I’m strangely exhausted when we leave Southpoint. We return to Brackenleaf Village and I wind up sleeping for two solid days.

“You alright there, Neri?” Gelur asks as she offers me quite a lot of meat for breakfast. “We were starting to think you weren’t going to wake up.”

“Yeah,” I reply reflexively, not really feeling it. “I’m not sure why I was so tired. What even happened?”

“Something something Madgod cheese, whatever, it’s not important,” Merry puts in, eating a piece of cheese. “This is all your fault somehow.”

“I’ll not dispute that. What happened with the people that were petrified?”

“I left them in the tender care of the Mages Guild,” Merry said. “I don’t know if they can do anything for them, but they’ve a better chance of figuring it out than me, at least.”

Once we’ve eaten and restocked our supplies, we head out for the wayshrine again.

Our first stop is to deliver the pile of runestone fragments in my pack to whatever the name of the Ayleid scholar was who wanted them. I don’t even remember where she was, but fortunately Gelur is on the ball there and directs us straight back to her. She’s very excited to receive them and wants to get started on translating them immediately, after throwing a generous payment at us first.

Next, a stop back at Elden Root to visit the Mages Guild. They’re not ready for the Orrery ceremony thing that was going on yet, but the alchemist does have good news regarding the potions for the jeweler in Cormount.

“The wormwood and luminous russula were a good start, but the key turned out to be columbine,” the Dunmer alchemist says. “It might just look like a simple flower, but it’s an expensive, valuable ingredient used in many healing potions and it transformed a slowing poison into a restorative that turns that slowing effect into steadying the nerves.”

I may have eaten or ruined a lot of that expensive, valuable ingredient. “Should you be telling me that?”

She chuckles. “It was your notes that pointed me in the right direction. That aside, no offense, but I don’t think you have the skill to make it not be a poison.”

“None taken,” I say. “How about I repay you by getting you some fresh ingredients? I can teleport over to Summerset and not annoy anyone by picking flowers in Valenwood.”

“That would be splendid. Tch, here I am surrounded by mages, and none of them capable of teleporting wants to use it for anything so mundane.”

The next stop is Cormount to visit the jeweler in question.

“The potions are doing the trick,” Rondrin says, holding up a hand almost steadily. “Improvement with every dose. I am eternally grateful. I understand you have a custom piece you wanted done? I believe I can get started on that now. Do you have details, specifications?”

“A ring,” I say. “Here, I’ve done up a sketch and written up the sort of effects I want.” I pass him a piece of paper.

He reads over it, raising an eyebrow. “Your drawing skill is atrocious. You may as well have just given a written description. Is that supposed to be a sun? A symbol of Magnus, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” I say. “Can you do it?”

“Absolutely,” Rondrin says. “These are powerful illusion and warding effects that you want, if you seek to conceal yourself even from the gods. I can get started on drawing up the arithmantic specifications right away. A challenge, certainly, but I will make this my greatest masterwork yet. If my name is to be remembered for something, let it be remembered for crafting a mighty artifact to protect people rather than one that hurts people.”

“Are there any particular materials you might need?” I ask. “Because if you need something impossible, let me know and I’ll make that possible.”

Rondrin chuckles. “I’ll let you know once I’ve made the necessary calculations, but I shall keep that in mind.”

Since the Mages Guild is still busy cleaning up the mess in Southpoint, has made good progress toward banishing the Daedra from the Reliquary of Stars, and the conservator needs to finish making some preparations, that leaves us with some time to kill. Merry and I take a jaunt over to Summerset to repay my promise to the alchemist and pick some flowers. He’s happy to assist with something safe and has some pointers on how to not mangle the ingredients I pick.

“I didn’t know you were an herbalist,” I say.

“I’m not,” Merry says. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t picked columbine to fund my research before. And in the interest of it not winding up covered in blood, let’s put it in my bag. Have you cleaned out your pack lately?”

“I’m… not actually sure how. I might have to ask one of those pack mages about it.”

