(Scenes from the adventures of my first character, Thag gro-Uruk. Spoilers for the main quest and the Fighter's Guild to follow.)



1. the Gold Road

A man and an orc are traveling along a road. There is also a horse; the orc leads it and the man, at the orc's insistence, rides. The man wears the cassock of a priest, while the orc is clad in a warrior's armor. Behind them is a city in ruins. Ahead of them is destiny.

It is a long journey, and there is time to speak of many things. To fill one of the silences, the man asks, "Tell me about my father."

The orc thinks. How to describe a man known for less than an hour, to a son denied even that? Finally he speaks.

"He was not afraid. He had seen his death and he was not afraid, not for a moment. He did not hide from it behind other men; he met it on his feet, sword in hand. Few men are so brave."

The orc turns his head to look up at the man on horseback. "I wish you could have met him. I wish... I had met him sooner."

Then there is only the clopping of the horse's hooves on the road, and the rustle of the wind through the trees.


2. Namira's Shrine, near Bruma

As an orc adventurer in (mostly non-orcish) Cyrodiil, Thag gro-Uruk had been called many things. Until today, "too pretty" was not among them.

As he was speechless with surprise, the Nord crone in the shapeless brown burlap robe continued to scold him. "People like you. Like to hear you talk. Bah! Come back when you are more loathsome." Having dismissed him, Hjolfrodi stood her ground and glared up at him venomously.

Thag, more amused than anything, considered this. It was true that lately he was trying to act better than the orc who'd been tossed into the Imperial Prison for starting a drunken tavern brawl. Something about Martin and the Blades, and the trust and fellowship they'd extended to someone they hardly knew, purely on the basis of his deeds and not his station, had inspired him... made him want to strive to be more than what everyone (Thag included) had always expected him to be. But if that was the orc this woman wanted...

Thag grinned, showing off his jutting lower teeth, as he dropped his shield to leave both hands free. He reached back into his pack and drew forth the two bottles of cheap wine that he'd been holding onto for some suitable debauchery. Pulling out the corks with his teeth, he spat them at Hjolfrodi; then, raising both bottles high in a gesture known as the "V-chug," he tilted his head back and poured the contents down his gullet. Some overflowed and ran down his neck and chest. When they were drained, Thag dashed them both to the ground and stood there with a queer smile. For a moment, as the sound of shattering glass faded, there was only a faint rumbling or burbling noise from the region of his belly.

Then Thag opened his vast maw again and let forth a titanic belch right in Hjolfrodi's face. It smelled - no, tasted - of vinegar and this morning's breakfast, and it went on and on, echoing and rolling around the small mountain clearing like thunder. It lasted for a slow count of ten, and by the time it was done the other daedra worshippers were staring.

Hjolfrodi, her wrinkled face now flecked with spittle, squinted at Thag, who looked slightly deflated but quite pleased with himself. Her lips pursed.

"Right, you'll do."

(For an encore, Thag threw up on the statue. The lady Namira was apparently both incensed and impressed.)

3. near Bravil

Thag considered the waters of Niben Bay as they gently lapped against the gravel and sand at his feet. He could see the opposite shore on the horizon, many leagues away. His brow furrowed. While it was true that orcs were almost fearless, it was also true that very few of them could swim. Fortunately, he had another option.

He fished the copper amulet out of the tunic he wore under his armor, fingered it for a moment, then tucked it back inside. He'd used it before to cross shallow water, streams and pools... but this would be the real test.

Somewhere on the other side of the bay (more of a great lake, really, like Lake Rumare to the north) was his destination. To cross the mighty Niben River, he'd have to head north to the bridge that formed one link in the Red Ring Road that encircled the Imperial City, or all the way south to Leyawiin. Thag had thought of a more direct route, and like most orcs, once he got an idea in his head, it was hard to dislodge it. He was also fairly sure that no one had ever done this before. That made it irresistible.

