(This is a story I've had on my computer for a while, but I just haven't felt that it was good enough to post. It also used to be part of a longer story, but I felt this length was better. Hope you enjoy it, and it'd be great if any glaring grammar mistakes were pointed out. Thanks!)
Fire flickers somewhere nearby, but Mazoga pays it no mind. She doesn't pay attention to anything other than what's directly in front of her, her vision narrowed to focus on what she deems most important. The chirping of birds, the distant whinnying of horses, the wind rushing through the trees is nothing but background noise. In her arms, she holds an orc, this one bloodied and broken beyond repair, but she's still looking at her.
"M-Mazoga…" the plea is carried on a hiss of breath, quiet as the night, and it makes Mazoga break down into tears because its her best friend, and her best friend is speaking so softly. It's such a far cry from her usual booming shout of a voice, one that chats people's ears off and rises even more in volume when excited, that it comes as so much more of a shock to hear it break and crack. Somewhere nearby, a bird releases a particularly loud chirp, and Mazoga jumps. Ra'vindra coughs again, wetly, and Mazoga quickly goes to sooth her, brushing her dust-brown hair from her face.
"Don't worry, Vin, don't worry, I'll get them, I will-" she sucks in a breath, her tear-filled eyes widening then closing in grief as the body in her arms goes strangely limp. Mazoga howls then, and against the black backdrop of her eyelids she sees the face of Mogens Wind-Shifter.
She awakens with a twitch, hears her steel armour protest against the sudden movement after several hours of stillness, but Mazoga the Orc ignores it in favour of focusing on something a little bit more interesting. There's a pair of boots before her. They are closer than anyone else has dared to come before, and she briefly considers this as she looks them over sleepily. They are leather, toughened for long trips and lovingly worn, and the soles and toe are caked with swamp mud, a dull grey that flakes as the substance dries. Her eyes travel up, taking note of leather greaves, a leather-and-chainmail mishmash of a cuirass, a green cloak the colour of murky water, its hem stained with drying mud and ooze, and finally, the scaly face of an Argonian. Mazoga had always felt neutral toward the beast races: after all, if someone can do their own work and take care of themselves without acting like an animal, they are sentient and therefore just as worthy-and in some cases, unworthy- as anyone else. His bright green-yellow eyes peer out at her from a dark face covered by a hood, and she can't for the life of her get a grasp on his expression. Perhaps it's her sleep-addled mind, or the days of sitting in Leyawiin Castle's lobby with little stimulation aside from the chatter of the guards, but she asks a question that she would look back on and deem stupid.
"Are you the Count?" she asks gruffly, sleep slurring her words, then she huffs, rubbing her eyes. The Argonian looks surprised, then shakes his head. Mazoga scowls. Probably a lapdog of the Count or a traveller, here to see the not-knight. She knows of the rumours, spoken so carelessly around her as if she can't hear them. She can, and she hates it. She opens her mouth to speak again, irate and still drowsy, but the lizard man butts in before she can.
"I am here on the behalf of the Count, however." he says, his voice mid-range and gravelly like those of his kind, with a very faint accent underlying his words.
Mazoga frowns.
"Really? Well, what does he want?" Ugh. In retrospect, not a very knightly thing to say.
"To know what you're doing in his castle." he answers, voice deadpan, and Mazoga fixes an appraising stare on him. He suffers unflinchingly under the scrutiny.
"Not very polite, are you?" she asks. Lizard-man simply shrugs. "Fine, I'll teach you how to speak to a knight." She's well aware of the guards snickering at their posts but she ignores them. "Say, 'Yes, Sir Mazoga." the stranger's tail swings lazily behind him.
"Of course, Sir Mazoga. Excuse my manners. But might I ask something?" she's getting impatient, but at least he's being somewhat civil, so she nods.
"Alright…"
"Street-water. You don't look like a Knight to me." the Argonian -Street-Water, she corrects herself-states, and she feels her anger flare.
"I'm a FREE Knight. Got a problem with that?" she growls. He holds his hands up in surrender. She snorts, then stands. She's a good head taller than him, and she feels much more impressive now that she's standing rather than sitting.
"Good. Now, you want to know why I'm here? I'll tell you, if you get someone for me. He's an Argonian named Weebam-Na. Go get him for me." she makes sure her voice is clear and authoritative as she speaks. No one would listen to her if she didn't. Her orders would seem more like suggestions.
"Yes, Sir Mazoga." Mazoga is satisfied.
