How Does A Dragon Commit Identity Theft?
The year is 4E 201. The rays of Magnus rained down upon the verdant hills of Cyrodiil in number and force, a vicious glare cast from the crumbling ruins of the still-recovering White-Gold Tower enshrouding the seat of the Empire in a flush of radiant glory. The humble Argonian battlemage, Jeel-Tei, cast an imposing shadow upon the grassy slopes as he marched, filling the air with with all the notions of grandeur. Glowing green slits stared forth, paving the path for his advance across the border into the Old Kingdom.
But wait! Something seemed wrong. Jeel scanned the area, nothing out of the ordinary. Just a small convoy of Nords going the very same way that he was. The first, he did not envy. Thick hair, thick beard and black fur clothing fit for some fancy noble. The second, his rather dashing, fair haired companion (who, Jeel admittedly wouldn’t mind getting his hands on). The rest; mediocre. There was absolutely nothing that the humble Jeel-Tei could find of worth in these peasants.
He was poised to press on, and planned to do so - but wait! The feeling hadn’t left him. His slits scanned the area again, and there was nothing the young Argonian could see of suspicion. The convoy drew nearer. Maybe Jeel-Tei would have a shot at the fair haired Nord, and although blonde hair wasn’t really his thing, he wasn’t close-minded. This was it. They had rolled in (not literally but… yeah) and it was Jeel’s time to shine. Though the feeling he was feeling wasn’t gone, he would be able to disc-
Rushing footsteps sounded on the grass evergreen. Imperial swords were drawn and arrows were niched in bows as the strings were drawn back, creating a (nearly) harmonious melody for which the ensuing battle would be a perfect fit! If any battle had ensued, that was.
The men and women of the Empire had closed in at the behest of a fancily armoured, tired old man with a worn expression and hair greyed to the point of snow and ash. An uncomfortable enthusiasm rang aloud as he sprung his trap, clearly for the Nords who Jeel came to hold responsible for the predicament in which he now found himself.
Fucking Nords… you people can’t get anything right.
“Wait!”, the thickly-haired, thickly-bearded, thickly clothed male Nord yelled. “We surrender!”
And behind him, the entirety of the Nord’s filthy and idiotic escort conceded to their presumed leader’s decision rather meekly, hands all up in the air. The fancy old man descended from on high to mingle with the commoners, moving right up into the vastly overdressed Nord’s face. Spittle flew when he spoke, carrying with it his obvious disdain for his now prisoners. “I finally have you, Ulfric Stormcloak.”
And sparing no more of his precious breath unto the man so clearly worth all the effort he went to to capture, the fancy leader of this Imperial retinue turned to and mounted his majestic mare, ordering the captives tied up and loaded onto horse drawn carriages, with some rather special treatment for their leader. For no purpose conceivable to Jeel, the strangely bearded Nord had a cloth tied around his mouth so that he could not speak. Was his voice too annoying? Was it out of spite? Clearly, if one man has his speaking capabilities taken from him, it is only fair for his friends to as well. But it didn’t really matter to the humble Jeel-Tei, he was just bored.
So it was a good thing when the Imperials had finally gotten around to tying him up and seating him in the carts, lest he had died of boredom before starvation or execution had gotten to him. Unfortunately, this bliss did not last long for the Argonian, and being uncomfortably placed next to Beard Man, and across from the Dashing Blonde and some dirty random prompted him to fall asleep; a humble battlemage such as Jeel-Tei had no time to spare for peasants such as these.
~~~~~
Jeel-Tei awoke to the sight of his own grey scales against the cold, hard surface of a wooden carriage. The environment around him was silent save for the eerie creek of the wheels against what the battlemage could only assume to be a poorly made cobble path. His vision was all muddled up by the surrounding fog, something in which he took a great displeasure. Jeel verged on nodding off once more, and would have were it not for the broken ambience caused by the sudden and rather unwanted chatter of the Dashing Blonde.
“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there!”
Jeel narrowed his slits at the Dashing Blonde. Walked right into the ambush, hmm? You walked into me, and I got caught up in your mess. You fucking Nords, you can never do anything right.