Muttering a quick prayer to the Nine Divines and another to Lord Malacath, Thag strode boldly out onto the water. As usual, the surface dimpled and gave slightly under his weight, as if he was walking across an ordinary mattress, but did not swallow him. He kept his eyes fixed on the far shore for fifty paces, then stopped and looked down. The water here was too deep and murky to see bottom. As he watched, a curious fish swam up, nosed one of his boots, and then darted away.

With a bark of a laugh, Thag set out again. The deep waters of the bay were smooth as glass and he had no trouble keeping his balance. (He was not sure if the amulet's enchantment extended to his hands, if he should topple over, and not eager to find out.) His pace was brisk and steady.

The sun had been high in the sky when he began his journey. It was low and orange behind him by the time he approached the shore. He circled around a small island with a crumbling fort and made for another landmark, a small chapel set back about a hundred yards from the grassy bank, just short of the treeline. It looked like a good place to give thanks to the Divines, rest a while, and perhaps boast of his deed.

Thag wobbled a little as his feet touched land again; his legs had gotten used to the springy yet perfectly level surface of the bay. Grimacing, the orc marched up the steps leading from the beach to the chapel and threw the door wide open.

Whatever words he'd been about to say died on his lips. In an instant, some part of his mind took in every detail of the scene: the overturned pews, the blood splashed across the floor, the desecrated altar, the statues flanking it (one with its head struck off, the other missing its hands), the corpse hanging from the rafters, the other rotting body parts strewn about... and particularly the two startled necromancers, just beginning to turn at the sound of his entrance.

They died quickly. Much more quickly than the priest had, as Thag learned when he cut the body down.

Thag had seen death before; had caused, perhaps, more than his share of it. But this was something foul and unclean. His instincts and his simple faith both told him what must be done. He left the chapel and headed for the treeline, drawing the axe from his belt.

It took a few more hours to gather enough wood, but when the moons rose above the trees, they found the chapel fully ablaze. Thag watched for a while, listening to the windows shatter as the interior was cleansed by fire. Then he took his bearing from the island fort and the stars and headed off into the wilderness.

hey this is fairly good! and i hate most of these things.

Thanks. More to come; I didn't want to flood the board.

4. Anvil

It was after midnight when Thag came to Anvil. The streets of the port city were empty but for a lone watchman, holding his torch high as he made his rounds. Thag exchanged quiet greetings with the man as he trudged toward the Fighter's Guild.

Thag was tired. It was three days since he'd last slept and he'd spent most of that on the road, in the saddle, or fighting through caves and ancient ruins (not to mention the occasional attempted highway robbery). Even his renowned orcish stamina was reaching its limit. He was over-burdened with loot that he could not sell until the shops opened in the morning, sustaining himself only with potions and spells that lightened his load.

A yawning porter met him in the front room of the guild hall. When Thag had been here before, this practice room was filled with the sounds of battle - warriors sparring with each other or beating on the wooden dummy in the center - but now it was dark and silent.

"Evening, sir. I was just about to close up for the night. Everyone else has gone to bed."

"Everyone?" Thag's thick brows drew together. "Are there any empty beds?"

"No, sir." The porter hesitated. "Well... mine, sir."

Even by candlelight, Thag could see the porter's anxiety. He was within his rights to take the man's bed, or he could probably bully one of the other guild members out of theirs, but either option went against his vaguely-formed sense of honor. So Thag merely grunted and wrestled his sack of loot off his shoulder, letting it drop to the floor with a muffled metallic crash from the loose weapons and pieces of armor within. "Watch that. I'll be back."

Out on the street again, Thag thought. He could go to the inn, or...

Thag plunged his hand into a pouch at his belt and came up with a fistful of keys, which he sorted through by the light of the torches flanking the guild hall's front door. The last time he'd been in Anvil, seeing the sights and spending some of his hard-won coin on revelry, he'd let a young gentleman talk him into buying the family manor here in town for what seemed to be an absurdly low price. It had still cost most of his gold, and all he had the next morning to show he hadn't simply been robbed while drunk were a deed and a key.

It was this key which Thag now raised in triumph. If he owned a house, he should go sleep in it, yes?

