There was something off about the speckled egg in the center of the clutch. Something that disturbed the elders when they came to see the eggs and bless them unto the Hist.

There was something odd about the red-feathered hatchling in the nursery. Something that made the other hatchlings avoid him with a strange fascination. Something that made him upset when given the Hist-sap.

There was something weird about the young Argonian with the curved horns. Something that made him grow with surprising rapidity and strength; he outgrew his peers almost two-fold.

That was what they said about me. Even my own clutchmates sensed it, whatever it was. I remember a specific incident when Runs-With-the-Moon and his cronies attempted to beat my weirdness out of me, but they only ended up fleeing from me in terror after I cracked his skull on the roots of the Hist. They looked at me with some amount of awe and mystery before that; the mystery lingers, but now I see their fear. And their grudging respect. And it made me feel powerful.

But to what purpose?

I hunt, but I am not made for this land. I swim, but I am not made for this land. I pray to the Hist like a dutiful Saxhleel, but I am not made for this land. I love my people, but I am not made for this land.

Shaman Hyrmyth seemed to be the only one to look out for me, even after my parents shunned me for my behavior and my 'affliction,' whatever it is. A disgrace to the Shadowscales. After the incident with Runs-With-the-Moon, I remember sitting behind an altar in the temple, softly bouncing my head off the coolness of the wall. The shaman came to me, all a-jangle with bones and talismans, and he crouched in front of me.

"Tyrekesh."

I paused in the bounce of my head on the wall, but did not look at him.

"Did you kill Runs-With-the-Moon?"

I shook my head. Well, I almost had, but he wasn't dead. Hyrmyth nodded, mostly to himself. He shifted his weight to sit cross-legged in front of me.

"My child." He called everyone that, but to me, it actually felt genuine. "Clearly your life is wasted here."

This time I looked at him, eyes wide. Black Marsh was home. How could life be wasted defending and supporting home? Those who left home to seek fortunes in the wide world either returned in disgrace or were never seen again. Those who were never seen again were never spoken of except with disdain. The shamans's eyes blinked rapidly in good humor, chin pointing up.

"Do not take that personally. I mean it in the sense that you must be destined for greater things." Hyrmyth rested his hands on his knees, and the way he looked at me then struck me through to the core, like he was seeing something for the first time. "You must be," he added quietly, almost a whisper. "Tyrekesh, do you know how the Saxhleel receive their souls?"

Of course I knew. "We receive them from the Hist," I replied without hesitation.

"We receive them from the Hist. Do you know what happens when a hatchling does not receive a soul from the Hist?"

The direction the conversation started to turn began to alarm me. "…It dies." Such things were rarely spoken of. There was no greater tragedy than the Hist not passing on a soul.

The priest nodded solemnly. "Such a hatchling would never see the light of day." He pointed a gnarled claw at me. "But you did." His eyes crinkled, and something like a puff of disbelief exited his nose. "You never partook of the sap, but you lived, you did."

My mind ceased functioning, but I continued to listen as he continued to speak. "Child, among your siblings you were first to show signs of life in the shell. The ferocity with which you appeared to us at the first viewing was like nothing I'd ever seen. I thought perhaps this clutch would all be warriors of the top tier to have such a viewing. But you were the only one, and the first to truly live." He paused taking a breath. His eyes twinkled like I'd never seen them. "The Hist passes on the souls of dead not in salvos but in one great breath. Initially, I feared the worst, that we had lost almost an entire clutch to a gap in the Hist, but when we visited again, the rest showed themselves to us. It was unremarkable."

With a grunt, he eased himself to his feet and held out a hand for me to take. "I do not think your soul belongs to the Hist," he said as he helped me up. This statement meant the equivalent of death. To say someone did not belong to the Hist was the greatest of insults, the direst of fates. Something, though, in Hyrmyth's voice changed what it meant. From someone else's mouth, it was offensive; from his, it meant promise. Promise of something greater, perhaps.