Street-Water bows and vanishes through the massive front doors. She sighs when he disappears from sight, kneading her forehead. It's certainly a good thing that someone was sent to help her, but she still feels irritated that the Count wasn't brave enough to face her. She glances up to the doors leading to the throne room; they're closed, and there are two guards posted there, watching her uneasily. Sighing, she sits back down on the bench, sick of waiting already. She's getting closer to her revenge, she can taste it, but she's had enough of sitting around and waiting.
It takes a while for the Argonian to come back, but she snaps ramrod straight and springs out of her seat when he enters, another lizard-man behind him. Mazoga makes her way to them-finally, finally she's getting somewhere-and the new argonian crosses his arms, curious but on edge.
"You! You're Weebam-Na, right?" she asks, and the Argonian shifts his weight to one foot.
"Yes, I am. And you are…."
"I am Sir Mazoga." she announces, and Weebam-Na looks confused for a moment.
"Well…what do you want from me?" he asks, and Mazoga inwardly bristles at his lack of formality when speaking with a knight.
"I need to get to Fisherman's Rock, and I heard you know the surrounding area better than anyone. Take me, now!" she orders, and the lizard draws back, tail twitching uneasily.
"I'm sorry, but why do you need to go there?" he asks, and Mazoga sniffs.
"It's none of your business." she retorts, and Weebam-Na scowls.
"Well, then I won't take you. Not if you don't tell me." he decides, and makes his way to the doors. He catches the other lizard's eye, and they talk in murmurs, ending with him mumbling something before hurrying away. Mazoga resists the urge to punch someone, seething at the injustice, but then she realizes that Street-Water hasn't left yet, and that he's watching her carefully. Another idea springs to mind. That fellow looks like a traveller, and his worn clothing speak volumes of the nature of his adventures. He must have passed by Fisherman's rock somehow, if the mud-stained cloak is any indication. Mind made up, she marches to him. To his credit, he doesn't flinch when she clangs over, six feet of muscle and steel, but he does twitch minutely when she shoves her nose into his personal space.
"Do you know how to get to Fisherman's Rock?" she asks, and he makes a show of thinking.
"Perhaps. But before we go, we'll need to go get my bow and arrows, sir Mazoga." he says, and she nods.
"Yes, yes, let's go. The faster you get your weapons, the faster we get where I need to go."
It's a rather nice day, more along the lines of Heartland weather than Blackwood weather, but it's a welcome change from the usual mugginess. It's still humid, but the Argonian walking alongside her doesn't seem to mind. She doesn't want to appear weak, so she keeps her heavy cuirass on, ignoring the sweat accumulating beneath. They walk in silence for a while, coming across no wild animals and fortunately, no will-o-the-wisps. She notices her companion sneaking glances at her every now and then, and the fifth time he does it she confronts him about it.
"What are you looking at?" she growls, teeth grinding. The lizard-man fixes his gaze on her face, looking as confused as he can with his limited facial muscles.
"I have some questions, none too personal. Just simple ones. Care to indulge me? It is far too quiet for my tastes, this walk." he asks, and Mazoga sees no harm in it so she nods, turning her eyes back to the road. The Argonian nods curtly and starts what she would later call an interrogation.
"So, are you really a knight?" he asks this first, and she seethes.
"Yes, yes I am. So, I expect you to call me Sir Mazoga at all times." Giving into the temptation to ingrain it into his memory, she scowls and continues, "'SIR MAZOGA'. Not 'Mazoga', not 'Sir', not 'Orc', I want to be referred to as 'Sir Mazoga.'" she has him repeat it, and he laughs, but it is not a judging or mocking laugh so she relaxes a bit. She plucks the string of his bow absently.
"So, my turn. Are you really an archer?" she asks, and the lizard man laughs again.
"Yes, yes I am. I didn't know we were playing a question game." he mocks, and it brings back brief memories of the reason for her vengeance, but the memory is gone as quickly as it appears.
"But I'm really an agent for anyone who will hire me." he elaborates, and she nods.
"So, a sword-for-hire, then. Interesting." she says, and he rolls his head a bit in a shrug.
"More of a bow-for-hire, I can't swing a sword worth shit." he says, and the swearword is so unexpected she laughs, the sound surprising her more than him. She hadn't laughed for quite a while, and she has forgotten how good it feels. Stopping herself, she smirks at him, and then follows his gaze to the plume of smoke rising above the tree line still some distance away.
"So..where are you from?" she asks, and he holds up a slender, callused finger covered in minute scales and tipped with a neat black claw.