Ten minutes later, Thag knew why he'd gotten the manor so cheaply. The house was a wreck - not falling-down decrepit, but it had definitely seen better days. There were loose shingles on the roof and ivy crawling up the walls, most of the windows were broken or boarded up, and the inside looked like a thunderstorm (or a bunch of orcs) had been through it, with furniture knocked over and paintings hanging askew. But the bed upstairs seemed to be in good shape, once he'd beaten the dust off the blankets, and it was with a sigh of relief that he unbuckled his armor, shucked off his sweaty undertunic, and climbed into it.

It seemed that he'd only just closed his eyes when he was awakened by screaming and terrible cold. Hovering over the bed were three translucent spectral figures, howling and clawing at him. Thag cursed and rolled out of bed, reaching for his sword belt. The Burning Blade came free of its scabbard with a familiar and comforting ringing sound, red-orange light glinting along its edges. Naked to the waist, Thag stood and bellowed a war cry as he laid into the shrieking ghosts with his enchanted longsword.

It was a short fight, but as Thag descended the stairs with sword in hand, he found that the problem was bigger than he thought. He could hear more ghosts in the dining room and down in the cellar, moaning and rattling; the whole house seemed to creak and whisper. The temperature had dropped enough that he could see his own vaporous breath.

It was certainly not that he was afraid - an orc warrior is never afraid - but Thag decided that in this case, a retreat was in order. He would come back later (during daylight, say) and sort this out. He hustled back up to the bedroom and retrieved his armor and other gear, draping it around him as he made his escape from the haunted mansion.

By the time he was fully dressed and armed once more, the rush of combat had passed and Thag found himself no better off than before. It was still several hours to dawn and he still had no place to sleep. He wearily set out for the Count's Arms.

The inn was dark, the door locked. Thag groaned and beat on it with his fist. BAM BAM BAM! He had to do this a couple of times before the innkeeper, an elderly Redguard, came to the door. The man was dressed in a long sleeping robe and slippers, and Thag envied him intensely.

"Yes? Bar's closed for the night, young fella."

"All I want is a room," Thag pleaded.

"Well, come on in, then," the innkeeper said, opening the door fully. "You're in luck - I've got one left, very nice. Just twenty-five gold for the night." Thag would have paid a hundred; he handed over the coins without complaint, and shuffled up the stairs the man indicated.

The room actually was quite nice, but Thag hardly noticed. He pulled off his armor again, fell into bed, and slept until noon.

Very nice and well written. I've not seen a text with little to none spelling errors like this in a long time. I hope to see more of your works soon.

:thumbsup:

(How about now? )

5. Carac Agaialor

Thag gro-Uruk stepped over the bodies of Raven and Ruma Camoran and pushed open the door leading to the sanctum of their father: Mankar Camoran, leader of the Mythic Dawn, servant of Mehrunes Dagon and architect of this whole mess. The gold-skinned high elf was seated on his throne, dressed in blue silk robes, with the Amulet of Kings around his neck. Thag wondered how the Altmer could wear the red diamond, as he probably didn't have the blood of the Septims (except on his hands). Perhaps the rules were different here in Camoran's "paradise."

As Thag approached, Camoran stood. "I have waited a long time for you, Champion of Old Tamriel. You are the last gasp of a dying age. You breathe the stale air of false hope. How little you--"

Thag had heard enough. Ever since he arrived in this strange realm, where the dead were reborn only to die again (and rise again, like daedra), he'd had to listen to this fool's blather. The sound of Camoran's voice had come from the air, gloating and speaking of things that meant nothing to the orc. Now Thag was here, armed and hostile, right in front of him... and rather than preparing for battle or striking Thag down with the power he claimed to have, the elf was still talking.

For that error alone, he deserved to die.

Thag took quick steps forward, the Burning Blade hissing from its sheath. He had a brief but satisfying glimpse of the surprise on Camoran's face, his pain as the sword bit into his flesh and flames engulfed him. Then the dance finally began, with Thag hacking away at the sorceror and trying to block or avoid the spells thrown his way while Camoran attempted to heal himself faster than the orc could hurt him. Up and down the stairs they fought, with Camoran summoning daedra to aid him.

