Applying Exotic Metaphysics (Alien, 21.1)

The first thing I noticed about Firsthold was how beautiful it was.

There were swooping, golden ramparts that served as bridges between the towers, for those that didn’t want to descend to the ground floor. The tallest towers were made with impossible, rainbow-colored spirals, like stained-glass windows. The same glass used in weapons, perhaps, but hewn so thinly and smoothly that it resembled membrane rather than a solid crystal. It was like the architects had made the towers out of poetry.

The second thing was how… artificial it was.

With most cities, they had a sort of natural, lived in feel. You could see how they’d built around the landscape, how the populace had to work with the land. But here, in Firsthold, it was like they’d ignored the land. Smoothed it out into nothingness to create an ideal city with no variance allowed. The city had tiers of elevation, a circle spanning each tier, and carefully-placed spiral staircases leading up to the next tier. The city was as carefully designed and exacting as clockwork.

The lowermost buildings were relatively ‘boring’, so to speak, but even then, they were a white, smooth marble… but iridescent. They shined different colors at different angles. When the sunlight shined against it, the material seemed to break up the sun’s light into its constituent rainbows. It was done deliberately as well- the higher tiers had buildings that seemed to reflect golden, and the lower they were, the further away from gold they were- to the point where the outermost tier, where my ship was docking, was a soft blue. They seemed to skip over green entirely.

“Most Wise,” the captain said. “We dock very soon.”

“Good.” I responded. It was a little funny. These guys reminded me of how the Dunmer had acted, back when I first revealed myself to the silt strider caravan as Divayth Fyr’s apprentice. Once I got into the city, I’d have to be a little more subtle, but I was a little amused at it. 

Altmeri culture, from what I’d learned, was heavily stratified. At the highest, they viewed their priests and teachers as the Wise- the most respected of their kind. Then came the artists, which weren’t exactly just those who created art, but also craftsmen and architects. The sort who built the city itself. Then came the Princes. Not just nobility, or exclusively nobility, but those in administrative positions. Below them were the warriors and knights. Then the landowners, the merchants, the workers, and the slaves. The latter was a term barely used nowadays, since there were barely any non-elves in Summerset, but it still technically counted for cattle or the like.

There was some amount of flexibility between the castes, of course. Anyone could pick up a sword and eventually become a warrior, or a merchant could be so successful that they became a landowner of their own- provided they found someone willing to sell- but people became almost... Proud of becoming something their parents were. As if the entire point of the society was to continue being the same thing in perpetuity.

As far as my place… Well, the altmer viewed wizards a little differently than most people. They surprisingly didn’t care. A wizard who used their magic to lift heavy things was still a Worker. A mage who fought in their navy was still a Warrior.

I needed a name, and a fake one wouldn’t do- not since I was betting there would be some records elsewhere. If I’m claiming descent from Mannimarco, it meant that to the Altmeri people I’d be considered a Prince. That was his caste, while he was alive, and that’s what the amulet he’d given me signified.

My original plan had been to blend in, but as I thought about it, I’d never be able to pull it off. As much as the Serpent-Eating-Lady had learned, how many manners and cultural norms she picked up, I’d still be an outsider. Beyond that, I wouldn’t still be considered a Prince. Not like Mannimarco would, with his rulership of the Order of the Black Worm.

So instead I’d decided to take refuge in audacity.

When I told Mannimarco, he’d more than encouraged the idea. He’d loved it. Mannimarco had become a god; So if I’m going to pretend to be his daughter, there’s only one caste that would fit. I’d be his priest- and thus, one of the Wise.

It’s stupid, but I couldn’t help but smirk as I stepped off the ship. Every time someone appraised me, they’d be instantly alert, and then confused. And then back to alert. From the dress robes and jewelry, I’d be the Wise. From the amulet, I’d be a Prince. From the blade and book… I could be anything.

I wasn’t entirely sure where to start. I didn’t remember a lot about Summerset, let alone Firsthold… but I knew where to start.

I’d start by cheating.

=====

Clairvoyance could be said to be my first creation, and though the idea wasn’t mine, the magic certainly was. Built off of an illusory base, it would guide someone based on what they knew to their destination. It would dig into vague descriptions like ‘left at that rock by the tree’ and use all the caster’s conscious and subconscious knowledge to figure out exactly which rock, which tree. It wasn’t perfect, of course… But it had been years since I first put together the spellform.