“Damn you Stormcloaks. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!”, came a comment from the Dirty Random. “You there!”, he said to Jeel. “We shouldn’t be here! It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”
“We’re all brothers in binesssss---”
Jeel had trailed off once more into his own world, not even bothering to close his eyes before leaving Mundus behind. Those poor Nords had assumed that the humble battlemage Jeel-Tei was actually paying attention to their rambling. As big as their dreams seemed to be, they had a long way to go before they were even remotely worthy of the privilege, nay, the blessing of the quaint and gentlemanly Argonian’s attention.
It was an unfortunate development, though, that Jeel was stirred from his beauty rest by the carriage coming to a sudden halt, followed by being so rudely escorted by an Imperial pawn on the descent to the poorly crafted ground. He was much too out of it to realise that his captors had begun calling for the prisoners to line up in front of the chopping block, only alerting to the turn of events when it came to be his turn.
“What should we do, Captain? He’s not on the list.”, was the first thing Jeel-Tei heard after his awakening, followed by a muffled female voice, and then by instantaneously shifting positions from in front of the carriage in which he arrived to being in line with his fellow captors. He had hoped that they understood their luck being in the presence of none other than himself.
But soon came the dismissal of that thought, as he had nothing to prove to himself. Instead, Jeel took some time to scorn the poor architecture of the town around him. Not knowing the name, and assuming such a poor backwater would have none, he mentally dubbed it “NoName”. That was rather fitting for such a residence. Before him stood a stone tower, cylindrical in shape and towering into the sky, blocking Magnus’ radiance from view. Far to the right stood another, identical in shape and design. By the Hist, these Nords were so bland. Filling up what remained of the landscape were a few mediocre wooden houses in which resided likely the lowliest of peasants. This sorry excuse for a settlement couldn’t even compare to the evergreen swamps of Black Marsh or the soaring spires of Cyrodiil, even in their broken state.
His daydream complete, Jeel returned to his senses, the first sight being that of a, what was it, Stormcloak peasant kneeling at the chopping block. The headsman’s axe descended, swift and brutal, as blood rose not in spittle, but in cascades descending, drenching the stone slab upon which heads rolled in cataracts of scarlet rain.
Paying no mind to the loss of a clear failure, his train of thought was broken by those fateful three words; “Next! The Argonian!”
Was this it for the great and humble Jeel-Tei? Moving up to the block, staring down at how completely it had been bloodied for a moment as notions of disgust and degradation filled his head at having been reduced to this, he reluctantly knelt and rested his cranium upon the solid, slippery surface. This angered him more than it did sadden him; did these peasants not know who they were about to execute? It was simply outrageous!
For all his ire however, he managed to break away from his moment of horror to notice a looming, black mass descending upon one of the towers. Swords were drawn and screams sounded across NoName, but to these did Jeel-Tei pay no heed, for he was too deep in thought admiring such a majestic reptile. But not for long, as the voice of the Dashing Blonde came to his ear.
“Hey, Argonian! Get up! The Gods won’t give us another chance! Into the tower, come on!”
Only after rising and looking around did Jeel-Tei notice that the area was in flames; descending from stormclouds above came a rain of hellfire, sounds comparable to thunder boomed off in the not so distant distance. Death was everywhere, caused obviously by the magnificent beast that showed himself just at the right time to save Jeel from his imminent execution. To the slaughter the Argonian paid no heed, thinking to himself as he passed under the archway and into the more-than-likely collapsible tower, Good riddance… it was only a matter of time anyway.
He sped into the tower, followed closely behind by the Dashing Blonde. Stupidly, he had stopped as soon as he entered to speak with the Bearded Nord. Jeel was unallowing of any sympathy or care as to what would happen to them, instead running up the stairs only to find the body of a dead Stormcloak Nord and a hole in the wall through which he would end up jumping, only to find himself once more surrounded by dragonfire. Although this one actually had a door for him to exit through, the combination of the haze and smoke from the blaze mocked him so, cursing his eyes with poor vision and driving him nearly to tears. It would seem, then, that rudimentary houses made for good kindling.
