Outside Bruma, 4E 190

Emerging from the depths of Castle Bruma's cellars, Durzub gro-Yargol shielded his eyes from the sun for a brief moment. They were outside of the city, Durzub had escaped from prison. He turned to his accomplice. The guard couldn't help but recoil in fear from Durzub's cold glare, for fear of what he might do next. Durzub didn't say a word, instead he focused on the nagging anger inside of his brain, taunting him. He approached the guard with his already unsheathed Claymore, and instructed him to stay put, as he briefly inspected the snowy mountains for any eavesdroppers. He approached the guard one last time.

"It's best that you don't go begging me to stop human, that will only make the pain worse."

"..Please listen! Oh please if you would only li-"

Cut off from speech, he watched helplessly as his left leg departed from his body, followed swiftly by his right at the hands of the Durzub's Claymore. The Orc's anger subsided for a second, as he couldn't help but laugh at the guards position on the freezing snow; bleeding profusely, screaming, and screaming. Durzub had expected him to die soon after losing his limbs, but even after a full minute this was not the case. Miraculously he saw a frozen lake in the distance, and proceeded to carry him towards it. The screaming would have driven any other mortal to despair, but for Durzub this only fuelled his rage, and thus his creativity. They had reached the lake, and Durzub began to smash the ice with his Claymore, revealing the hypothermic waters below. He then threw the mutilated guard into the lake without hesitation, and without remorse.

This, in his mind, was not a means of hiding the body, but instead a way of inflicting more suffering upon his foe; through the means of hypothermia. As tempted as he was to watch as his enemy slowly died, he had to flee from the area before he was caught, so he sheathed his weapon and started sprinting towards the mountains. He passed through glades, forests, caves, hills, and rivers before he reached Pale Pass two hours later, deeply secluded within the Jerall Mountains. He knew that somewhere beyond these mountains was his home, Skyrim. He wouldn't be prosecuted there, as the Nord's track their crime from hold to hold, not to mention that the Orc strongholds ignore Nord tradition altogether. And with this thought in mind, he proceeded to journey from Pale Pass swiftly, in hopes of rejoining his family in the stronghold.

Pale Pass was notorious for its large population of Ogres and today was no different, he immediately saw a pack of three Ogres patrolling the area. The first was taken by surprise, and was quickly felled at the hands of Durzub. The remaining two Ogres fought him directly, giving him quite the battle. It was some time before he managed to slay them, but he was victorious nonetheless. This however was not the end of them, and the further he journeyed through Pale Pass the more Ogres he fought. After many hard strikes his armour began to dwindle, and soon became useless. He was bleeding heavily, and began to weaken after many long battles. He barely made it to Skyrim in one piece, but the forests of Falkreath were a welcome sight indeed. Durzub took a brief moment to fall to the ground and regain his lost stamina. It had been a long time since had fought such a tough group of enemies. It annoyed him greatly that he was so easily weakened by his foes. Disposing of his armour he continued his journey, this time through the southern forests of Skyrim in search of his native stronghold.

It was as he was walking through these forests that he thought back to the guard he had tortured and killed senselessly. The endless amount of blood on the snow, the exhilarating screams. No doubt he's dead now, I shouldn't have let him get off so easily. I shouldn't have killed him, it's been too long since I've had the pleasure of tearing out a humans eyeballs. A furious anger inside started gnawing at his brain. He felt like raiding an entire city by himself, he wanted to kill again. Durzub felt ashamed of himself, he felt that he should have made his opponent suffer much more than he already did. All of a sudden he began to smell burning as he came nearer and nearer to his birth place. His slow walk turned into a run, as he made haste towards the stronghold which was now burning frantically. There was nothing he could do, he was too late. Not that he cared much, whichever one of his aunts was his mother was now dead, and Durzub couldn't be happier.

"Stop! Lay down your weapon Orc!"

Close to around fifteen guards were now circling him, Durzub was totally overwhelmed. In his wounded state he fell to the ground, only to be picked straight back up by four of the guards, chaining him up in the process. Durzub was wounded to the point where he was now coughing up blood, and dangerously close to losing consciousness; but the guards prevented this from happening through striking his back every so often, forcing him to experience every agonising second of the journey. Finally they reached the city of Windhelm, and the guards unloaded Durzub from the back of the carriage. The farmers, merchants, and on-duty guards alike all paused as they observed this gigantic Orc in shackles being escorted to the dungeons. The townsfolk also watched curiously as they made there way through the town itself, and towards the palace. A familiar feeling circulated through Durzub's wounded body, as he was tossed down onto the cold floor of his cell. He laid there in great amounts of pain, as he was taunted by the jailor.

