With a savage snarl that showed blood-drenched fangs, the wounded wolf lunged at my throat. I gripped the haft of my morningstar mace tightly and put my entire strength into the swing. The spiked ball caught the wolf right in its face with a satisfying crunch. The beast was dead before it hit the ground.

I slumped down on a jutting rock, catching my breath. The air misted almost imperceptibly with each breath I took. Here in the Jerall Mountains, the air was visibly colder than in the lowlands. It was cool and crisp, but not yet freezing. I liked it this way.

I let the blood drip down and off the steel tips of my mace for a bit before sheathing it in a leather harness that hung from my belt. None of that was strictly necessary, of course. I've seen people just hang their mace on a strap by the side, so that it swayed with every step. Very stylish and ostentatious, sure, but these are the fools that live through the most vicious melees only to wind up dying of fever by the Orange Road when the tips of their own maces puncture their thigh. Not me. I like living, and I intend to live for a long time.

And yea, before you say anything, I am fairly conscientious for an Orc. So what? There's no rule that orcs have to be ravening berserkers with little concept of personal hygiene. In fact, during my childhood in the Waterfront, I was always the cleanest of the urchins. "Malak the Clean", I was called derisively. Oh, that doesn't sound so bad, I hear you say. Everywhere else, it's not, but the denizens of the Waterfront slums took their filth as a defiant badge of honour. In the Waterfront, to be 'clean' was to be naïve, prissy, craven.

I knelt beside the carcass and brought out a small dagger. "Sorry pal. It's you or me, right?" I said to the carcass, as I began skinning it. The pelt was matted with blood in some places, and would never make a fine coat, but I'm guessing it could still be fashioned into fur bracers, maybe part of a fur cuirass. I shrugged. That was Borba's problem.

The smell of blood and entrails was a familiar one. Maybe I was overcompensating a little, but as soon as I was old enough I signed up for the Arena, and for the next couple of months the Bloodworks was my home. I was a decent enough fighter, and I even got promoted to Brawler. It paid good, and having half the Arena cheering for you is always a good thing, but it was risky work. I had been able to handle my opponents up till then, but they were mostly green Pit Dogs like me. I don't know how well I could have fared against a truly skilled opponent, but I only needed to get unlucky once. What eventually decided me was seeing the Gray Prince fight. He was bulky, but he moved with deadly grace and unerring accuracy. Seeing him effortlessly butcher a Yellow Team Myrmidon to the wild cheers of the crowd made up my mind, and I handed in my arena raiment that very day.

I shook myself out of my daydreaming. I should get moving - no doubt the smell of exposed entrails would attract every imp and timber wolf in a mile. Rolling up the wolf pelt as best as I could, I left the skinned carcass for the scavengers. Wolf meat isn't really my thing, and my pack was almost full.

It was dark when I finally entered Cheydinhal through the north gate. Holus and Antus, the two city guards at the gate nodded brusquely at me as I passed. I was a familiar face, if not exactly a desirable one. Like most city guards they did not like anyone who were what they call 'beast folk', which included Argonians, Khajiiti and, of course, Orcs. I shook my head as I walked pass them. Bloody Imperials. I've lived in the Imperial City almost my whole life, which is more than can be said for these bumpkins.

There were two inns near the north gate – the Newlands Lodge on the left and Cheydinhal Bridge Inn on the right. I made a beeline to the left. The Cheydinhal Bridge Inn was very luxurious, but the innkeep was a snotty Nibenean who, like the rest of them, looked down on Orcs like me. At forty gold a night, I couldn't afford it anyway. The Newlands Lodge across the street was more to my liking. Dervera Romalen was a pretty young Dunmer who had been my first, and for some time, only acquaintance in town when I arrived in Cheydinhal. She made the best pies too, and her rooms were cheap.

I opened the heavy oak door of the Newlands Lodge and stepped into the relative warmth inside. Dervera ran a Dark Elf bar. Cursing, spitting and screaming? Fine with her. Tonight was unusually quiet, though, and there was hardly anyone. A burly Nord was slumped over a spilled mug, snoring lightly on the table beside me, while some traveler in a cloak huddled alone in the corner. I smiled a little as my gaze swept over the homely interior of the Lodge. I felt, if not at home, then at least comfortable with the surroundings.

"Hey, Malak," Dervera greeted me as I sat down on a stool. "Good trip?" She set down the glass she had been cleaning with a rag and filled it with cheap wine. At least, in the dimly-lit interior of the bar, that's what I assumed it was. Emptying the glass down my throat corroborated that assumption. Dervera knew me well. Some people prefer the fancy wines of Tamika or Surille Brothers, but I could never tell the difference. Why spend the extra coin?

