Applying Exotic Metaphysics (Revenge, 16.4)

It was just as I’d seen it before. The blackwood’s trees and rivers and marshes drifted underfoot as my levitation spell and wings carried me forward. I noted, with some amusement, that Fort Teleman had been taken over by Mannimarco’s anchorites- the flag of the Black Worm swaying in the wind, long-rotted corpses standing guard- maybe even the corpses of the bandits that had guarded me as I worked on the shrine of Hermaeus Mora in the basement.

As I flew into the trees- where the blackwood turned into the Black Marsh- into Argonia- the trees just got thicker, the marsh deeper. More water and muck, the road flooded in parts with stale water. Lanterns were lit along every hundred feet along the road, signs made of stone rather than wood pointing to the city of Gideon. It had a peculiar scent- the candles burning with an incense- tammoth root- that would keep the fleshflies away.

Of course, I didn’t need them. The fleshflies wouldn’t bother me anyway- they hadn’t ever since Mawaleel had changed me. Nor would it bother most argonians. For guar and the like, however, they’d need to be plastered with an alchemical paste for the same effect, and anybody that wasn’t argonian in the Black Marsh would need either more incense or magical solutions. I’d heard the sload had minute soul-nets that would rip the infintesmally-small souls from fleshflies that dared enter their lands. But for imperial cities, like Gideon, they simply had to get their hands on a great deal of tammoth candles.

The first thing I saw of Gideon was the lights- the sparks of lanterns hanging over doors and windows as the Bllackwood road expanded. There were plenty of brilliant colors, buildings painted various shades. Bright scents. Exotic creatures nesting on rooftops and smaller, semi-aquatic guar sitting in the streets. Argonian carriages weren’t made of wood, but shell- and they had long, smoothed bottoms rather than wheels- likely so they would float when being dragged through the water.

“Name and business?” Called one of the guards at the gate. He was an argonian, his eyes glinting at mine. His fingers and tail twitched- the Jel language involved more body language than most, and it seemed he still talked with his tail- something most argonians had trained themselves out of, if they ever intended on leaving the Black Marsh.

“Maria Manatsoni,” I said. He tensed, and his tail flicked with distaste. “Adventuring.”

“Adventuring?” He asked.

“It’s a perfectly respectable career,” I said.

“Very well,” He said, eventually. “As a member of the Imperial Legion, I have no rights to stop a member of the Blades with your ranking. But beware.”

“Beware?”

“There are dangerous cultists of a god known as Sethite in the city,” He says. “And it is well-known that the black Marsh does not like you. Watch where you step, lest you find yourself trapped in a rootworm nest.”

“Thank you for the warning, Jun-soht,” I said.

He shivered at me saying his name, and he took a step aside.

Far, far above me, a twinkling star drifted through the sky, a purple light in the sky. With the Battlespire’s activation, I could feel the dreamsleeve vibrating, shuddering around us.

The dreamsleeve was so roiled and twisted, Nobody would be getting any sleep tonight.

The Egg and Cauldron was staffed by a familiar face. One who remembered me, but wouldn’t recognize me. It had been too long- much too long. Alchemy fumes filled the air, the strong incenses blending and coiling along the ceiling. Hidden enchantments kept the smells lingering- the incenses strong- to keep pests away, and to inform any beastfolk that this was indeed an alchemy shop.

Funny- I hadn’t recognized the enchantments before. They were subtle. Well-done.

“Welcome to Egg and Cauldron!” The dunmer lady at the front called. “Is there something-”

“Sendrasa.” I said.

She froze.

Her dunmer, ash-bitten skin went paler than it should have.

“I- You- I didn’t-”

I took a step forward, and my shadow expanded around me.

“You left Mournhold because you were scared I was coming, didn’t you?”

“I left because that n’wah Hortator killed Ayem. Her Hands had gone crazy.” Sendrasa said, finally.