The end, when it came, was almost anticlimactic. With a final gasp of "Dagon!" the tall elf crumpled to the floor in a pool of blood. The monsters he'd summoned vanished. Thag quickly sheathed his sword, bent down, and claimed the Amulet with a sharp yank that snapped its thin chain. The throne room was already beginning to shake and crumble; Mankar Camoran, creator of this realm, had been its linchpin. Of all things here, only he was not immortal.

Camoran's advlt children, restored once more, burst into the sanctum at that moment - too late. They stopped and stared in dismay at the sight of the body. Thag shrugged, drew his sword, and had just cut the son down for a third time when the light of unmaking swept over everything and deposited him back in the great hall of Cloud Ruler Temple, in front of an anxious Martin Septim.

"You found a way back. Does this mean...?"

For answer, Thag dropped the Amulet of Kings into the hand of its rightful owner, then saluted him with a fist across his own chest.

"My Emperor."

6. The Temple of the One, Imperial City

Howling with rage, bathed in divine dragonfire, steam jetting from cracks in his blood-red skin, the giant four-armed figure of Mehrunes Dagon faded and was gone. Now only the great golden dragon, the avatar of Akatosh, remained in the shattered Temple of the One... along with a single orc warrior who stood awestruck at the dragon's feet, having just witnessed a battle between gods.

The dragon's head dipped low on its long neck as it panted, exhausted by the struggle. Its body was living flame, molten gold; for Thag, it was like standing next to a blazing forge. He held up his sword arm as if to ward off the waves of heat, squinting through the rippling air for some sign of the man he'd followed into the Temple.

Then that head, with its toothy snout and trailing horns, turned a fraction; an eye that was dark only against the saffron glow opened fully; and for just a moment, the dragon - Akatosh? Martin? both? - looked directly at him. It was a moment the orc would remember for the rest of his days, a regard that held things he had no words for.

The moment passed. The dragon lifted its head, reared back, and roared to the skies that still boiled with the crimson storm clouds of Oblivion. There was a crackling sound, like river ice breaking up in the spring but much louder. The living flame faded and went out, leaving the dragon's form frozen in stone. At nearly the same instant, the hell-storm vanished as if swept away by a broom. Only a few columns of smoke rising into the clear, crisp blue sky (and the suddenly-absent roof of the Temple, which allowed such a fine view) remained to show that the Imperial City had been attacked.

It was over.

Thag stood looking up at the dragon statue for a long time. His heart was full and his head empty. Eventually he became aware that an elf - an Altmer, tall and pompous, like Camoran - in a red robe was nattering at him. Ocato, that was his name; High Chancellor of the Council that ran things when there wasn't an Emperor. Like now, again.

Numbly, Thag gave the elf the answers he wanted, confirming what he had seen. That Martin - his liege, his friend, his brother-in-arms - was gone. (Not dead, just... gone.) When Ocato started going on about trouble in the provinces and naming him some kind of Champion, it was all Thag could do not to push his face in. Instead, he stepped past the chancellor just as Jauffre was walking up - good, let them talk at each other - and went to find Baurus.

The dark-skinned Blade was standing near the Temple doors, surveying the damage to the dome with a faint smile. When he saw the orc approaching, he laughed. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Thag gave him a sour look in reply.

"Who'd have thought we'd end up here, huh?" Baurus went on. "After how this all started... putting the Amulet of Kings in the hands of a prisoner." His joking manner became more serious. "Emperor Uriel did. He knew. I said it before, he saw something in you. And he was right." The Imperial bodyguard clapped his comrade on the shoulder. "I count you among the greatest heroes of the Blades."

"I'm not a Blade, remember?" Thag growled. He'd been offered membership in the order, but refused, not wanting to be tied down. Not sure he was worthy. Now it was too late. "And you're happy for someone who's lost two Emperors on his watch." He expected that to hurt - Baurus had taken Uriel Septim's death hard - and right now he wanted it to. There was a hurt inside him too, and it craved blood.

