer yer call… yes, that might work.”

The Mad God’s smile literally went from ear to ear, “Come back to these woods in thrrRrree days and bring… well, I don’t know, actually… bring… an octopus and a book? 'Ol Woody'll take mighty fine care of you.” Uncle Sheo giggled, “And I’ll take my half of the madness back to the Isles, it’ll make a nice set of earrings for Haskill.”

Sheogorath reached into Septimus’ mouth and yanked out a black tooth and crammed it into his own ear. “There ya go, ye must feel much worse now. Get on with that book and octopus, and don’t be late for yer meeting!” Sheo climbed into a rotting tree stump and pretended to go back to the Isles. “I’m not here!” He cried.

Being only half-mad Septimus had his first coherent thought in a while: “I need to start writing that book.”