Once the reagents are delivered, my next stop is to the Vulkhel Guard mages guild. Sahira-daro isn’t present, and I’m told that she has purchased a house in Marbruk to turn into a library. I’ll have to head there once I’m done with matters in Grahtwood.

I gather my party again and take us to the Southpoint wayshrine, from which we head east. There’s a carnival I’d like to check out, and I’ve heard rumor of some problems with Argonian refugees.

The walk is pleasant and full of monkeys, and after a few minutes or days or who cares, we come upon a Dominion camp. A wayshrine is conveniently located on the hill on the other side of the road, so I go over and light that first before approaching the soldiers to see if there’s anything I can hit or anyone I can convince Queen Ayrenn is awesome or whatever.

The one in charge here is a Bosmer woman by the name of Parwinel. I diligently write that down and resolve to call her Parry. After I convince her that we’re totally something official (which she doesn’t even slightly believe and also doesn’t care), she explains the situation. An Argonian tribe that had been enslaved by the Dunmer had come here as refugees and the Thalmor have decided that they must be spies for the Ebonheart Pact and put up barricades. And now the Argonians are distrustful because the Thalmor decided to plant some soldiers and barricades around their refugee camp.

“Ah, classic Altmer racism,” I say.

Parry sighs. “I would, of course, never openly accuse my superiors of being racist.”

“Well… no, seriously, up until recently, many of the Thalmor were being trained by some members of a racist terrorist group called the Veiled Heritance. I don’t know how much you heard, but some towns were burned, a lot of people were killed, oh and High Kinlady Estre opened a bunch of Oblivion gates into Firsthold. We had to kick a lot of asses.”

“You were there?” Parry says. “I heard something about that. What a mess! I hope you can do something here, too, but this isn’t the sort of problem that can be solved by hitting Daedra.”

I crack my knuckles. “Not to worry. I feel like I could sell sand to a Khajiit today. Although selling mud to an Argonian might be a more accurate metaphor today.”

My friends have expressed concern over my mood swings. Pfah on that, I say. Parry wants us to go speak to the Argonian leaders, gives me some names that I diligently ask how to spell, and doesn’t know how to spell them herself. Fine, I make my best guess. My notes are in Dwemeris, and it’s not like Dwemeris is always the most sensible alphabet to spell things in anyway.

The tribe’s… shaman or something I guess? Is an Argonian woman named Uta-Jei. Ahem. Uha-Tei. She tells us about how her tribe got thrown out of Black Marsh because they refused to fight for the dark elves. Can’t really bring myself to blame them for that. She wants to become a spinner (the wood elf storyteller/priest/sort of folks) and lead her people to worship of the wood elf god whose name starts with a Y and I won’t even try to spell. Something about how new Argonians can only be born with the help of the Hist (those weird sentient tree things). New Argonians raised with a new culture and proud members of the Dominion.

The Thalmor are fucking idiots sometimes. They’d sooner shoot themselves in the foot with their own bow than give one inch to anyone with a tail.

“How will your people take that?” I wonder. “Wouldn’t some consider that heresy?”

“Perhaps,” Uta-Lei says. “But there is no Hist here to speak otherwise. I will bring them around.”

On the way to find the next person, I spot a book titled War Customs of Tribal Bosmer laying around and slip it into my pack when nobody’s looking.

Eran just sighs. “This is like, the third-weirdest crime spree I’ve ever heard of.”

“I am uncertain that I wish to hear about the first and second weirdest,” Merry says.

“I do!” Gelur puts in with a grin.

“Well, this one time when I was… about as tall as you,” Eran says with a cheeky grin, “someone in Silsailen stole all the spoons. Night after night, someone else found all their spoons missing, sometimes more than one in a night. They finally found him in the cellar trying to build a shrine out of them.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The Argonian named No-Fingers (the only one of them whose name I could write, who does not live up to his name particularly well) is asleep and refuses to wake from a gentle nudge. I decide that it would be rude to wake him rudely, and find someone frying fish and buy one from her.