Baurus merely shook his head with a sad smile. "We didn't lose Martin, not that way. He sacrificed himself to save us all. He had his father's courage. As a Blade, I'm proud to have served such a master, if only for a short while."

Grudgingly, Thag admitted Baurus was right. It was that courage - first in the father, then the son - that had earned his loyalty, and made a rootless adventurer and thug into a hero with a cause. Thag and the Blades would have gladly died for Martin, because they knew he would do the same for them. And so he had.

(But for many nights to come, Thag would find himself wishing it had been the other way around.)

After mulling this over a bit, Thag came to a decision. "Let's go get drunk."

Baurus chuckled. "Can't. I have things to do, even now. But next time you're up by Cloud Ruler Temple, come find me and we'll tip a few." He offered his hand. "May Talos guide you."




Outside the Temple, on the steps leading up to the doors, Thag paused a moment to collect himself. Most of the fires in this district were already out, though the trees had been reduced to blackened skeletons and some pavement was torn up; the watchmen of the Imperial Legion were carting off the bodies of daedra and sweeping the gardens for stragglers. Thag leaned against a pillar, took off his helmet and closed his eyes. When he opened them, a Dunmer woman was standing in front of him.

"Pardon me," said the dark elf, her red hair and eyes a strong contrast to her blueberry skin. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but I was sent to ask for your help."

"And... you are...?" Thag asked distractedly, beginning to feel the pains and weariness of the battle to get Martin to the Temple, as well as the deeper aches of his spirit.

"Oh! Where are my manners?" Her cheeks blushed purple. "I'm Ralsa Norvalo. My husband, Gilen, heard you were in the city and sent me to find you. Normally, I wouldn't approach a total stranger like this, but he was so insistent. Please, forgive my audacity..."

Not so very long ago, Thag the orc would have walked away, ignoring this woman and her still-unspecified problem. Today, however, he remembered what an absent friend had once said to him: I still don't know if there's a divine plan, but I've come to realize, it doesn't matter. What matters is that we act. That we do what's right, when confronted with evil.

He forced a smile, trying not to show too many teeth; the Dunmer might not understand. "It's all right. Go on."


(not the end)

7. Weynon Priory

At first it seemed that the priory hadn't changed at all from the first time he'd been here, months ago. But there were horses missing from the stable: the paint that he rode, the bay that he led, and the dun that Jauffre had taken. And there was a new grave out back, for Prior Maborel.

"I brought your horse back, and Martin's too," Thag told the mound of dirt. "Sorry I couldn't do more."

"I don't know what I'll do now," the orc went on with a sigh. "Maybe go back to working for the Fighter's Guild. But I thought I should come here first... settle accounts, tell you how it all turned out." He looked up at the sky; the sun had set, and the stars were starting to come out. "We won, I guess."

The grave offered no guidance, no words of comfort. Thag shook his head and went in search of Eronor, the priory's shepherd and stablehand.

"Here," he said, thrusting the reins at the dark elf without preamble. "She's not mine. I'll find another."

"Begging your pardon, sir," Eronor replied, "but I think the prior would want you to have her. And I think she'd want that too."

Thag turned to look at the paint horse, who whickered and nuzzled the bag where he kept the fruit and plants he picked up in his wanderings. (For all his brutish appearance and demeanor, the orc was an accomplished herbalist, a talent which had saved his life more than once.) Out of habit, Thag found an apple in the bag and fed it to the mare. "Stupid," he muttered as she chewed. "You know I'll just eat you someday." The paint finished the apple and snorted.

Eronor seemed to consider the matter decided. He took the other horse and started leading it to the stable as Thag mounted up. "Jauffre might be coming back here, after he's done at Cloud Ruler," Thag said from the saddle. "Take care of this place."

"Always have," the elf said amiably.

Out on the main road, which ran past both the priory and the gates of Chorrol, Thag brought the horse - his horse, now - to a halt. He took a single gold septim from his coinpurse and flipped it. The coin sparkled, catching the last of the fading light, and landed in his palm. Thag nodded.

"West it is."