Escaping the confinement of what Jeel was sure would make a fine campfire for a dragon, the sunlight washed over him and harshly accentuated the shallow scaly fissures on his person, seemingly relishing in the absence of the smog. A man lay scorched, centred in a trail of what looked like a taste of the fiery Deadlands, obviously becoming so as he fought for inch by inch of ground in what was known as complete slaughter. The presumed child of now dead man crouched behind the ruins of yet another dragon campfire, mourning the loss of his father. Jeel paid it no heed, for the Argonians would never lend themselves to such humiliation as this.
The battlemage sped forth, passing under a cloud of grey haze before once more bursting out into the open daylight, greeted by the screaming voice of the tired old man. “Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier! We’re leaving!”
And what a fine idea it was, for Jeel sprinted toward the nearest gate out of town, only then realising his restraints still held him firm. But a handsome, young and prodigious Argonian battlemage always had a trick up his sleeve, as did Jeel (obviously). Not stopping to undo the restraints, he instead continued his alarmingly inexorable advance on the gate, his restraints bursting into lively fire, a fate shared by the wooden walls confining those poor and idiotic souls to their stone deathtrap.
Throwing himself through the rift he had cast upon the doors, Jeel rolled a good few metres down the path before again breaking into sprint. Halfway down the hill (or at least what he could see was halfway, which by virtue of his keener-than-most senses was obviously accurate), he stopped and looked back. A pillar of the accomplishments the dragon had left behind reached upwards, seeking the attention of the heavens themselves. It had looked, to Jeel, almost as if someone had tipped Nirn itself on its top and had begun the slow but inevitable pour of all its contents into the surrounding Void.
Oblivion itself had come to Skyrim on that very day, but it was of no concern to the humble Jeel-Tei. He was interested in only what he was owed by the Imperial Legion, and that was, of course, compensation for the mistake they had made. He did not belong in that cart, next to those poorly dressed, poorly groomed, poorly spoken prisoners. Had it not been for foolish maneuvers of the tired old man, he would perhaps, by now, be in Winterhold, leaving his peers and betters (if one were to call them “betters”) static in awe of his sheer magnitude of magical control. But first, his goal was to find the city in which it was based, which there obviously was. Details like this came down to Jeel like raindrops on tiny silver platters, so great was his intellect.
Unfortunately for him, his gods handed him not visions of where he could find his goal. And thus, Jeel-Tei set off on down the road, surrounded by the vivid and lush greens of this new and foreign land. He was convinced that this sordid province had his been contrived by the Hist in some grand design to mock the glory of the verdant swamps known as Black Marsh. And worse still, the only consistency these Nords seemed to possess lay in their ability to fashion poorly any architecture that came to mind, seemingly conspiring to trip Jeel over at every sharp corner, which in truth, the Argonian would not put past a race so primitive. Heavens forbid that he would need to tolerate this any longer than it took him to receive the coin he so rightfully deserved.
~~~~~
Jeel stood at the gates of Solitude, Imperial capital of Skyrim. Though it took much wandering, much patience, much tolerance of the province’s natives and many unpleasant though swiftly handled encounters with wildlife, bandits and hermit mages (as well as resistance of the urge not to bore dear readers with his tedious tales of triumph) he had finally found his way there. The Argonian pushed open the gate and took note of a nearby ongoing execution. If the Nords could create a unified nation, how then would they stand against the might of the humble Jeel-Tei, let alone a race of superior thinking and fighting Saxhleel?
Jeel’s march was strong as he approached Castle Dour. Thoughts crossed through, over, under, past his head as to how he would approach the delicate but necessary receival of his compensation. Perhaps he would barge in, eliciting fear in those poor subjects of a doomed Empire, and demand his weight in gold as payment for a highly unprofessional blunder. Or rather, he would politely coerce them into handing over his coin. Perhaps he wo--
“Take pity on an old madman!”, approached a raving and aged Bosmer. Likely a lowly peasant among even lowlier peasants, seeking the attention of this powerful battlemage.
Taking upon himself his deepest, most heroic tone, Jeel-Tei rumbled in a voice that would surely send tremors through the earth if left unchecked. “What is it, citizen?”, he said as he struck rigid pose in a surely successful attempt to impress. The chance to appear the gallant knight in shining armour was too much to pass up, promising not only untold fame, pretty wenches and dashing men of war, but also a higher pay.
