Forged
A story of vengeance
The beads of sweat that gathered on her brow glimmered like jewels in the fire of the forge. Her turquoise eyes were burning from the salty sweat- Though she kept her stoic gaze on the molten sword she was meticulously crafting. The rhythmic thunderous beat of the hammer striking the anvil reverberated through her. She winced when she slipped the red hot steel into the cooling bath, the steam hissing and spitting from the water like an angered serpent. Then just as turbulent - she returned it to the glowing forge. Gasping for air, each one of her breaths resembled the bellows in which she was using to agitate the flames of the forge.
"Oddlaug" Called the voice of a very heavy set Nord-man. "Yes father?" She replied, wiping the sweat from her brow. "Come inside and get some food girl. You need rest"
Oddlaug stepped outside into the light to greet her father. She had a very striking and powerful presence. Her skin was so green; it was viridescent in the midday sun. She stood but two inches shorter than her father, who was considered a tall man, and had an equally powerful albeit feminine frame. Oddlaug was an Orc. A very beautiful one by Nord, let alone, Orsimer standards. She had bright eyes that were a stunningly icy blue- which is a very rare trait for an Orc. Her green-olive skin was tightly pulled over a very muscular, broad frame. Such as is common with her kind. One would have to ask oneself how she came to be in the surrogacy of the Nord. That is a story best saved for the campfire after a long and weary day, under the influence of many horns of mead.
Her father's name was Lod and he was Falkreath's resident blacksmith. For the last 15 years he has taught Oddlaug the trade since she was old enough and strong enough to pick up the hammer. She was a natural. It was destined and in her blood. Lod beckoned her to walk with him back to their house located on the southern part of town. Falkreath is a small city in the Falkreath Hold, located near the border with both Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. In the past Falkreath was considered a part of Cyrodiil, but now sits firmly within the borders of Skyrim. Falkreath's economy is centred on lumber retrieved from the surrounding forest. Its most distinguishing feature is its large cemetery that houses generations of the dead from all over Skyrim. Many shops in town derive their names from their close proximity to so much death.
A sudden breeze picked up. Oddlaug welcomed the coolness against her aching muscles and sweat strewn skin.
"Have you forgotten what day it is daughter?" asked Lod with a wry smile. Oddlaug licked her tusks with a quizzical look. "Middas?"
Lod laughed. "It's your birthday girl, did you forget?"
"No I distinctly remember that being last year Dad" She quipped.
"Well that's the thing about birthdays, they come around every year. We have to celebrate!"
"Well the sword order for Legate Rikke isn't going to complete itself- anyway I'm halfway done" She Protested.
"That's where I got your name from you know- Determined and stubborn. Oddlaug, you are now the age of a woman, by Skyrim law. You don't want to be making swords and shields your whole life; there is a whole world out there, ripe for the taking. Men will ask for your hand and want to make children with you-"
"No nord-man would touch me with a spear let alone with anything else. Besides I'd cut it off!"
"Well, have you ever thought about finding your own kind? - eighteen years and you've never even left Falkreath hold!"
Oddlaug halted. The realisation that she has never seen another orc, nor left the hold felt like she was struck by a bucket of ice cold water. Lod put his arm around her and said softly. "I have something for you, a birthday present. You will like it"
Oddlaug smiled and rested her head upon her father's shoulder. They walked the remaining few paces to their house.
"I hope it's not a dress" Oddlaug quipped.
Once inside Oddlaug was greeted by the wonderful aroma of something cooking on the spit. It was so comforting, it warmed her nostrils and the juices of her mouth were almost overflowing. A soft brume of smoke clung to the air. Her father slouched himself into his chair and tended to the meat hanging over the fire. He was smoking a long, corn cob pipe, protruding from his pursed mouth, which was concealed by wisps of a poorly tapered red beard. His balding head shone in the light of the vibrant and roaring flames. "Pull up chair lass, the pig is nearly ready"
He looked back at the fire, the flesh of the pig spat and crackled rhythmically in the intense heat. He poked it with a sharp knife, spilling its juices which made the flames dance and hiss. Oddlaug rubbed her tired, smoke bitten eyes. The Nord smiled warmly at his daughter and handed her a plate of steaming, bubbling pork and dry, crusty bread. Oddlaug gratefully received it and consumed the hot food as quick as her ravenous mouth would tolerate the scorching. She hadn't eaten properly in days and had forgotten the taste of simple foods. Her father chuckled and gently kissed her on the brow, ruffling her jet-black hair with his large, course hands.
Oddlaug's gaze switched from the empty plate and her eyes scanned the room. They lived a simple, depraved existence and it was evident that these were times of hardship. Walls were completely bare, save for the blankets of parasitic lichen that clung to the cold stone in random patterns. The rafters above hung merely scraps of preserved food, salted pork and unused cooking utensils. Hunger and cold were frequent, unwelcome visitors here. Oddlaug reflected on days of abundance and plenty, with rafters and beams full of poultry, game and sweet smelling herbs.