(still not the end)

8. the Five Claws Lodge, Leyawiin

The owner of the Five Claws, whose name sounded like "Witsydeucy" to most non-Argonian ears, was sweeping up the last of the mess in the common room when the two orcs entered. "... get a big surprise when he shows up tonight," Thag was saying to his companion. "We wait here 'till then, get some rest, go back a little before midnight."

"And then the Count will make us both knights," Mazoga said eagerly. It was all she'd talked about since they'd been tasked with eliminating the leader of the Black Bow bandits.

Thag nodded, and found himself staring at her again. By orcish standards, Mazoga was quite a beauty. Her smooth skin was the color of fresh cabbage; her teeth were sharp and even. Her short hair was gathered into a dozen small coup knots, leaving her crown mostly bare. She was tall and strong, gruff and demanding, and very stubborn - everything a warrior might desire in a woman. Thag had been smitten with her ever since his first visit to Leyawiin.

Fighter's Guild business had brought him back to this town on the edge of the Black Marsh. Some of his guild-brothers had been making trouble here in this very inn, for lack of anything better to do; Thag had set that right quickly enough, paying for their drinks and the furniture they'd broken (plus a few hundred to soothe the innkeeper's ruffled temper) and then going out the next morning to find them honest work gathering monster parts for the local alchemist. With that handled, he'd gone in search of Mazoga and found her in the same place as before: standing in the castle's main hall, waiting for a chance to prove herself worthy. Thag could sympathize with that, even if he hadn't been in love.

"What?" Mazoga snapped peevishly; she'd caught him mooning over her. Mumbling something, Thag turned away and went over to the bar, giving it a thump to get the Argonian's attention. "Need a room, for the rest of the day!"

Witsydeucy looked up from her sweeping, giving him a slow blink of her lizard eyes in place of a shrug. "You already paid for the bed," she informed him in her scratchy, hissing voice. "It's yours if you want it."

By his own reckoning, what Thag did next took as much courage as stepping through the first Oblivion gate at Kvatch. (Then, as now, he had no idea what awaited him on the other side.) Trying to act casual, he turned back to Mazoga and asked, "Want to share it?" As soon as he'd said the words, he tensed, bracing himself for the fist or the axe, or just a simple "No" and her walking away forever. He wasn't sure which would hurt more.

Mazoga took a moment to think about it, then answered, "Okay."

They didn't break any more furniture, but it was a near thing.

'Tis okay... :shrug:

( Such praise. )


9. Cheydinhal

Aldos Othran was on the ground, bleeding out from a mortal wound. He was sober now, but that shocked awareness was fading from his eyes. His lips moved, forming a word - his dead wife's name? - and then he was gone.

Thag rounded on the shaken guardsman. "What in Oblivion was that?"

The guardsman swallowed, some of the color returning to his face. "You saw. He came at me with a knife!"

"So you killed him!"

"I had to defend myself!" the guard snapped. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Find another way!" Thag roared. They were standing toe to toe now. "Call for help, grab the knife... take the hit, that's what armor's for! Knock him out, knock him down, but don't kill a man just for being drunk and angry!"

"If you don't like it, take it up with Captain Leland!" the guardsman blustered. "D-don't make me fine you too!"

Thag scowled and took a step back. Searching his pouches and pockets, he found one of the assorted rings he'd picked up in his travels (silver, with an emerald setting) and bounced it off the man's chest. "Keep the change," he snarled, and stalked off in search of Llevana Nedaren.

The dark elf woman knew something was wrong even before he told her. Thag could tell that she was horrified, and angry, and guilty for her part in provoking the town drunk into his final, fatal confrontation - because he shared those feelings. But when she suggested luring the corrupt captain of the guard to a private meeting where revenge might be had, the orc hesitated, fighting his own instincts.

"I have the Count's ear; I saved his son's life," Thag told her. "I know how you feel... but give me one more chance to get justice instead of blood." Reluctantly, she agreed.

And after a talk with Ulrich's honest lieutenant, and the discovery of an incriminating letter, justice WAS done. As the surly captain was led away to the dungeons, however, Nedaren confessed to not being fully satisfied.