“My master has abandoned me! Abandoned his people! And nothing I say can change his mind! Now he refuses to even see me! He says I interrupt his vacation! It’s been so many years… Won’t you help?”
Jeel listened intently, expecting even this creature of paltry status to know that his attention was limited. What a lucky life form, this madman was. Assuming no objections from the Argonian, the Bosmer continued. “Last I saw him, he was visiting a friend in the Blue Palace. He went into the forbidden wing. Said it had been ages since they last had tea! Oh, and you’ll need the hip bone… it’s very important. No entering Pelagius’ Wing without that.”, he remarked, dumping a visage of decay right into Jeel’s almighty hands. Though beneath him, this task would be sure to attract public attention to his exploits, bringing him to a very good start in Skyrim indeed.
And so it would be that Jeel-Tei would embark on this quest, all in service to himself if not to the realm. He began by entering into Solitude’s Blue Palace, which he cleverly deduced as the blue palace at the far end of the city. Perhaps the only construct worthy of his presence which he has seen since setting foot in this sorry province of Tamriel. Getting straight down to it and sparing no detail, immediately he addressed a nearby guard, making sure to remind her of her place in the process.
“Do tell me, young lady guard. There is a forbidden wing in this palace, and I seek entry. This hip bone affords it to me, does it not?”
The guard, arms crossed, simply stared at Jeel, no doubt in admiration and shock that such a figure of importance had approached her specifically to seek assistance. He waited patiently for her response, but it soon became evident that he had made too grand an impression, forcing him to approach one of the nearby cleaners.
“You there!”, he called out from right next to her, startling her in all senses of the word. “I seek access to a forbidden wing of the castle, belonging to a man named Pelagius. This hip bone will grant me entry. Where may I find it?”
The cleaner looked on in confusion, shock, happiness or a mix of all, before pointing to a well worn down door. “That’s the door right there, but it’s locked. I have a key, but there’s a reason it’s forbidden, yo-”
Jeel stopped her mid-sentence with a sharp raising of the hand to signal that silence is what he so desired at that moment. That was all he needed to know. With a sharp inhalation, the battlemage charged hard and fast into the metal double-doors that served to keep those unwanted souls from the forbidden wing of the palace. Step by vigorous step, Jeel closed on that unfortunate gateway into the unknown, only the find the world spinning around him the next moment.
This… this door, the Argonian blubbered silently to himself, for to do so aloud would bring upon him endless embarrassment. This door repelled my attack! Impossible! It has to be enchanted in some way!
Eager to test his theory, and more importantly, exact harsh vengeance on this audacious adversity, Jeel-Tei quickly snapped his fingers, instantaneously conflagrating the hinges, lock and all, sending it tumbling to the ground and causing a tremendous ruckus. Eyes darted to the source of the commotion from all corners of the room, only to find that the perpetrator had quickly made his escape into darker corridors whence no other mortal dare tread, save for those brave cleaners. Nothing was heard from Jeel-Tei…
~~~~~
...until three days later, when the grey-scaled Argonian emerged, seemingly unchanged save for one, outstanding factor. The battlemage had stripped down entirely. But before anyone could get a grasp of the entire situation, Jeel had simply dashed forth, a proper culmination of years of military refinement. Taking one massive leap, he span gracefully around, gently slapping the nearest guard in the face with his tail before exiting the scene with all haste, flapping his arms wildly.
As the battlemage ran, thoughts zoomed in and out of his mind, giving an empowered zeal and purpose to his deadly sprint.
The man in the forest. He spoke true. How could I be so foolish so as to only realise this now…?
Outrage! Scandal! Identity theft! Crimes for which reparations must be made!
This great dragon, the one they call Alduin, Eater of Worlds, is an imposter, come to steal my destiny out from under me!
By some feat of magic or trickery, he has cursed me to this mortal coil…
But I shan’t remain here long, no.
There will be retribution, and all of Nirn and beyond will witness the fulfillment of my appointed task!
I am the firstborn of Akatosh, and I come to reclaim my godhood…!
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