"It'll be the headman's axe for you."

The door was locked, and the guards left him to his fate.

Dungeons of Windhelm, 4E 191

Six months had now passed since Durzub's second capture, and the revelation that all of his family had died in a horrific fire no doubt raised by the Nord's who captured him. His current state would make any proud Orc sad; for Durzub gro-Yargol had spent the past six months chained against the wall of his cell by his hands and feet, awaiting his execution. He had been left in this state for the duration of his stay, and every day the jailor's would beat him with hammers and maces, burn him with scolding hot water, and taunt him for hours on end. All Durzub could do is hope to have a chance to earn a good death when he is finally unchained and sent to the executioners block, whenever that may be. Fellow prisoners would provoke him when the lights were out, and there was very little that Durzub could do about it. After all, what better way to punish an Orc than to beat him, and have the prisoners ridicule him in his helpless state? Durzub however, would never give into the beatings, and would only ever let out the occasional grunt. He felt wronged, when in actuality, he did the very same thing to many men and women in the past on a much grander scale.

He would be given a single bread loaf a day, and if he was lucky, he would be able to drink the jailor's spit from it. Durzub would often yell at the guards, and attempt to break the chains that bind him, to the point where he had the whole castle concerned. The first time he did this he was beaten vigorously, but this did not stop him, and he continued to harass the guards and his fellow prisoners with his constant attempts to break free; however futile those attempts may have been.

4E 193

The years that followed proved rather unkind to Durzub. The jailor's had long given up on beating him, as he seemed to enjoy the pain more than anything. They instead starved him for days at a time, and forced him to look upon his withered appearance in his reflection from the damp puddles in his cell. This is what hurt Durzub more than anything, his strength was fading, his combat techniques were growing rusty, and there was no almost no hope for an escape. Not even any of the prisoners would befriend him, both out of fear and self-interest; for they wanted to be released as soon as possible, and befriending a savage Orc awaiting execution would surely not help their case.

The Orc wondered why he wasn't dead yet, and suspected that the Nord's shared his sadistic mindset. But if that was so, why did they give up on beating him? He planned out in his head ways of manipulating the guards into freeing him, but to no avail. Suicide would be considered cowardly to Malacath, and it was much more amusing to stay alive and see if he would have an opportunity to slaughter the guards. This was as far as his reasoning went however, for Durzub was not a good thinker. For now, he was on his own..

4E 197

Durzub's black hair turned to silver, and his figure dwindled, as the days became months, and the months became years. He was now allowed some exercise, in the form of being unchained once a week for a short while; probably so they could at least keep him alive until his execution, whenever that might be. He used this time to regain a fragment of his strength through push-ups and leg exercises. This day was an important day, for the Jarl of Windhelm himself would be doing a prison inspection, accompanied by his steward. Of course, Durzub was chained up and given an earful about staying on his best behaviour. He thought nothing of it, and saw it just as any other day. It was as though the days were becoming slower and slower, and the anger inside of Durzub was as furious as ever. He prayed to Malacath that he would be given an opportunity to escape, or at least die a good death. But his prayers remained unanswered, and Durzub gro-Yargol was left helpless.

The door was unlocked, and Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and his steward walked in for their inspection. The first thing they noticed was the Orc that they had heard so much about. The Orc who pillaged Bruma, and slaughtered many innocents. The Orc who managed to escape from prison and fight his way through Pale Pass to Skyrim. Ulfric approached his cell.

"You there. What's your name?"

"Piss off human."

Ulfric's steward Jorleif gasped under his breath, and quickly instructed the Orc not to be so rude towards a Jarl. But Ulfric quietened him.

"Now now Jorleif, let's hear what he really has to say. You, Orc. How would you like to aid the Stormcloaks?"

"My lord, you cannot be seri-"

"Silence Jorleif! This has nothing to do with you."

"My apologies Jarl Ulfric."

The Jarl awaited Durzub's reply. Durzub had absolutely no interest in this man, or his 'Stormcloaks'. He did however have an interest in breaking free from prison, and thus, he agreed to Ulfric's proposal.

"Yeah. I'll do it."

The prisoners and guards alike were in amazement that this cold blooded murder, and the Eight knows what else, is presumably being given a lifeline by the Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfric's expression did not change, but he was nonetheless pleased to hear that the Orc had agreed to help the Stormcloaks, and instructed his men to release him, chain him again, and lead him upstairs to the his quarters. Durzub obliged, and allowed the guards to chain him up and escort him upstairs; for he stood more of a chance escaping this way, rather than attempting a breakout by force. He later found himself in Ulfric's private chambers with two bodyguards. Durzub saw an Imperial man tied down and gagged in the corner of the room.