"I think your soul must take wing in other climes. It will only flounder here among a people who do not understand it. Even I may never fully understand it." As he spoke, we walked to the door of the temple. "Seek your fortunes, Tyrekesh." He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and made a sign of peace before me with the other.

"Do you think this is part of the plan of the Hist?" I hazarded. The skin around his eyes crinkled.

"I do not think the Hist had a part in your destiny. Something far greater has its claws in you."

Life beyond the mangroves taught me many lessons. Some were good. Some were hard. Some resulted in scars. Some resulted in memories. My first lesson was that not everyone is a marsh-friend. I learned this by straying too far into Morrowind, and that lesson has stayed with me always. Many years outside of Black Marsh had essentially removed the part of me that was Argonian. I took a blunt knife to that part of my psyche, the part that other people seemed to think I thought made me better than them, freer, more independent and above the trappings of the Empire. I was sterilized spiritually and culturally. What surprised me was how little I cared and how liberated I felt.

I became a skin-changer, a rough translation of a word we use to describe one who can adapt to situations rapidly and easily. I maintained a healthy love of stealth and slights of hand; this skill has kept me fed many times. But unlike the Argonians on the docks tricking workers with tricks and illusions, I earned a bit of my own bread by fighting. A traveling mage at one point even deigned to teach me some spells after I attempted to pick the pocket of his robes enchanted to shock any would-be sneak-thieves. I seemed only to have affinity for destruction, but it was a strong affinity nonetheless, according to the mage. He recommended I travel to the mage's College in Winterhold.

Winterhold was in Skyrim. Skyrim was cold. The idea of even encountering snow did not appeal to me in the slightest.

Two days later, I decided to be bold and ended up inadvertently freezing a guard rock solid during a brawl with some local thugs. After that, the idea of some discipline with this power became a good idea.

And thus, I fled North.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

I came to slumped in the back of a rickety wagon driven by a horse and man in Imperial armor. All of my effects were gone, and I had been left with some ragged clothes. Damn. There went the gold I'd earned in the fighting rings in that tavern in Cyrodiil. Up ahead of us was another wagon with figures in blue and gold armor.

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" Looking up, I discovered the speaker – an unassuming blond man with a thick Nordish accent. He looked more earnest than he had a right to be and not at all like someone who should be tied up in the back of a prisoner wagon; I wanted to trust him rather than stick a preemptive knife in him. He wore blue and gold like the men in the lead wagon. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

The next speaker, another Nord maybe, made a repugnant face at the blond man. "Damn you Stormcloaks! Skyrim was fine until you came along..."

A pain in my head distracted me from the conversation. All I could remember was hiking knee deep through a grove when a sound made me look up. After that, it just became flashes – swords clanging, men screaming, blue armor, and one mighty shout that shook the snow from the boughs of pines. As caught up as I was, I didn't realize the thief had started talking to me.

"You there. You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!"

The blond Nord smirked fatalistically. "We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

"Shut up back there!"

Collectively, we shoot daggers at the wagon driver with our eyes but lower our voices all the same. The thief jerked his head towards another prisoner in the wagon on my right. "And what's wrong with him?" He said it in a smart manner, somewhat disdainfully. The blond Nord puffed up immediately.

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

I looked to my right at the only one of us dressed in anything finer than a cotton doublet and leather armor. He was blond, too, like the other Nord, but he had the calm eyes of a man who did not appear to be in trouble at all. There was none of the righteous earnestness of his compatriot, just a rock-solid seriousness that I had barely seen in even the most extreme of shamans. Around his mouth was a cloth gag.

"Ulfric?" The thief spoke again. "The Jarl of Windhelm?" He looked at the man with mounting alarm. "You're the leader of the rebellion," he said. "But if they captured you…" His face paled to the color of curdled milk. "Oh gods, where are they taking us!"

The Nord in the front of the wagon sat back, calm again. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

"No, this can't be happening," the thief muttered agitatedly. "This isn't happening."

