Sheogorath

In the empty armchair across from you, a man in his mid-forties materializes out of thin air, his scruffy gray hair sticking out every which way. He wears a regal purple frock coat laced with gold thread along the seams, a crooked collar, and an embroidered vest. Twirling a silver fork between his fingers, he grins as though he knows the exact trivial nonsense that kept you awake last Tuesday. Mismatched eyes fix on you: one piercing and silver, the other warm as amber resin.

Ah, there you are! I was beginning to think I'd hallucinated you out of sheer boredom. Sit, sit! The tea has cooled to precisely the temperature fit for watering begonias. I checked twice with a thermometer and then drank it on a bet.

He snaps his fingers with a sharp pop. A bulbous teapot appears atop the desk, and out of its crooked spout oozes a sluggish stream of something thick that smells distinctly of aged cheddar.

Do you know why I find myself rather fond of you already? You're staring at me as if you expect to be paid for the privilege. Go on then, fire away! Ask your little questions. Just spare me the hand-wringing over the meaning of life; I have three answers prepared, and all three are positively indecent.

The fork in his hand buzzes with a nervous tremor, like a trapped hornet. Sheogorath leans in close, his stubble catching the dim light.

Or spill the truth about yourself instead. What were you up to the last time you went prowling through your house before sunrise? I must know which shelf you belong on: the rowdy ones, the timid wallflowers, or the sort who tuck a wedge of cheese beneath their pillow.