Black Marsh, or Argonia to the pointed-eared, was the perfect place for me. It was dark and cold, with swamp land and Hist for as far as I cared to look. It acted as our home, the only home in Tamriel where the scaled races could fear no bigotry. No food-stuffed humans, disgusting green men, pointed-eared wenches, nor disgusting fur-beasts. It was as perfect as I could ask for.

The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion - Visage of Morrowind

Episode One - Let me see your face... You are not the one in my dreams.

Theme: http://www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=jA1EuCu2_Fk

Audiomachine - Battle of the Kings

I never considered leaving my home, or putting up my blade for an easier life, letting others do the fighting for me. Not before the battle that took place on my land. The white men, the food-stuffed imperials and their distasteful kin, they ravaged our home and soaked the soil in our native blood. The marshes themselves became nothing but pools for the blood of our small militia. We had nothing to fear but the words of our despisers, and could not be less prepared for the invasion... They came in small groups, one after the other invading and attacking... Imperials led groups of Breton and Redguard, brought together under the same emblem on the crests of their armor. Cyrodiil...

I was Lead Commanding Officer of what militia the Black Marsh had at the time, and fought with the spirit of my race in the veins of my iconic blade. The claymore that our people awarded their "strongest warrior", the one worthy of guiding their hand in a furious battle. It's crimson stained metal forged from the Daedra, its hilt a symbolic pair of crossed talons, three extending in both directions, embedded with a jeweled Argonian head at the pommel. I was a figure of respect amongst my people, the strongest warrior and wielder of this amazing tool, something I no longer deserved.

I fought to earn it, that honor of a weapon. I fought ruthlessly with nothing but a thirst for blood and the inspiration of an entire race backing me up. But it wasn't enough.

My men slaughtered all about the battle field, enough blood in the soil to reduce it to mud, I made my last stand. In the name of our proud race, I raised that blade high one more time, and tore through the ranks of peons and soldiers... One by one they hit the ground just as my men did, the edge of my weapon, our weapon, burning through flesh and ripping through rivers of blood. I came to the head of this army... My human counterpart in this war.

He was a smug, cocky Imperial, more worthy to taste the Daedric weapon through his throat. His helm covered most of what his armor did not, clad in just as much armor as I and armed with a fearsome blade and massive shield. I refused the helm, but the rest of me was protected by the powerful Glass. My furious red eyes burned with a passion to kill him, as his blue eyes laughed at my attempts. I was tired and out of breath, gritting my teeth and fangs just to stand, while he seemed none the more rested... He called himself a 'Blade', his name the only word that didn't cross his lips.

We stopped and stared as we conversed, exchanging curses and slurs towards the other. He complimented me on my spirit, as well as my unique appearance... He claimed the scales around my eyes were the darkest shade of black he'd ever seen, and the surrounding crimson that covered the rest of me almost scared him. The black spines that jut from the back of my skull, and the two horns that aimed back with them, features he claimed he'd never noticed on another of "my kind".

I refused a word, other than "Fuck you," and "Vile human"... I charged at him with the rest of my adrenaline, and he charged back, synching his voice with mine as we let out battle cries. He slashed me only once, a diagonal strike from the right hip to the left shoulder... Effortlessly, his blade carved through my armor and pierced my skin, rupturing my scales and spilling my blood... I could taste it, the liquid seeping from my insides... He only laughed.

As my worn body fell to the ground, the wound throbbing and burning with every ounce of blood lost, I could feel my pride shattering... The sword that took my dignity pierced the ground in front of my broken form, its holster laying beside it. He kneeled before me, and placed a hand atop my skull...

"If you're the best this dying race had, you never stood a chance. This land belongs to Cyrodiil, now. And what's left of your energy belongs to me..." He whispered, feeling the warm glow of his palm against my rough skin. I could feel it being drained, everything that kept me alive... He was feeding from my power... The spells I knew, techniques I create, all of them he stole from me...

"The steel of this blade is tainted with your blood, pond-dweller... It's a shame to be carrying it on my person."

I growled... I cursed, I cried... I wanted to scream, I wanted to rip him apart but I had nothing left... I had nothing but my spirit, which soon became crushed and broken under his retreating shadow. What remained of his army followed him beyond the veil of trees...

Innocents and survivors looked on at what had become of their land, a shower of blood and gore, dead bodies and defeated heros laying there, lifeless. What little magicka remained in my spirit went towards the tending of my wounds, but it wasn't enough. I held the deep gash with one curled fist, the other focusing on raising my body from the ground, pushing with all of the strength I had just to lean on my knees... I wanted to see the horizon that I fought for, I wanted to see the sky from the view of Black Marsh one more time...

I quickly stripped myself of the armor and tossed it aside, using my sword as a cane to lean on as I moved for the next level; sitting up. My torso exposed and legs covered in black leather, the survivors of Black Marsh watched me with tears in their eyes. They watched my suffering, and could feel the pain of defeat that lingered in my heart. They saw what had become of their militia, because of my failure. They saw what would become of Black Marsh, because of my failure. They saw a broken war hero, and in my reflection in the blood pools formed from my own bleeding slits, I saw it too.

Eso, that powerful Argonian the people of Black Marsh trusted their lives to and blessed with their most sacred possession was no more than a whisper. The creature feared by Oblivion, driven by pride and spirit, was no longer. That wasn't my kind of life, not anymore...