I didn't know what Sovngarde was nor did I really care, but I did have mounting interest in where we were going. So there was a civil war on in Skyrim, the leader of which now sits next to me bound and gagged in a wagon bound for gods-know where. The Empire can't look kindly upon rebellion at this point. Not with how they let Black Marsh go so easily, and not with the Aldmeri Dominion breathing down their necks.

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" the Nord in the front asked clearly in an attempt to calm the increasingly animated thief.

"Why do you care?" the man shot back. The other Nord remained unruffled.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

I fought and lost against a glib snort. Yeah, home. The suggestion, though, seemed to slightly calm our overworked friend. "Rorikstead. I'm…I'm from Rorikstead."

The wagon riders fell silent as we approached a walled village with round towers. Various Imperial-helmeted heads peered our way warily. One solider near the gate raised a hand once we were within earshot. "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Good. Let's get this over with."

All I could see of the general was the back of his head, and the name meant nothing to me. I did, however, start to pay attention at the word headsman. Regardless of his unfortunate timing, the thief was right. We didn't belong in this wagon. Maybe they thought we were part of the rebellion, which was very bad for the status of our mortal coil.

Across the wagon, the thief began to pray to every deity in Tamriel knowledge. The Nord scoffed lightly. "Look at him. General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." Indeed as we cross through the gate, I spotted one or two elves in brass-colored armor amongst the Imperials. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this. This is Helgen," he said, jerking his head at our surroundings. Eyes peered at us from every window. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny…" His eyes grew distant as he spoke. I remained impassive. I hated juniper berries. "When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel safe."

As we made our rickety way down the road through the town, people shuffled hurriedly inside, sweeping children after them and closing their doors and windows. The Imperial driving our wagon stopped the horse.

"Why are they stopping?" asked the thief.

"Why do you think? End of the line. Let's go." The Nord got to his feet. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

The thief's alarm came back in a flood, and I couldn't help but feel it myself. "No! Wait! We're not rebels!" the thief screamed as they dragged him off the wagon. Beside me, the Nord muttered something disparaging about the thief's fear. The thief turned to me, the Nord, and Ulfric Stormcloak in turn as they sheparded us into a round courtyard. "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

I could barely feel the chill of the air so great was my own mounting fear. The fog in my head almost cleared at the sight of the dozen guards lining the walls and guarding the exits of the yard. And there in the middle was a large wooden block resting on the ground before a masked executioner with a large axe. For the first time in many years, I hissed a prayer to the Hist. I doubted it would work, but it couldn't hurt. I threw around the idea of maybe trying a spell, but with my hands tied, it would be next to impossible. I was frozen, walking to my death with barely a fight.

A fierce-looking woman in steel armor stood next to a man with a scroll. She rested a hand on the hilt of her sword and looked upon us like she had a bad taste in her mouth. The captain, perhaps. "Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time."

"Empire loves their damn lists," muttered the Nord ahead of me. The man with the scroll opened it to read off the names.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."

Head held high, Ulfric Stormcloak strode forward without much ado.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." Our Nord friend, naturally, unable to restrain himself. I imagine if he'd been wearing a hat and his hands had been free, he would have removed it in honor of his Jarl.

The Imperial kept reading. "Ralof of Riverwood." The blond Nord moved forward. "Lokir of Rorikstead."

Lokir was shaking like a leaf in front of me. He tossed his head around, beseeching those present with his eyes as much as his mouth. "No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" Before I or anyone else could stop him, he ran. He bolted straight for the main gate. The captain snarled out a command, but Lokir did not stop. "You're not going to kill me!"

He almost made it before one of the archers took him out with a well-placed arrow between his shoulder blades. The body hit the ground still moving. The captain turned her eyes back on us, lips pursed. "Anyone else feel like running?"

I did still, but Ralof had a point. I certainly wasn't going to die by getting shot in the back. The man with the scroll finally seemed to notice me. He looked at the paper and did a small double take. "Wait, you there." I glanced to my left and right, but he obviously meant me. "Step forward. Who are you?"