"I'm still saddened that there'll be no true retribution for Aldos. When I was growing up in Vvardenfell, my parents taught me 'an eye for an eye.' It's hard not to see that through."

Thag nodded in solemn sympathy, then left the lady's side and walked over to one of the guards in the arrest party - the same guard who'd been posted outside Othran's confiscated house. He tapped the man on the shoulder to get his attention, and when the guard turned, punched him out.

"That's how you put a man down without killing him," the orc observed to the unconscious guard, then turned and walked away. No one tried to stop him.

Keep making these, I love 'em

10. Fighter's Guild, Leyawiin and Chorrol

Shortly before first light, those sleeping in the Leyawiin hall of the Fighter's Guild were woken by an orc banging loudly on a shield. "Up! Everybody UP! We got a job to do, right now."

One of the fighters told the orc what he could do with himself. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor with the stranger looming over him.

"That's '____ you SIR,' meat! You're talking to a Guardian and a knight! Come on, on your feet! Get dressed - you won't need armor or weapons, I cleaned the place out already."

"What do you need us for, then?" asked an elven archer.

"Carrying bodies," the orc said. His voice dropped a few notches from his earlier bellow. "We got people to bring home... brothers and sisters." There was a moment's pause, then he whacked one of the bedposts with his mace. "Come on, move it ya gobs!"

Quietly, though not without some grumbling, they did as they were told.




An orc comes slowly riding through the north gate of Chorrol, leading a white horse with a young man in shining armor draqed over it. He stops in front of the Fighter's Guild hall and dismounts, drawing curious looks from members of the neighboring Mage's Guild and other bystanders around the Great Oak.

After a few moments, the door of the guild hall opens and a Dunmer, also in armor, with his hair shaped into a tall narrow crest, comes out. The dark elf and the orc speak quietly, with the former looking very angry and glancing often at the body.

Both react to a piteous wail from the doorway. A matronly woman has appeared there, wearing a briastplate with a long skirt, flanked by other hesitant members of the guild. She rushes out into the street, past the elf and orc, to confirm the identity of the young man draqed over his horse. There is more wailing. The warriors look uncomfortable.

The matron turns and lunges at the orc, slapping him hard across the face and haranguing him. He bears her assault stoically. She is about to draw the shortsword at her belt when the Dunmer intercedes, speaking forcefully to her. Her face shows disbelief, then hardens into anger at the dark elf. When he is done, she looks at both warriors and speaks bitterly to them. They nod solemnly and exit the scene as the others come forward to help her with the body.

11. Water's Edge

Maybe it's the Hist sap talking (and it probably is, 'cuz I never got this kind of buzz off one mug of anything, not even Newheim's ale), but these Blackwood guys aren't so bad. That Forsaken Mine thing must have just been a big mistake. Sure, they're no Blades, but they aren't as bad as Oreyn said. I almost feel like telling them he sent me to infil... in... join them. But then they might not like me, and I don't want to break up this great team we have.

At first I didn't want to drink the sap - it smelled awful, even to me - but that lizard, Jeetum-Zee, wouldn't let me go on the mission unless I did. Now I'm glad. I feel great. I can tell my new friends do too. It's like we're invincible. There's nothing we can't do.

Jee Zee sent us to hunt goblins in a little town down by Leyawiin called Water's Edge. Been here before. Met a nice girl (not as nice as my Mazoga, though) and helped her out of some trouble. Paid off her father's gambling debt so she didn't have to sell her grandfather's grave goods. The man should get to rest in peace.

Goblins. I hate 'em, nasty little screeching things with their knives. The ones in the sheep paddock don't even fight back, they just stand there and bleat. Then we hit 'em, and they fall down and bleed.

We were joking around earlier, but now that we're here, we're all serious. Intense. Our leader (what a great guy) calls me over and tells me he still smells goblins. Tells me to search the houses.

He's right. I find some. They aren't much trouble, not for me. Gut one, move on to the next house. Stupid goblins, with their pink skin and golden hair and...

Wait.

They sent us here to kill goblins. (Right.) And we've been killing goblins. (Right.) Goblins that look just like...

