I know of you both, Amber and Madness. I am well acquainted with your secrets.
Amber, the glowing works of an alien root, I find your resin pristine and holy. Light and powerful, you require a delicate hand, one that recognizes the fragile nature of beauty.
Madness, I know you to be a flexible breed, one congealed from the tattered minds of dead heroes. Unlike Amber, I would bend and bow you like a sinew. I would beat and hammer you, stretch and fold you, knowing that each blow would callous your skin and sharpen your teeth.
It was dark armored men that brought me these treats, these puzzles to solve. "Courtesy of Thoron," they said. Liars. There is no Thoron, not anymore. He is a memory of long past, and memories are as real as dreams and other fanciful thoughts. Still, I had to have them.
Amber, so exquisite, so pretty, like drops of fallen star dew. From your honeyed globes I would craft myself an armor that trapped me inside your beauty and warmth. I would suffocate myself in your light, and in death live for eternity.
But madness, oh madness, you charm me with your edge. From you I would forge a knife to cut out Sheogorath's tongue, and use it to lick the dust off my anvil. Oh how happy that would make all three of us.
In my desperation I've turned to magic, to try and turn these earthly materials into your equals. I have forged armor and blade in hopes of finding a worthy pair. But they are failures. Not fit to be your shadows.
So instead, I will mine the forests and the dead. I will have caravans search the far corners of Tamriel. I will reach into the eye of Oblivion itself, until I find you both again.