The Jygg Is Up

It was not a miscalculation on Jyggalag's part. He had just been doing different calculations over and over again until it was too late. He had run out of time.

Time is an artificial construct. An arbitrary system based on the idea that events occur in a linear direction at all times.

Always forwards. Never back. Despite his predicament Jyggalag assured himself he would be back.

To the other princes, he was a threat. They had summoned all their might against him, banded together, brandishing their magic. An improbability. And here he was now, powerless against their combined onslaught. One cannot kill a daedric prince. His prediction was imprisonment, which was accurate, in a sense. He was a threat to them and they sought to dispose of him.

The princes observed the searing white lance of their magic began to split. Entering the Prince of Order one end and coming out his fragmented form a spectrum of colour.

The pressure was immense. He began to crack and splinter, mind and being fracturing. Calculated deductions about how much more he could withstand no longer coming to him. A part of him wondered if that was for the best. For a moment it was quiet. Eerily quiet. He could scarcely hear his own thoughts. The calm before the storm. Suddenly an overwhelming cacophony. His own thoughts - no, they weren't his own, they couldn't be - assaulted him like a flood. He could feel himself slipping. Not 'here' anymore. Only a fragment of consciousness remained and it was quickly being buried under a torrent of something else.

The princes watched as Jyggalag crumbled. Body giving out until a flickering mass of light began to slowly reform. The essence that had once been a dull grey was now a shimmering array of colours, to an almost sickening extent. The howls had finally ceased. The princes were stoic. It had to be done. Now what was to come of it?

The shape had become something smaller than Jyggalag, a cunning imitation of the human form. After what felt like eras, a man (well, not a man, he was very much still a daedric prince) in a gaudy suit separated himself from the debris, crystals falling from his outfit with a gentle clink. He surveyed the room lips pursed, before his attention fell on the sword of Jyggalag, discarded on the floor. The new prince's gaze was not calculating, more one of disgust. His nose wrinkled at the sight of it; not a hint of recognition.

"If I was to have a sword-" he started, speech cracking slightly, then trailing off. His voice no longer boomed; replaced by a cheerful sing-song, almost to a mocking extent. His brow knitted, a brief spark of magic rectifies this as a cane materialised in his hands. He leaned on it heavily, turning to face the other princes with a Cheshire cat grin. "Forgot what I was saying! Doesn't matter! I-" He recoils slowly, picking up on the dark expressions and general tension in the air. "Wow! Who killed the cat? Mood? I think that's how the saying goes- cats and their well-being do tend to set the tone- ah! I understand. You don't want a stranger at your party. So, allow me to introduce myself." There's an audible rustle of fabric as he tugs on his lapels and lowers himself into a sweeping, slightly taunting, bow. "Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness, at your service."

The daedric princes now have an entirely different problem to deal with.