No-Fingers quickly wakes at the delicious-smelling bribe. “Well! You certainly know how to wake an Argonian up!” He cheerfully takes the food and starts eating. “So, what do you need?” he says between bites.

No-Fingers is the one who raises the animals here, and is calm and friendly and willing to tell us all about how he has never lost a finger and doesn’t want to call himself Lost-No-Fingers and tempt fate. I’m not sure what sort of position he holds in the tribe, but whatever problems they might be having at the moment aren’t from him.

Aaaaand then we meet Slim-Jaw or whatever her name is. She hates us intensely, a deep hatred of everyone with pointy ears and a determination that her people won’t become slaves again just because the elves here are a different color.

“I can respect that,” I say. “So, were you planning on trying your luck in High Rock? Or perhaps the Reach? I hear they’re independent.”

“Bretons are just another kind of elf that would enslave us just as surely,” Slim-Jah says.

“Ah,” I say. “Well, it seems you have a bit of a conundrum, then. You don’t want to be anywhere because the world is covered by people without scales and everyone hates everyone else.”

I could make assurances that Queen Ayrenn is totally awesome and not at all like a Dres slavemaster, but this Argonian hunter has no reason to believe me word over any random Altmer. And unless I miss my measure of her, she also seems to be completely insane and would prefer her tribe to all die than to say a single polite word toward an elf. As we’re walking away out of earshot, I tell my friends to keep an eye on her because I fear she might do something rash.

The three leaders come together in the middle of the town for their meeting. Discussing the barricades, as if there was actually anything to discuss here. Like monkeys arguing about their cage. No-Fingers is the sensible one here, realizing their options are few. Uka-Tei is idealistic, overeager, zealous about her new god and Slim-Jah is not the slightest bit impressed by it. She is, in fact, so unimpressed that she sanctions Uka-Jei for her heresy and lets off some sort of stun effect that stuns me and leaves me seeing spots.

Slim-Jah pulls out a dagger and yells, “Hail Sithis!” She lunges at Uja-Tei.

An arrow pierces Slim-Jah’s arm, staggering her. A spell paralyzes her. And then Eran knocks her down with his shield as he recovers from the stun.

“Damn, guys,” I say, impressed. “Good reflexes. At this rate, I won’t even have to do anything!”

“Aside from talk to people, you mean,” Eran says. “I’m quite interested in seeing how you can manage to talk this situation out.”

After making sure that Slim-Jah can talk but not stab anyone, I say, “Alright, lady, you’re not going to be Hail-Sithising anyone else today. Do you really want your tribe to die that badly?”

Uka-Hei is sitting down, stunned but entirely not from Slim-Jah’s spell any longer. “I can’t believe you would turn against me like this, Slim-Jah! Sure, we had our disagreements, but this?”

“Without the forbearance of the Dominion, you would all be dead,” I say. “Your tribe might be fierce warriors and hunters, but if they actually wanted to wipe you out, they could. Anyway, honestly? These stupid walls here? I’ll bet you a stack of columbine that someone connected to the Veiled Heritance pulled some strings to make that happen. Probably General Endare. Anyway, she’s dead, I killed her myself, just like I’m going to kill any other damned racist Altmer who thinks it’s a splendid idea to hurt people for being short or having tails.”

“You’ve been killing Altmer?” Slim-Jah asks with a touch of surprise.

“Who are the Veiled Heritance?” No-Fingers asks.

“I’ll tell you some great story about how some crazy bitch left half of Auridon on fire in the name of racism but actually in the name of Mehrunes Dagon,” I say. “But right now I need to be sure your people aren’t about to do anything rash. Slim-Jah?”

“We were going to attack the Thalmor,” she says quietly. “They might not move without my signal but if they see me like this…”

“If one Argonian hurts an Altmer today, our whole tribe will suffer for it!” No-Fingers says.

