Chapter 1: The Argonian

The cold air of the frost encrusted mountain tops in northern Skyrim blasted my face with a blow of frigid, relentless air. I had been traveling for a few days now trying to reach Dawnstar from Whiterun. These temperatures do not suit me well, that's for sure. An Argonian such as myself belongs in a marsh, not some mountain range belonging to the Nords. Sometimes I wonder why I even left Black Marsh. The journey proved harsh as I had to climb up the sides of the mountains rather than take the troll infested paths. I had noticed a considerable rise in their intelligence of late. This astonished me since their natural reaction to even seeing another living thing was to flail their arms like a Skeever with its head cut off. Anyway, it was late afternoon around Mundas at the time. Me and Derkeethus, my scale brother, recently ran out of mead and firewood. Our last food was a few stale pieces of bread I found in a barrel in an old cave and a Sweetroll that Derkeethus bothered me for nonstop. Derkeethus had suggested that I learn how to alchemize, but I disregarded it. Now I wish I hadn't.

As we reached the base of the current mountain we were traversing we noticed a small cave up ahead. My curiosity peaked and I had no choice but to go inside. A few horses were tied up outside which worried me deeply. Instinctively, I drew out my duel Ebony Blades and look back to assure my companion's readiness. Upon entering, we did not receive a welcome of savage bandits or falmer, but a few travelers who had the same idea as us. They welcomed us to sit and relax by the fire. I was deeply surprised by this! Most Nords think of us Argonians as thieving pond scum. We did as told. They started to ask us where we were from and Derkeethus answered for me. He knew my regular plan to inspect our surroundings and figured I should not be bothered. As my amphibious eyes skimmed the cracks and crevices of the cave something caught my eye. I saw a hole no bigger than a septim that repeatedly let out a droplet of clear glacial water. It was not much of a discovery, but if focused my mind for a bit. I turned it into a little game of guessing the time between the next droplet. It entertained me for some time until I was shaken out of my trance by the man next to me. A bottle of mead was thrust into my hands and into that of my friend's. I drank mine, but watched as the man regarded me with disgust. I overheard a faint whisper about boots and lizards. I was used to the normal racism of Skyrim. It's sure of a hell lot better than the racism received by those damned Dunmer. Me being who I am, I confronted the man on his comment. He spat in my face and said,

"Pipe down, you salamander."

My first instinct was to jam my 1 ½ inch claws into his eyes, but Derkeethus stopped me. He covered for me by mentioning that I have some anger issues and that everyone was entitled to their opinions about each other.

Some time went by and the Nord's stories filled the air with echoes of laughter, joy and sorrow. One man told of how he had joined the Stormcloak army and that he was part of an attack on Fort Dunstad to the south of our location. Apparently, he had gotten lost from his group in the celebration afterwards and strayed from the trail. He was welcomed into the cave same as us. Another person had a sullen tone in his voice as he described his home in Windhelm. He talked of his beautiful wife, Ingrid, and how she made the best horker loaf that you could ever taste. His story also told of him teaching various things to his son, such as how to skin an elk and how to shoot a bow. This made me homesick as well. I had a wife that I left behind, Juukravia, the most beautiful woman of the entire tribe. We wed and were together to this day. However, ongoing struggles between our people and the Imperials made her uneasy and saddened. She believed Black Marsh to not be the place we should raise our hatchling. I was outraged by this because of Argonian tradition. If we were to move, our son would never receive the sap of the Hist trees. She, however, believed that tradition should go fuck itself. I argued and argued until I finally gave in to her wishes. She said she had friends up in Orsinium, an orsimer province. This threw me into an even larger rage. I suggested we move to Skyrim, the only province I knew of that wasn't Imperial and that was a mix of various races. I had a cousin who worked in the Riften Docks that I said we could live with but she did not agree. Juukravia knew of the assassination of the High King by Ulfric Stormcloak and foresaw a war in the making. I left that night in anger towards my dear wife. Sometimes I wonder what has become of my child. I only wish I could've been there for their birth. However I could not back out of Argonian tradition. It is just our way. However, I wonder what would've become if I had take that road. We did honor the vow to be together now and forever. Even today, about a year since I left, I still lay weeping in my quarters over my family. My hopes are that my son or daughter know of their father. If anything, Juukravia should've told them only good things about me. She would never put a child through such mental torture. I might return to Black Marsh someday and inquire of her fate. For now, my destiny lies in Skyrim.

Once I came out of my flashback filled trance, another story was told of how a man shot an arrow between an Imperials eyes from 60 yards away. The men roared with laughter at the achievement. I turned to see that Derkeethus had lightened up as well. He was laughing the same as them. I had not noticed that everyone was telling storied in the circle that we sat. Apparently, it had come to be my turn. Nords glared at me left and right. I had not any tale I wished to share with racist bastards such as them. I decided I'd make up a tale anyway to break the ice. I started on how I found a huge cave bear in the woods that nearly killed me. However, before I could even continue, one of the men said,

"Yeah, yeah, that's nice. OK, on to you, Harn! Didn't you say you had a glorious story of the time you met a feisty dame at the Bannered Mare?"

This so-called "Harn" boasted out with his story as if it was an accomplishment. He told of meeting a woman that he found to be attractive. A natural blonde, she was a very beautiful lass in her mid twenties. She had curves that could "rival even Lady Mara's figure", according to him. He took her to his room and found her to be a mage who used magic to morph her figure. Once a voluptuous prostitute, an old hag now sit upon his lap with magic pointed at him. He took a dagger and thrust it in her heart before she could react. Little did he know that the magic was a euphoria educing magic to make things more pleasurable. Also, it seemed that the hag form was the transform after all. All in all, he killed a prostitute who pulled a joke on him. Apparently he was kicked out of Whiterun for such an act and was forced north. He figured the ladies would be better in Dawnstar. The Nords laughed and cackled at the shenanigans of their fellow. After all stories had been told and the mead was all gone, it was time for rest. They all shifted into their bed rolls and fell into a deep sleep. I was troubled by the tales told by these common delinquents. Their ideals of a fun time included death, misery and many things of a sexual nature. However sexual activities can be fun, death and such are not. I felt as a sheep in a room of wolves. I lay my head down to notice Derkeethus passed out with the foam from the mead dripping from his mouth. I laughed at my friend and figured he enjoyed the time, even though he was discriminated against. He had always been more lenient on things such as these. After all, he has lived in Skyrim for much longer than I have. I suppose the differences are something you get used to. Soon I found my eyelids to be heavy and I passed off into a land of my own mind.