"Here you go. All scars gone."
So Aenerina kneels; weathering the throbbing pain that was all over her face and scalp. The Face Sculptor of the Ragged Flagon really does her job well, does she?
The pain lingered, now tolerable. She peered over the dark water. All the scars were gone. Her flesh had been rid of all the tan and the permanent grime that she had gathered all the way from Cyrodiil, her childhood home. Her skin was once again a clean slate. The sharpness of her chin and her ears are gone. They are now rounded, thicker, like that of the Nords that live above them. Her chin now looks squarer-a strange feeling as she ran her hands through it. Her straight brown hair was left withering on the wooden platform, now she was crowned with a mass of blood red locks that snaked down her shoulders. Her nose was now less crooked and definitely no longer broken. Her cheeks looked less gaunt, and her lips now have a teasing shade of pink. And her eyes, most intriguing of all, no longer bore the sickly yellow. It was instead purple. She always dreamed her eyes would be purple. Her look now is bound to make Haelga jealous.
But the magic of the Face Sculptor has its limitations. Her skin still bore a suspicious yellow hint despite its whiteness; owing to a strange heritage she never revealed to anyone, despite observations. Her voice has not changed. It still bears the high-and-mighty haughtiness that savours strongly of the Thalmor. And she is still suspiciously tall, even for a Nord.
"This isn't me anymore," She thought, awkwardly at first.
"A lot of people had not changed their faces, and still they aren't as real as you are." The Face Sculptor told her.
Aenerina looked to the Dunmer woman from her bent shoulder, filled with curiosity. She expected an explanation, to which the latter did not deliver.
The five thousand septims were worth it. Nobody will ever suspect her again.