“Agreed,” I say. “If anyone needs to die today, I ought to be the one to do it. I can get away with it.” I smirk. “And in any case, these Thalmor didn’t seem that bad. They’ve just been following bad orders. But if I find out anyone here is connected to the Veiled Heritance, I’ll violently make them reconsider their life choices.”

“That’s all well and good, but Uta-Tei is still a heretic,” Slim-Jah says.

I sigh and roll my eyes. “What does it even matter? There’s Argonians all over Tamriel and I somehow doubt all of them revere the Hist.”

“Are we just ignoring the whole ‘Hail Sithis’ thing now?” Eran asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Okay, just making sure.”

“Slim-Jah, call off your people,” I say. “I’d rather not have to kill any Argonians today.”

“What, you’d rather kill Altmer?” Slim-Jah says.

“Yes,” I say. “The Altmer are assholes. I like Argonians. If you have any grievances against any specific members of the Thalmor, tell me. Have any of them actually hurt you?”

“Not physically, no,” Slim-Jah says. “Their words cut deep, though.” She sighs. “Release me. I will tell my people to stand down.”

I nod to Merry, who cancels the paralysis spell, although remains alert in case she tries to ‘Hail Sithis!’ anyone again. Slim-Jah just stands and hurries off, though.

“You saved my life, travelers,” Uta-Hei says. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“I hope Slim-Jah’s true to her word,” No-Fingers says. “The last thing we need is a Shadowscale deciding everyone needs to die.”

“I don’t know what a Shadowscale is,” I say. “Why don’t we have a nice cultural exchange once I have a nice chat with the Thalmor and make sure nobody’s getting stabbed?”

“That… sounds good to me,” No-Fingers says.

I look to my friends. “You guys stay here for the moment and make sure nothing happens to these two, please.”

They nod to me, and I go back outside of the barricades to speak with the Dominion people. My goal is not to make them love Argonians. That’s not going to happen just yet. My objective is to make them doubt the validity of their orders. And given all the questionable things going on amongst the Thalmor and certain elements in the Dominion in general, all I need to do is plant a few seeds and they begin to see themselves having been manipulated like pawns by a dark conspiracy. Soldiers will generally follow orders, even ones they don’t like, but when you start casting doubt on the chain of command, then they might stop for a moment and think about what they’re doing and why. Especially when I start talking about how I spoke with the Argonians and they’re enthusiastic about joining the Dominion. I return to where I left my friends inside town.

Slim-Jah has returned by now, and someone (probably Gelur) healed her arm. “It’s done,” Slim-Jah tells me. “I’ve spoken with my hunters and we will restrain ourselves. For now. I’m giving you a chance, and you’d better hope to Sithis that your Dominion friends behave.”

Once tensions wind down and it seems no stabbing is going to happen just at the moment, my friends and I settle in for dinner with the Argonians. First Gelur and their cook are exchanging recipe ideas, and then we start asking questions about their culture and find out that the Shadowscales are respected assassins that hold some sort of position in the Black Marsh as judges or something. We share some stories about our travels, and I tell tales of Eran’s courage, Merry’s wit, Gelur’s loyalty, and Ilara-daro’s cunning. They’re quick to add how awesome I was being.

At some point, the Thalmor doubting their orders standing outside the gates realize they’re missing a party and someone decides to invite them inside for an impromptu cultural exchange festival. I even pull out a few bottles of alcoholic beverages I’d totally not stolen from anywhere.

Slim-Jah looks dubiously at the bottle I offered her. “This bottle is sticky. Blood?”

“Oh, right, that one must have been next to where I kept General Endare’s severed head,” I say.

Slim-Jah stares at me for a moment, then at the bottle, then says, “Split it with you.”

“Sure.”

We sit near the beach, facing the ocean, passing the bloody bottle of questionable booze back and forth.

“You are a strange one, traveler,” Slim-Jah says.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’ve seen a lot of death, but you wanted my hunters to hold back.”

