I receive a call on my portable communication orb. Razum-dar wants to meet me in Skywatch. (And poked my hearth-wife to message me about it.) Something about making me actually do kingly things and while it’s important to deal with bandits, there are other things that really need doing. Dammit. Getting this thing has made it so much harder to procrastinate. Oh well. I suppose I can’t put this off forever.

I gather my party and teleport us to the wayshrine outside of Skywatch. Raz is waiting for us in the Mages Guildhall in Skywatch to explain what’s going on. Vanus Galerion, the guildmaster, is supposed to be here by now but is running late, so I don’t feel terribly bad that I’m being the late one here.

“So, what’s my job here?” I ask. “Any beasts that need to be bested in battle? Any villains to be vanquished in valorous combat?”

“Raz is certain that will come,” he says. “But no. Right now? Your diplomatic skills are needed more.”

“Fine, you did need a king and not a warrior, I suppose,” I say. “Who am I winning over with words and wit?”

“Neri, please stop alliterating,” Eran mutters.

“The leaders of the other two alliances,” Raz says as an Altmer man enters the guildhall. “Ah, here is the Guildmaster now.”

“King Neri, I presume?” the Altmer says. “I am Vanus Galerion, leader of the Mages Guild. I’m told you are a master of diplomacy? I believe someone said you could–how did they put it?–sell sand to a Khajiit.”

Vanus explains how they’re working on a plan to get the leaders of the three alliances to meet at some island somewhere called Stirk in order to discuss an invasion of Coldharbour. And somehow, I was the one considered to have the best chance of convincing them. Fine, I guess I can’t argue with that sentiment. And I suppose I can’t pause to take over Tamriel before stopping the Planemeld.

Oh shit. “Where exactly am I going?” I ask.

“Wayrest, first,” Vanus says. “And then Mournhold. I can open portals for you to save on travel time. And as a neutral party, I will do the introductions.”

“I am not going to Mournhold,” I say firmly. “Can’t Jorunn meet us somewhere else?”

“I understand that his palace is inaccessible at the moment, although he wouldn’t elaborate on why,” Vanus says. “Seemed a bit peculiar, but I didn’t pry. He’s offered to meet us at the guild plaza in Mournhold instead.”

“The guild plaza?” I ask. “Seriously? Nobody had a backup house somewhere in Skyrim he could use instead? I’d even settle for a mud hut somewhere in Black Marsh.”

“What do you have against Mournhold?” Vanus wonders.

I lower my voice. “My ex-wife is there.”

“Your ex-wife?”

I give a short nod. “In my foolish youth, I once married a daughter of one of the Great Houses. It… was bad. Long story. Don’t tell anyone. She won’t recognize me dressed like this anyway, most likely. She’d probably try to murder me if she did.”

“I see,” Vanus says. “I’ll not pry about that, either. Still, whoever she was, it seems unlikely that she will be among the Skald-King’s guards.”

“Probably not, no,” I say with a sigh.

I wish I could ask Vanus to conveniently portal me to wayshrines.

The portal drops us out at a stone castle full of human and Orc guards, with a Breton in a crown standing before a throne. Wayrest Castle is not warded against portal magic. Noted.

“Esteemed High King Emeric,” Vanus says. “I present to you Neri gro-Drublog, King of the Wood Orcs.”

“Well, you’re a bold one,” Emeric says. “I’ve heard about you. The bards sing of your deeds even in here Wayrest. Have you come to pledge your loyalty to the Daggerfall Covenant along with your fellow Orcs?”

High King Emeric does not understand Orcs. Noted.

I chuckle. “Afraid not. I’m happy with the Dominion.”

“I don’t know what you see in Queen Ayrenn,” Emeric says. “She’s a naive child who has no idea what she’s doing.”

They’re all children to me.

“Sure,” I say. “But she’s a child with a dream that everyone should be equal, whether they’re Elves or Orcs or Khajiit or Humans or even Goblins. The… sincerity of it hurts sometimes, but it’s a beautiful dream. And she has people like me who know how to conduct battle. Fortunately for both of us, I’m not here to besiege your castle, either.”

