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.