Nowadays, I had the Mage and the Ritual behind me, bubbling in the back of my mind. I may not have had the Ur-Stone, but I still had Shadowrend. And so when I cast Clairvoyance, I didn’t cast it derived from my own mind and consciousness.. But I cast it based on my own potential futures. I could feel my shadows separate, walk away. In different directions, they strode knowingly. It wasn’t that I was looking into the future. I was looking into alternate presents. In so many other timelines, I could have walked anywhere, in any direction.

Eventually, the spell actualized. I could feel the tether, the pull toward my goals… and strolled down the curving streets of Firsthold.

The inn’s name, translated into common, was ‘Gold Treasure’. It was less an ‘inn’ and more of a hotel with a restaurant in the lobby. It was ninety percent high elves, with the other races being exceedingly sparse. I could tell most of the people were here mostly for the food and drink. This was the equivalent to an altmer bar, and so it was of course prim and proper. A dais stood elevated on the western side, a few musicians playing what I could only call a cross between beatnik poetry and vaporwave, only played by triangles and flutes.

Of course, the reason Clairvoyance had pulled me this way was because something real interesting was happening.

A pale dunmer stood, wearing a diadem and way too much jewelry. In his hand was a ceremonial sword, and he looked slightly drunk. His eyes glimmered golden, and his hair was not like any I’d seen on dunmer before. It was an iridescent red-golden, tied back in a topknot that- according to my lessons with Mannimarco- meant he was a Prince. Not just one of the ‘Prince’ caste, but the actual literal son of a ruler.

It meant I was looking at Queen Morgiah’s son- Goranthir.

“How dare you!” He was calling. 

“I’ve said no insult,” The elf on the other side responded. “It remains a fact that crime rates are increasing, due to the alien influence of the Black Queen.”

“And you put that blame at my mother’s feet,” the Prince responded.

“Which is not, may I remind you, grounds to declare an honor duel. As you should very well know.”

“You used the word ‘Alien’, which implies she is not rightful queen of Firsthold.” He responded. “And so… I am well within my grounds. I will have my satisfaction.”

The older altmer sighed.

“Very well, your highness. But how about, in lieu of something as barbaric as weapons, we settle this through the elegance of sorcery?”

“Fine.” Goranthir responded. He sheathed his sword.

“I will not be using fire, of course,” the elf said, which set some of the other elves tittering and chuckling, while the non-elves looked confused. Goranthir flushed, slightly. “Kerethis will be my second.”

“Yes? Well…” Goranthir glanced back at the table he’d been sitting at. Everyone else he was drinking with averted their eyes, looking away. Finding himself suddenly bereft of support… I stepped forward.

“I would be proud to be your second, your highness.” I said. “Marlia of Scourg.”

Goranthir nodded at me, a relieved grin on his face.

“I see.” The elf sighs, giving me a derisive look for a moment, and called for the restaurant owner. “Administrator? Please organize a space for an honor duel.”

While the music stopped, and the musicians separated, the other elf was talking with his second. Goranthir stepped aside, away from the others, to speak to me.

“Thank you for your assistance, Miss Marlia.” He says. “I do not know where Scourg is located, but it must be proud of you.”

“You’re defending Queen Morgiah’s honor,” I responded. “How could I not support you? That said… I admit, Honor Duels in the altmeri way were a… missing part of my education.”

“... Right. Of course.” He says. “An honor duel comes in three stages. Three conflicts, that is. Traditionally, each would cast a spell and defend against the other’s per conflict. The duty of a second is to advise and plan… and to finish the duel, should the duelist lose consciousness or pass away.”

“So it’s entirely possible someone could win a duel, despite being dead?”

“It happens more often than one would think.” He says. “I don’t suppose you know much about magic? I’m… a sub-par caster. Swordplay is my best skill.”

“What’s your best school?”

“Well…” He trails off. “Conjuration. But I’ve not enough time for a full binding, a familiar summon would be a joke, and…”

He trails off.

“You don’t want to summon your ancestors.”

“It is a dunmeri art. It would not be seemly.” He responds.

“Right.” I said. “Well. Fortunate for you… I know exactly what you can do.”