Honestly, getting the Covenant under my thumb is going to be much easier than the Ebonheart Pact, if only because I won’t need to worry about interference from the Three Fetchers. By which I mean if I were actually attempting to take over the Covenant’s territories and peoples.

“Then why have you come?” Emeric says.

I don’t understand Bretons or Redguards terribly well myself, though, which might put a damper on that. Not that I’m trying to take over Tamriel or anything. I see Bretons as another mer offshoot, but I doubt they see it the same way. Not that I terribly hold it against the Nords for being Nordy, either.

If I still had my old ring, Moon-and-Star, I’d bet that I could convince them all to follow me. Its powers were a bit (intentionally) overblown, but it still boosted ‘ridiculous’ speechcraft to ‘downright implausible’. At a certain point, it becomes one step off of mind control. I’d bet that, even without it, I’d have a good chance of success, but not enough that I’d be willing to take the risk without an additional bargaining chip. What’s worse is that I don’t think I’m even quite back up to ‘ridiculous’. When that Anchor Mooring shat me back out onto Nirn, any social skills I had were pretty atrophied.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

It begs the question, then, do I want to take over Tamriel? Well, sure. I’d take it over and point at Ayrenn and go, “See that young High Elf there? She’s awesome and friendly and wants everyone to be fucking nice to each other. Unlike me, because I’m a bloodthirsty con artist who will as soon kill you as talk you into doing something. So can I talk you into listening to her or do I have to kill you?”

I do not currently have a bargaining chip that would guarantee they’d listen to me yet. Maybe I can at least talk them into saving themselves, though.

“I intend to take the fight to Coldharbour and put a stop to the Planemeld,” I say instead. “Before more of our world turns into hell.”

“Battling a Daedric Prince?” Emeric says. “That’s a tall order. You expect me to commit troops to this endeavor?”

I shrug. “Nah. I’m giving you the opportunity to be a part of this endeavor.”

“So confident, are you,” Emeric says. “And how exactly do you propose to do such a thing? The forces of Oblivion are numberless.”

“Daedra are immortal,” I say. “Nobody expects anything useful to come of punching Molag Bal in the face. We don’t need to actually conquer Coldharbour. We do, however, need to find whatever he’s using to throw Dark Anchors at Nirn and break it. While the Daedra pouring from the sky were fun at first, it’s really getting old.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” Emeric asks. “We turn our attention to the Daedra, and it will leave Cyrodiil open for one of the other alliances to take. Even if the Dominion are also assisting, that would leave the Pact to march on the Imperial City.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, who cares about the Imperial City?” I say. “I’m going to be contacting the Pact as well, but would it make you feel better if I go conquer Cyrodiil first? I’ll be back in time for dinner. I’ve just been taking the fight to Daedra and cultists first because I didn’t think the war was terribly important in the grand scheme of things. Let’s deal with Molag Bal first, and then we can squabble about who gets to rule Tamriel. Only a fool fights in a collapsing cave.”

The king makes some sounds of protest.

“Have you looked outside your castles lately?” I go on. “Daedra are falling from the skies! Not just occasionally, but each dolmen has another anchor drop several times a day! My axe has cut down more of them personally than you would imagine. You’re afraid to be the first one to commit? Then I will commit. I will be leading this push myself, and there’s no one alive that knows more about Coldharbour than me.”

“The bards already sing of your defeat of ‘Manny the Worm’,” Emeric says with a sigh, reluctantly conceding my point. “I don’t think we’d be able to live it down if they were singing that it was the Wood Orcs who saved Tamriel while everyone else stood by squabbling.”

I tell him about the conference to be held on Stirk. I make it sound like the conference was for planning out the expedition, and not that it had been supposed to be for deciding whether to do it at all, because I would absolutely do this by my fucking self if I had to. I refuse to allow Daedra to despoil a world any (hypothetical) child of mine would be a part of.