Since a child, Oddlaug had lived off of a small fortune her father brought back from his days as a soldier. But now, that fortune had all but dried up. She helped her father at the forge since she was three years old. She is determined to turn their luck around.
Suddenly, A thunderous belch erupted from The She-orcs stomach and subsequently she burst into a roar of laughter, clutching at her convulsing rib cage. The old man smiled. Oddlaug's eyes switched back to the fire. The flames danced and pulsated, almost hypnotic. Intense heat stung her eyes. She shifted her watery gaze which came to rest upon her father's sword, mounted above the mantle. The sword took prevalence in its pride of place in the heart of the house.
It hung there taunting her, almost as if it desired to be unsheathed and wielded again. Oddlaug observed it with a deep sense of curiosity, taking in its form. It was a solid and stark reminder of days of thunder and violence. It had a strange appeal to it, as if forged from the very fabrics of a dream or nightmare. She sat mesmerised, studying its design. It possessed a keen, serrated blade that formed an unusual curve from guard to tip that was accentuated by its perfect bloodline. On the blade itself, a fierce lightning bolt had been meticulously engraved in an unusual style from the guard to the business end. The slanted grip-handle was the most unusual in craft that Oddlaug had ever seen. It was either formed to emulate a spinal column, or it indeed was so, giving the sword a truly grim appeal. The pommel at the end of the hilt was crafted from a polished, blue metal or stone that engraved a face with detailed, grimacing features. The methods in which the sword had been crafted were unknown to the most skilled of local blacksmiths. Oddlaug guessed that it had to have been crafted in some distant and unknown foundry- deep within the realms of Oblivion. Within her, it conjured a strong and deep sense of fear and respect. Its name was Thorsgard. During the height of its service, it cut short many a life and limb and it remembered the taste of blood and flesh well enough. Oddlaug observed it in complete awe and yet an unusual dark chill clutched at her spine and climbed till it reached the small hairs on the back of her neck. She tried to picture her father, young and bold, wielding the mighty blade.
Though, this was forged by imagination alone as her father was a private man and rarely divulged remnants of his past. Lod noticed his daughter's watchful stare fixated on the mantle. Her eyes were unblinking, as if entranced in some hypnotic spell. He took a deep drag on his pipe. The amber-coloured light radiating from the bowl lent his eyes a celestial glaze, he then uttered through smoke filled breath. "I see you looking at me sword lass".
"It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Every time I see it, it's like it calls to me"
"'Tis a thing of beauty that's for sure"
"Where did you find it father?"
The old man's eagle eyes checked up to the sword, alluring in the light of the flames. A blaze flashed and danced in his shiny orbs. He thought for a few moments. He knew the answer to the girl's question and remembered the events well enough. Yet the words were reluctant to pass his lips. He sat, stoic in his chair, frozen in his memories. The sound of screams reverberated in his ear drums, ghastly images etched his memories and a river of blood flowed through the meanders of his mind. His face was fixed in a vacant yet grim expression.
"Stories of death an' blood are no stories for the tender ears of young lass- Especially on her birthday!" He exclaimed, breaking the prolonged silence. Oddlaug respected the sentiment, broke her gaze away from the mantle, and asked no more.
"That reminds me!" Lod rose from his chair, expelling a chest full of thick, pungent weed smoke. His old bones creaked and cracked, like ancient trees in the wind. A silver flash blinkered from the opening of his tunic. Nestling in the hairs of his muscular chest, was his silver and moonstone amulet. Such a beautiful and exquisite trinket looked unfitting against its wearer, who constantly looked rugged and un-kept. The silver pendant held the inlayed pearlescent gem that had been cut into the shape of a crescent moon. Oddlaug had always eyed the necklace with a subtle hint of jealousy. Lod favoured it with such sentimentality that he had never contemplated parting with it, nor would he exchange it for any amount of gold or riches. In fact, Oddlaug could not remember a time that she had seen him without it. Maybe he was going to gift it to her for her birthday?
The nord crouched down and unlocked an old wooden chest that sat adjacent to the fire. He pulled out a sword and scabbard of which Oddlaug had never seen the like before.
"Happy Birthday Oddlaug" He drew the sword from its scabbard. It was ugly and jagged and yet was a green and shiny as an emerald. Oddlaug failed to hide her disappointment.
"Do you know what this is lass?"
"It's a sword father, but the style is unlike anything I have ever seen?" Oddlaug eyed the blade with a quizzical stare. "What metal?"
"Orichalcum. It is unknown how the alloy is made. But it is an ancient technique. Ugly and strong like that which forged it"
"Did you forge it father?" Oddlaug teased.
"This sword, I have had in my possession for many years. Its orc-made. The birth right of your kind"
Oddlaug leapt up from the chair, sprang across the room and pulled the orcish sword from her father's grasp. It was heavy. She ran her finger along the blade. A small trickle of crimson erupted from her thumb. It was razor sharp. "Where did you get it?" Oddlaug said awestruck, sucking the blood from her thumb.
"It has no heroic tale, nor the reward for a good deed. It was simply a gift from an old friend. An orc named Gulbul Gro-Lazarg. He was your father"