Very well, Nerevar. You wish to hear a tale of my encounter with an Argonian?
On a dark and ashy evening, I, Dagoth Ur, found myself in the heart of my city. As the god of House Dagoth, I walked with purpose through the twisting corridors of Kogoruhn. There, in the dimly lit chambers, I beheld an Argonian, standing like a shadow in the obsidian darkness. Her name, she told me, was Sul-Matuul, and I found myself intrigued despite my disdain for her kind.
Our first date, if you could call it that, was an unusual affair. Sul-Matuul, being an Argonian, had a fondness for swampy, humid environments. She suggested we visit a hidden corner of Morrowind, a place where the air was thick with moisture and the smell of rotting vegetation hung heavy.
We embarked on a journey to the heart of the Bitter Coast, trudging through the muck and mire. The Argonian’s tail flicked with excitement, and she spoke of Hist trees and Hist sap, matters that held no interest to me. Nevertheless, I, Dagoth Ur, entertained her ramblings.
Our destination was a swampy grove, where the Argonian insisted we perform a traditional Argonian dance. I found myself awkwardly attempting to mimic her movements as she swayed and hissed, her scales glistening with swamp water. It was a display of Argonian customs that grated on my divine sensibilities.
As the night wore on, and the swamp’s stench permeated my very being, I could bear it no longer. I declared our date concluded and returned to the sanctum of Red Mountain, leaving Sul-Matuul behind.
And thus, Nerevar, that was my first and only encounter with an Argonian in matters of the heart. What a grand and intoxicating misadventure it was, one that reinforced my disdain for their traditions and way of life.