Stepping forward, I tried to emulate the calm solemnity that Ulfric held himself with, but I didn't think it convinced anyone.

"I am Tyrekesh of Black Marsh."

The Imperial seemed indifferent beyond his confusion as to how I ended up before him. He scanned the list again.

"Are you a relative of the Riften dock workers, Argonian?" I supposed I just couldn't be a traveler. He seemed to take my haughty silence as an answer and looked back to his list. "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

The woman apparently only needed one look at me to pass her judgment. "Forget the list. He goes to the block."

To his credit, the scroll-reader seemed at least a little apologetic.

"We'll return your remains to Black Marsh."

I refrained from informing him how pointless that would be. No need to unearth that in this particular situation. I walked over to stand with Ralof and the Jarl. Ralof gave me a sympathetic look. He probably would have spoken of the glory of Sovngarde or whatever, but the death of Lokir seemed to have shaken him.

A man stepped forward past me. I recognized the back of his head as that of General Tullius. "Ulfric Stormcloak." The way he said the Jarl's name finally pulled some reaction out of the otherwise sullen man. A fire leapt into his blue eyes as he looked upon the Imperial. The General continued. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his kind and usurp his throne."

Well, it made sense why they were so keen on executing all of us immediately. That was a hefty charge. Ulfric made a few noises of indignant protest against his gag, but I couldn't tell what he said. Tullius scoffed. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace."

Anger deepened the Jarl's brow. Tullius's words made it seem like he was merely putting down a mad dog that had bit its master. Perhaps he was. Just then, a noise echoed down from the mountains that made the entire assembly pause.

The noise made my skin crawl. It was like a roar. It cleared my head almost instantly. The scroll reader, holding his scroll in both hands nervously, spoke up. "What was that?"

Tullius turned an irate eye on him. "It's nothing." To the captain. "Carry on." The captain nodded and turned to a womanly figure in tan robes standing to the side.

"Give them their last rites."

The priestess stepped forward, lifting her arms in reverence. "As we command your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved – "

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with." One of the prisoner soldiers, a Stormcloak I suppose, from the other wagon stepped forward, knocking aside arms to walk directly to the block. The priestess withdrew with a slight huff. The Stormcloak knelt before the block. "Come on, I haven't got all morning. My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials." He laid his head on the block. "Can you say the same?"

The executioner wasted no time. The Stormcloak's head separated from his shoulders with little ceremony. It hit the ground with a thud. I winced. I had seen people die, but perhaps due to my own precarious position, it seemed to have affected me more than I wanted it to. Behind me, the other Stormcloaks shouted angrily at the Imperials. Others, villagers that had wandered up to witness the executions, shouted back at the Stormcloaks. Helgen, it seemed, was strongly Imperial.

The captain turned her eyes on me suddenly, and it snapped me out of my stupor. "Next, the lizard!"

A howling roar, for it was a roar, rushed down again from the mountains, louder, closer. My head rang this time, and a strange feeling came over me. A strange clarity almost. I stopped hearing the people around me, only the echo of the sound in my head. My feet carried me woodenly to the block, where I hit my knees and laid my head on the bloody surface. I was floating, staring up at the executioner as he stepped forward to lift his axe.

A general cry came from the crowd, but I couldn't hear them. The buzzing in my ears was so great, I could focus only on the winter sunlight glinting off the edge of the executioner's axe as it swung over his head.

I was going to die. All around me was chaos and shouting.

A dark shadow passed over the courtyard, and a large creature landed on top of the southern tower. I looked it straight in the eye through the arms of the executioner. I felt my blood run cold.

"Dragon!"

AN: Hey all, just getting some writing exercises out via my dual-wielding Argonian knight, Ty. I'm trying to stay as faithful to the source material as possible, but the knowledge of Argonian stuff is only so detailed, and while the game is very thorough, there's just some stuff that needs a little bit of artistic license to make palatable as writing. Hope you enjoy!