( tw for mentions of violence and lots of cussing )

On that day, he was feeling brave. On that day, he was feeling invincible. It had been awhile since Sheogorath had had an episode such as this. He had only had two over the past three months, but none had been quite so bad as what he was experiencing at that moment, though to Sheogorath, it could hardly be considered bad. After all, he felt as if he jumped off of the casino, he could grow wings and fly. The rational part of him told him that was stupid. He'd die. But he wasn't being rational in that moment. He was manic, and he was angry, and he was ready to fight, and ready to change, all at the same time. His adrenaline was rushing, pumping through heated veins, and amber eyes were feral and wild. That was why Sheogorath stood on the steps of the casino, his cane perched upon the concrete beside him, his chin lifted as he scanned the exterior. Just yesterday, he had gotten punched, and the black and blue bruise on his face, the brutal discoloration, was visible for all to see. It hurt, of course, but Sheogorath wasn't going to acknowledge it in his current state of mind. He had an announcement to make.

[b]"Ya know what, Mr Badlands? Oh Badlands my Badlands! What a great fucking place, am I right? People assaulted in the streets! People branded fer...fer a stupid lie. Visiting a group that we're now neutral with, by the way, to offer a simple apology? But then when someone like Mike punches a kid, and probably a whole host of other stuff, well he gets off real simple! This is a place where you can kick a man while he's down! Ah, breathe it in, world! I fucking love it here!" Sheogorath drew in a loud breath through his flaring nostrils. "But ya know what? YOU WANNA KNOW SOMETHING? I'm done. Done caring. About any of this...this shit. All of ya'll are shit, ya know? Well, except maybe a few of ya, but I'm not gunna sit here and name names." Sheogorath's voice was a firm mixture of mocking amusement, strange cheeriness, and rage. He might as well be shit faced drunk. He was acting like it, though he didn't stumble, his body was locked tight and rigid, he stood straight, his chin lifted.

"Now, I don't have any room in me cold heart fer hatred, mind you all. But really, it's tempting. Some of you lot are...real heathens. Bastards. But it's okay. It's FINE! Because from this point onward, I'm not going to give a single flying fuck. And anyways, why should I? I'm the PRINCE of MADNESS! And the KING of DOLPHINS! Oh, and I might as well be a THANE of BUTTERFLIES! Yeah that sounds good. So get ready, Badlands, because here comes the Sheogorath you always knew and loved. Cheers! CHEERS TO YA ALL! Let's all clink our glasses together in honor of me! Because I'm not just a worm, I'm a FUCKING worm, and ya know what? I don't care. I'm happy! And if any of ya want to try and stop me from being happy, well that's too damn bad, because I won't care! Not one. Single. Bit." Of course, that was a lie. Deep down, he'd always care. But outwardly, nobody would know. From that moment on, he'd walk the talk, just how he used to be, minus the murderous bits. He could hide his feelings. Hide his depression. Hide it all. And maybe, just maybe, if he acted like he was happy long enough, he'd actually become happy.

"I hope yer all happy with yerselves. 'Cause I'm happy with myself! Fuck you all, and good day!" It was the last thing he had to say. He was starting to get tired. Starting to wind down. Starting to realize what he was saying, and suddenly, he felt so very tired. Exhausted, really. Like coming down from an intense sugar rush. As the mania faded, so did his anger, his feeling of bravery, his sense of indestructibility. But fine, he could do it, act like he didn't care, hide the hurt deep inside where not even he could feel it. Where nobody would see it ever again. It was time to move on. It was time to make the world believe that he was moving on, anyways. And he would. Sheogorath leaned against his carved wooden cane, and narrowed his piercing amber gaze. He supposed now he just had to wait for a reaction from passers-byes. He doubted anyone would give a care about anything he had said. They'd probably look at his weirdly. Sheogorath lifted his left hand, and rubbed at his tired eyes. Damn was he exhausted.

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Michael's voice snagged the red headed man's attention, and his skull shifted to allow for his sharp, flaming amber gaze to accommodate the other man's presence, the former soldier. The words of Mike shifted into awaiting ears, and Sheogorath frowned.

[b]"I'm not on anything." He spoke seriously, wondering why exactly his friend would ask such a thing. Well, he might have had an idea, after all, he had just gone off the deep end. It was clear Sheogorath was having a bit of a breakdown. He lifted his hand from his cane, letting the weapon lean against his leg, and wiped his tired eyes with slender fingers. "You look like shit. And I'm not tired." He responded sharply, the hint of exhaustion in his tone ringing with clarity. But whatever. His eyes shifted, and swept around the exterior of the structure, wondering who else had heard his rant. Gabriel was nearby, someone he hadn't seen in a while, and then a newcomer, Santos, speaking so quietly, Sheogorath couldn't really hear, but he saw his mouth moving. Sheogorath narrowed his eyes.

"What was that? Didn't quite hear ya." The red head spoke with evident challenge. Sheogorath didn't know if Santos was talking shit, but he certainly hoped not. In his current state, the tired man probably wouldn't tolerate much of it. He perched his hand upon the pale blue glass eye of his carved wooden cane, and blinked away his exhaustion from tired, fiery hued eyes.

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