"An Imperial courier. He was captured yesterday. He has valuable information, but he won't talk. I believe this is a job for one such as yourself?"

"Yeah. Let me take care of it, if it means my freedom."

Durzub was only too pleased to carry out the Jarl's instructions. The Imperial man had scars and bruises all over his body; it would seem that the Stormcloaks had already attempted to interrogate him. Durzub shook his head when he saw the scars. That's not how it's done. Puny humans. He was given no tools, but it was instead presumed by the Jarl that he could get the job done with his bare hands; he was right.. The Orc towered over the Imperial, ripping his gag off, and grabbing his throat with force. The hands of an Orc were much stronger than those of a Nord's, and the Imperial's face began to turn purple. Durzub shoved his free hand as far down the man's throat as it would go, whilst simultaneously strangling him. The guards simply stood there for the most part, not uttering a word.

The Imperial began to vomit, but Durzub took no notice, and continued to deprive him of oxygen.

"Hey! We need him alive prisoner, don't kill him!"

The shouts from one of the guards reminded him that he was under strict orders. As much as he wanted to kill this man, he couldn't. He let the man go, watching as he continued to vomit and gasp for air uncontrollably. He the proceeded to kick the Imperial's throat with force.

"Alright, alright. That's enough from you."

The Jarl instructed Durzub to stop torturing him, and pushed him to one side.

"What are the Imperial's planning?"

Ulfric received no answer, the Imperial was too busy struggling for air, which angered Durzub. He stomped on his throat one last time, before being chained up again forcefully by numerous guards.

"Take him back to his cell. We'll get the information we need."

4E 199

From that moment onward, Durzub gro-Yargol acted as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak's personal interrogator. With promises of release, and fairer treatment in prison, he had little reason to refuse such a generous offer. He got to do what he loved more than anything, torturing people. Sometimes he would strangle his subjects, other times he would beat them with his bare fists. The ones who were strangled were the luckiest, the most stubborn of the Imperials would sometimes have their nails removed. The prisoners began to fear Durzub more and more, and in return for his services to the Stormcloaks, one corrupt guard allowed him to beat the prisoners occasionally for his amusemant. He continued exercising, and grew much stronger than he was at the beginning of his stay in the dungeons; he was almost as large as he was in Cyrodiil.

The dungeons had a brand new occupant in the form of another Orc prisoner, who recognised Durzub immediately as the Orc from the stronghold in Eastmarch who lost his entire family to fire. Durzub wasn't much of a talker, but he was often asked why he would aid the very people who took his land from him and slaughtered his family. He always replied with the same answer.

"All of my aunts, whichever one of them was my mother, and my father were all [censored]"

One day he started asking a few too many questions for Durzub's liking, so he asked the now familiar jailor if he could beat him in his cell. Upon being asked why, he simply replied with.

"Why not?"

Needless to say, Durzub got a little too rough with him, and gave the entire cell a new paint job, complete with random limbs lying around. The corrupt jailor helped Durzub in clearing the mess up, and nobody ever suspected a thing. For Durzub; killing an Orc was much like killing a man, only more difficult. The prisoners were warned to stay silent, or they too would suffer the same fate. At last, Durzub gro-Yargol was morphing back into the true Orc he was born as.

4E 201

This was it, the day of Durzub's release. Ulfric had promised him throughout the years that if he did a good enough job that he would free him, and today was the day. He wasn't excited, or even happy; he simply thought through in his mind who could grant him a good death, who would be worthy enough of such a deed? Slaying a battle-worn Orc in his old age? The doors opened, and Ulfric Stormcloak emerged with his bodyguards. He approached the cell door.

"I have one last task for you Orc. Then you can go as we agreed."

"What is it?"

"You will accompany me and my men to Darkwater Crossing, you will be given a small stipend of gold, and you will be released."

"Why not just release me now? You said you would."

"It would be unwise to let a savage Orc lose in the oldest city in Skyrim. No, we will journey to Darkwater Crossing. I have business there myself."

He agreed, and his hands and feet were chained together by the guards. The townsfolk all gathered around to see the supposed release of a murderer. However, they were soon told that he was being sent to his execution. Whether they were telling the truth or not, Durzub did not know. They journeyed for just over an hour until they reached Darkwater Crossing, but it was a trap.

The entire town had been evacuated, and Imperials emerged with weapons drawn, ordering the Stormcloaks to surrender. They were completely outnumbered, unable to put up any sort of fight. Durzub yelled loudly, and charged one of the Imperials head on, but was soon overwhelmed by six or more guards, and taken prisoner along with Ulfric and the rest of their men. Their destination? To Helgen..