"Ah. My turn first. Let's see.." he taps his chin, then raises the finger again.
"How long have you been doing this, Sir Mazoga?" he asks, and she raises a brow.
"What, waiting for the Count? A few days." he shakes his head, and she smirks at him.
"I meant, how long have you been a knight?" he rephrases his question, but she laughs and shakes her head.
"Uh-uh. That's two questions right there. I get two more after this." he agrees.
"Alright…I have been a knight for about five years." she says, and he nods.
"Very well, your questions."
The continue on like this, asking easy questions, back and forth, eventually turning into a conversation when they sit for lunch. The conversations certainly don't carry the quality of two true friends conversing, as their discussions have no deeper meaning and are simply small-talk, layered with wit and sarcasm, but they makes the journey much more enjoyable.
They continue on for a couple more hours as the day progresses, and it's late afternoon when they reach their destination, having followed the smoke. She can see the fire now, and smell the burning wood of the bonfire. As they get closer, Mazoga raises her hand, making the Argonian behind her stop.
"I'll handle this. Stay right here," she points to the spot he's currently standing on, and he rolls his eyes, "and let me do the talking. No skull-bashing, alright?" she sticks around to see if he'll agree, and he does, waving her off with a dismissive hand. Satisfied and feeling the happiness that had accumulated over the course of the afternoon ebb away to be replaced with heavy nerves and anger, Mazoga takes a deep breath and marches to the bonfire.
There. There he is, the damn bastard, standing there, enjoying the pleasant afternoon with his damn bandit buddies. She squares her shoulders, tightens her hands into fists, and raises her chin. Mazoga knows she looks imposing, dressed in her battle-worn armour and carrying a fearsome sword, as well as the stereotype that all Orcs are blood-thirsty savages. She stomps over, clang clang clang clang clang, and then she's suddenly a scant foot away from the man who ruined her life. He's just as she remembers: tall, muscular, dark-haired and completely unattractive. A memory flashes before her eyes-blood, broken-boned Ra'vindra, eyes pleading-and she fights to push down the rising tide of anger within her. He's not facing her, face to the fire as he throws some more wood to it, so she puts a rough hand on his shoulder and forces him around. He looks surprised, then scowls and pushes her hand away, scowling. The pumping rhythm of her heart is loud in her ears, but not so loud as it is during her Beserker rage, so it's not too much of a problem yet.
"Hey. Mogens Wind-Shifter." she growls, and he looks confused and she hates him even more for it.
"Yeah? Who're you?" he grinds out, annoyed but lost in the situation. She seethes, the blood pumping louder in her ears as her eyes, already hard with anger, turn more and more to stone.
"I'm Mazoga, and you are the filthy excuse for a man that killed my best friend!" she yells, her anger taking over, and she doesn't notice Mogens' bandit group creeping up behind her and around her, weapons drawn. Mogens speaks some more, but the sound of his voice is no longer drifting beyond her wall of rage.
She draws her sword, suddenly super-aware of everything, her limbs like lead but somehow stronger, her thoughts restricted to the barest of basic observation as the infamous Orcish rage takes over. Just as she brings her sword around in a wide arc, several things happen.
Mogens draws his puny little steel dagger, tucked haphazardly into his belt, she hears the tell-tale creak of an arrow being drawn, and she also hears the faint whish of a dagger going through the air.
Then, her sword connects with metal, and Mogens slips away, to be replaced by a female Khajit and a Dunmer. The Dark Elf is the only archer in the group, but her grip is unwavering, steady, and her arrow is pointed directly at Mazoga's head. Mazoga can't turn, for she is being pummelled from both sides. She roars, swings a fist blindly back and feels it connect, feels bone crack beneath her fist.
Then, the Dunmer lets out a strangled croak and falls, an arrow lodged in her throat. Her arrow goes a meter to the left of where Mazoga is standing, and she takes advantage of the surprised bandits, cutting down the Khajit in a spectacular spray of blood. The third bandit behind her collapses, an arrow in his spine, and she turns to look for Mogens.
She needn't have bothered, for he makes his presence known with a quick frost spell that makes her face sting and her armour grow tiny crystals of ice like lichen on a rock. There is another twang as Street-water lets an arrow fly from his spot in the brush, and while Mogens is busy dodging it she crosses the distance between them and raises her sword above her head.
It's sheer coincidence that she is standing with her back to the sun, blinding him and making him stumble back. She tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword, her shoulders pushed back, knees bending, and she brings the sword down with a final, viscous swing.
And instead of blood, she sees her best friend smiling.