No.

No no no no no

NO!




Akatosh, forgive me. Talos, Julianos, Zenithar... Mara, Dibella, Arkay, Stendarr, Kynareth...

Martin...

Martin, forgive me.





They found him in the morning in the Chapel of Zenithar, in Leyawiin: a most unusual sight, an orc warrior in full armor (his boots, some whispered, caked with red mud) slumped over the Altar of the Nine, hoarse from praying all night. He was taken from there to the White Stallion Lodge by his fellow knight-errant, Sir Mazoga, to recover. Count Caro declined to comment.

By mid-day, after the first news arrived from Water's Edge, everyone had something else to talk about.

Awesome stories!

Agreed.

*Nevermind, double post*

12. Blackwood Company Hall, Leyawiin

He stood at the base of the Hist tree, watching it go up in flames, and for a moment felt a powerful sense of deja vu. The heat of the blaze licked his face as the air grew thick with smoke. Somewhere high above, a window shattered.

Thag's shoulders slumped as he discarded the large, heavy wrench he'd used to smash the strange mechanisms that sustained the tree. He felt tired but also relieved. He'd destroyed the source of the Blackwood Company's power and of his own madness and dishonor. Now, maybe, he could finally find absolution.

As the fire began to spread from the tree to the rest of the basemant, Thag turned and left, leaving the once-locked door standing open behind him. At the top of the stairs, he literally bumped into the sole surviving member of the Blackwood Company: his former guild-brother, Maglir.

"You've ruined everything!" the wood elf shouted, hurling himself at the orc with sword drawn. "I'll kill you!"

Thag raised his shield and blocked the first furious blows, then used his greater size and strength to knock the Bosmer back. Maglir fell to the hardwood floor with a crash of armor. Thag drew the Burning Blade and leveled its point at the stunned elf.

"I give you your life," the orc growled. "Go home to your family."

Maglir snarled like an animal, too deranged by Hist sap to listen. His pupils were the size of pinholes. "The Company is my only family!" he shouted, springing to his feet and charging again.

Grimly, Thag did what he had to. Then he sheathed his sword and picked up the body, carrying it outside and laying it on the stone curb. By now the hall was fully ablaze; flames had broken through the roof, and smoke poured from the windows. The bell of the chapel rang in alarm, over and over. Thag walked away, not looking back.



Not so very long afterward, Thag gro-Uruk - Champion of Cyrodiil, hero of Kvatch and of Bruma, Master of the Fighter's Guild, Knight of the White Stallion and honorary Knight of the Thorn - retired from adventuring. He settled in Leyawiin, in a small and humble home near the center of town, along with his wife.

While he kept the feasting hall in Bruma, furnished with his many trophies, for important dinners and appearances, the other properties he'd acquired in his travels were disposed of. The manor house in Anvil, which he'd never much cared for, was sold after the secret room in the basemant was thoroughly gone over by the Mage's Guild and then (just to be on the safe side) bricked up for good. The shack on the Imperial City waterfront, long abandoned by then, caught fire quite suddenly one night and burned to the ground. The Watch's brief investigation concluded that the fire was caused by improperly stored alchemical ingredients.

He never did eat the horse that he called "Stupid," not even after she broke a leg and had to be put down. He delivered the finishing blow himself with a Dwemer battle axe. One witness records that he seemed quite upset, but this account is not considered reliable, as no orc ever mourned a horse.

He is known to have lived to the age of 43, uncommonly old for an orc warrior. But beyond that, the story of the Champion's later years - and of his sons and, most of all, his remarkable daughter - must be left to another time and another chronicler.


(That's it. Thank you for reading.)

Aww, too bad it ends here. I loved your writings Make something in the future, please.

QFT that was great! Please write more at some point

Nicely done!

Maybe you should make things like this to your other chars
too.
Most impressive. :thumbsup:

A small bump, to celebrate the creation of the new sub-forum for fan fic.

Well i thoroughly enjoyed reading that
keep up the good work

I'm flattered that this is still getting readers. Thanks.