Vanus, at least, doesn’t contradict me, and ushers me into another portal once we’re done.

The next portal drops us at a building with an achingly familiar sort of architecture. It hurts just to be here, and paranoia itches at my mind. The thought of her appearing out of nowhere to murder me again. No. I’m protected. I have a blessed ring that should make me look like an Orc to her senses as well as her eyes, if she even were for whatever reason hanging around… the Fighters Guildhall, judging by the banners.

And… oh for Malacath’s sake, these helmets! These helmets! I’d forgotten about the helmet of the Ordinator we encountered in Grahtwood or Greenshade or wherever it was. It’s doubly creepy to see several people wearing helmets with bronze molded to look like my face and plumes on top shaped like the magnificent hair ridge I used to wear. Whose idea was this!? Was this meant to honor me, mock me, or to falsely use my name to just further their own image?

One of them notices me staring at him a bit too long and tells me, “We’re watching you, scum.”

I look away and stride deliberately into the courtyard, where a Nord with a massive red beard is waiting along with a motley group that looks more like an adventuring party than a king’s honor guard. (Not that I can judge, there.)

High King Jorunn greets me with threats as well. Really, he’s just Nording, and I can’t really be offended at it. I’m more familiar with Nords than Bretons, at least. If Lyris is any indication, they haven’t changed terribly much from what I would have expected. (Aside from possibly being a little less comfortable with magic, but that might just be Abnur Tharn.)

Which means he’s even easier to string along with the prospect of missed glory and non-Nords having to pull his ass out of the (cold) fire, especially with Emeric already having agreed. I convince him to travel to Stirk without having to start up a rant or a fistfight. It’s almost disappointing.

“How about a mead and a friendly spar before I go?” I ask. “No weapons, magic, or Thu’um.”

“Do we have time for this?” Vanus wonders quietly.

“What? You asked me to do diplomacy. This is Nord diplomacy.”

“Fair enough.”

Jorunn gives me an odd look, but relaxes and chortles at the suggestion. “Why not? I’ve been wondering if you live up to your reputation.”

Jorunn’s guards give us some room, eying me suspiciously for some sort of trick, but they too relax a bit when they see me quaff down a mug without hesitation or bothering to check it first. I’d be more worried about someone poisoning the mead if poison were likely to actually do more than inconvenience me. (In the unlikely event of Jorunn trying to poison me, I’d be able to shame him across all Skyrim.)

We toss aside our mugs and fight. In a more serious situation, I’d be fighting dirty and pulling out all the stops. There’s the difference between fighting to kill, fighting to win, and fighting to test. I’m testing him here. I want to get my measure of this Nord the same way he wants to get his measure of me.

I have a slight handicap here in being constantly nervous that Ayem is going to levitate over the guildhall walls and look disapprovingly down upon the courtyard. (Ayem doesn’t like levitation in that she doesn’t like anyone else to be higher than her. Levitation is okay when she’s the one doing it.)

Jorunn isn’t a novice at fighting and gets a few good hits in that I pretty much just shrug off because my pain tolerance is insane and I can heal it later. By the time we’re done, I’ve broken an arm, Jorunn has broken a leg, and we’re both laughing.

“Good brawl, Orc King,” Jorunn says as our healers are healing us up. “I’ll see you at Stirk. I’ll bring the mead!”

Once I’m back to full health again, Vanus opens another portal and returns us to Auridon.

I’m kind of glad everyone made these arrangements while I was busy with bandits, and I just had to go and do my part. Still, now there’s going to be some waiting until everyone gets their shit together and gathers on Stirk. I take the opportunity to contact a few more people to assist in the invasion, but as it turns out, most of the people who would have come because I asked them to are already coming because someone already contacted them, so I instead take the opportunity to spend some time with my wives and clan. (And learn that spell that teleports clothes onto and off of your body. Very important. My wives are happy to help me practice.)