“Really, if anyone needs to die, I’d recommend doing it a little more discreetly,” I say. “You can murder people without bringing the wrath of the alliance down upon your tribe.”

“I’m surprised that you’re still encouraging me to kill elves.”

I bark a short laugh. “I have killed so many elves and I try to be a hypocrite as little as necessary. Some of them had it coming. Most were just standing between me and what I needed to do.”

“You stopped me from censuring Uta-Tei, and yet you let me live,” Slim-Jah wonders. “Why? You know what I am. I half expected this bottle to contain poison, but Argonians are more resistant to poisons than mer.”

“I kill so many people that it’s sometimes nice to not kill someone,” I say. “I work for the Queen and she never questions when I say I had to kill someone because they were a cultist, or a traitor, or a thief, or a lunatic, or just plain in the way. I could have killed every Thalmor in this camp and I’d just be like ‘welp, turns out they were Veiled Heritance, too bad, so sad.’ And I might have had to remove witnesses if you and your hunters had taken action. It would have been messy, and if anyone was able to point a finger at you guys, I’d have had to claim it was in self-defense and the Thalmor had been trying to kill you. So thanks, you made my job a bit easier.”

“You… would have backed us up?” Slim-Jah asks in surprise. “Are you with the Dark Brotherhood or something?”

“I have great respect for them but no, I have not had the opportunity.” I fish around in my pack. “Oh, hey, I found some poison!” I pause. “Yes, of course I carry around poison in case I need to poison someone. Although if I was trying to poison someone, I wouldn’t rely on this one.”

“Is that a hand-written label?” Slim-Jah asks.

“Yep. Brewed this batch myself. I am not a great alchemist, but I’m getting better. So far I haven’t managed to brew a poison that actually kills me when I drink it, rather than just putting me to sleep or giving me the runs. Want to make a bet? I’ll bet you a stack of nightshade that this doesn’t kill me when I drink it.”

“You’re drunk, Neri,” Slim-Jah says flatly. “And possibly insane.”

“No, no, I’m definitely insane.” I pop open the bottle. “Bottoms up!” I cheerfully down the poison. It is disgusting and burns going down, then burns even more once it’s down.

…

I find myself naked next to the wayshrine. The downside of respawning? The new body Aetherius and/or Oblivion made for me is no longer drunk. What a pity. I’ll just need to remedy that again right away. I grab another bottle of alcohol from the tents and go prancing naked back through town to where I’d left my stuff next to a rather stunned Slim-Jah.

“By Sithis, what was that?” Slim-Jah wonders.

“Testicles,” I say. “Mer keep ours on the outside. Pretty unwise decision if you ask me. We’re pretty squishy.”

“No, I mean the…” She waves a hand. “You drank poison and then disappeared.”

“Oh, right, that. Hold my beer. I need to put my pants back on.”

Slim-Jah obliges, still rather stunned.

“Yeah, I don’t die like normal people,” I say. “Long story and most of it’s dumb. It makes me a little reckless sometimes but I try not to endanger my friends, who are a bit less willing to die than me.” I take my beer back. “Something to keep in mind. What you think is a good idea to spend your life on, and what the consequences might be for your friends who don’t really want to die just yet.”

“It would have been easier than watching Uta-Tei drag our tribe to worshipping a wood elf god,” Slim-Jah says.

“Perhaps,” I say. “But that’s their choice.”

“I might wind up leaving the tribe anyway,” Slim-Jah says. “Will I be attacked simply for walking in Dominion lands?”

“No,” I say. “And if anyone questions it, just say you’re with the Fighters Guild. And if the Fighters Guild questions it, just say you joined a different branch and obviously the paperwork got lost. Honestly, just join the Fighters Guild. Their leader’s an Argonian too. They’ll take anyone and don’t do background checks. Even goblins. They also don’t really give a fuck if you actually do any jobs for them, either.”

“Might be a good cover, then. Maybe I’ll make contact with the Dark Brotherhood. Maybe I’ll even see you there.”

“You never know,” I say.