“I’d like to buy something,” I purred, wings raising from the shadow. “I have coin.”

She appraised me- as if trying to resolve who I’d been, over a decade ago, compared to who I was now.

“What- what do you need?”

“Hist Sap.” I said. “As many varieties as possible. As fresh as possible.”

“V-varieties?” She asked. “Do you even know what that stuff really is?”

“You have the connections,” I drawled. “You have until I return.”

“When will that be?” She asked, and I just shrugged.

Which is when the door opened behind us, and I turned. Four argonians- linebacker scaled, wearing heavy armor made of shell and scale, stood before us.

“Miss Manatsoni.” One of the argonians said, distaste in his voice. His tail was flicking with the sense of eminent violence. “Queen Demia wishes to meet with you.”

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

“You would put us in an unpleasant situation if you did so,” The argonian said, hand clasped around the mace in his belt..

“When I get back,” I told Sendrasa. Then I walked, surrounded by the argonians.

I followed the argonians toward the ruler of Gideon- and speaker for the Hist buried underneath.

=====

The castle used to be an ayelid ruin, at least to start with. The marble stone and brick could still be seen in areas, and I would bet there’s ruins underneath. On top of that was built a proper castle, in the imperial style- but that had clearly seen better days as well. There was a third layer to it, beyond that- parts where the twisted mangrove trees coiled up, around the building, grown to patch up holes and decrepit areas of the castle. I’d worked with the Televanni enough to know what it looked like when a plant had been artificially grown into a building, after all. It reminded me a little of Tel Vos, after all.

Except the mind behind Tel Vos wasn’t one sworn to fight me for the fate of the world.

The argonian guards stood on either side of me, hands on their weapons, as if they could stop me from casting anything. I casually followed where they led- into the castle, up the stairs. Into the belly of the beast.

I could feel the air around me shift and change. Like standing in Mehrune Dagon’s presence, almost, or in a plane of oblivion that belonged to another. The air, the water, the earth- all of it belonged to something else. The magicka in the air began to deny me, pulling away from my presence, as if to starve me. This place- within the branches of Gideon’s Hist… it hated me.

The main chamber- where the Queen of Gideon sat- was set atop a series of stairs, like a xanmeer, or an old aztec pyramid, even though you could only approach it in one direction.

The guards stopped, there, and gestured for me to go on. As soon as they entered the room, they seemed to relax. Like they weren’t nearly as scared of me as they should be.

Sitting at the top, in an imperial-style throne, was a woman. She looked humanoid- all but her mask. The snout of an argonian, and large, wide, branching horns was covered in white cloth.

But the snout was fake. This woman wasn’t a normal argonian.

She took off the mask, and set it aside. Her skin was scaled, serpent-like, but she was humanoid. Silver patterned scales ran down her body, and her eyes were just as argonian as mine.

She may have once been human- or Tsaesci, possibly- but she’d become an argonian later in life, just as I had.

Queen was the wrong word, as well. It was one that spoke to imperial senses, one that they had sworn to serve Tiber Septim.. But I knew she was no queen.

She was a Speaker.

“Maria Manatsoni, of the Mawaleel.” A woman said, slowly standing. ”The daughter of a Heretic. Root-breaker. Exile.”

“Demia. Speaker for Gideor’adon.” I responded.

“If you know who I speak for, then you know that you have made a dreadful mistake,” She said. There’s a flicker in her eyes- and suddenly, she’s talking in Jel- and it isn’t Demia talking, I could tell. “You swim into a land you do not belong. You clamber onto the beaches owned by those who hate you and what you stand for.”

“I am tired of the assassins.” I responded, still in cyrodillic “The backstabbing, gifts to assist and empower my enemies. I’m tired of stumbling across someone else’s branches shoving themselves into my pie.”

“So you’ve chosen to end it,” the Hist says through her. “To entreat yourselves upon my greens for mercy.”

“No,” I said. I grinned, and stepped forward.