I wiped my mouth on a sleeve. "The goblins are still using the same rusty shit they've been using for years. Ran into an imp and a couple of wolves on the way back," I said, sinking into a venison pie Dervala laid in front of me. "Found some decent loot though." I shrugged. "Can't complain."

Aided by the ale and pie I slept like a log that night. When I woke up I had sunlight in my face. I had slept for a whole ten hours, and I felt refreshed. There was no two ways about it – I can sleep just fine in a bedroll, but waking up in an actual bed felt good.

Yawning, I reached for the pile of clothes I had set out on the mantle before falling asleep the day before. I pulled on the dark green shirt and green linens and slipped into a pair of comfortable doeskin shoes. Slinging my sack of loot over my shoulder, I headed out, narrowly avoiding stubbing my toe on my trusty iron cuirass. It was, as always, propped neatly against the wall with the rest of my armor. I had some errands to run before heading out into the wilds again. No point in putting my armor on before then.

I bumped into a man with a fearsome warhammer strapped to his back on the way down the steps. "Hey, Guilbert," I greeted him. He nodded to me amiably in return. Guilbert was a permanent resident of the Newlands Lodge, with a bed of his own in the upstairs corner of the inn. Although he carried the warhammer on his back everywhere with him , I've never actually seen Guilbert use the warhammer. Rumour had it that he was a member of the Imperial Legion, until a back injury put him out of commission for good. These days he lived a quiet life of leisure around Cheydinhal with his legionary pension, for which I envied him.

My first stop, Borba's Goods and Stores, was right next to the Lodge. The proprietor, Borba gra-Uzgash, was a former adventurer herself, and I sold my loot to her at a better price than I would have gotten elsewhere, while I agreed to unload all my loot at her store exclusively. It has worked out pretty well, so far.

Borba was her usual gruff self when I trudged into her store. "Still alive, are you?" she said, raising an eyebrow coolly, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away.

"Good to see you too, Borba," I said with a smile.

Borba gave me a small nod of acknowledgement. "So what have you got for me today?"

I hefted my large sack of loot onto the counter. "Uhm, the usual goblin stuff, couple of wolf pelts," I ticked off as I opened the sack and lifted a non-descript bow from it. "and I found this." I strung it and tugged a little at it. It had an unusual sort of tension, different from the typical iron-cored bows. I couldn't help but grin as I handed it to Borba. "I think it's enchanted."

She pulled at the bow herself and nodded. "Crude work for a crude bow, but it's definitely enchanted, mostly likely… goblin shaman work. Have you tested it?"

My smirk grew wider as I nodded. "It works. Fetching goblin flew ten feet when I shot it with this."

"And you're not keeping it?" Borba asked, setting the bow on the counter.

"Nah." I shrugged. "Not really my weapon of choice."

Borba nodded. Being a former adventurer and fellow Orc, she understood. "I'll give you… ahh, two hundred coin for it," she said.

I knew how the game was played. I did my best to look incredulous. "You can't be serious. Four hundred."

"No deal," she said flatly. "Two fifty."

"Three twenty five," I shot back.

We went back and forth a few times before eventually settling on two hundred eighty septims and a repair hammer, which is about the kind of price I hoped to get. Borba tried to look unhappy about the price, muttering something about driving her out of business, but I could tell she was satisfied too.

After I sold the bow, I disposed of the rest of the loot with a little less haggling. By the time I was done it was already noon, and time for lunch. I popped back into the Newlands Lodge for another of Dervera's excellent pies, but the innkeep was not at her usual place behind the bar. I craned my neck over the counter and spotted a nice meat pie on a low shelf. I was reaching down at it when I heard someone cough – the kind of polite cough people gave to draw attention to them.

I froze. I hadn't been looking, but I didn't think anyone else in the room with me. A young woman with a Breton look about her was seated daintily at the table nearest the counter. "Hello-" she began.

"Didn't see you," I grunted suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"Well, the innkeep tells me that you're an adventurer type."

"And?" I was really getting brusque now.

She studied me with her gray-green eyes. She was also slightly wary of me, I could tell. "Maybe we should, um, join forces."

I eyed the woman, unconvinced. Her clothing, a matching pair of blue silk doublet and skirt, was distinctly upper-class, as was the silver amulet that hung from her neck. My money was on 'bored spoiled heiress playing at adventurer'. "What's in it for me?" I asked bluntly. Unless she was paying me to escort her, there was no way I was wasting my time with one of these over-privileged layabouts.

I didn't think I was being so obvious, but she looked annoyed at my quick assessment and dismissal. She began twirling the ceramic spoon in her hand deftly as she spoke. "I saw you come in last night. You're a heavy armor specialist, right? Probably a practiced armorer, too. You look like you'd make short work of most opponents in the wild face-to-face." She paused. I kept my silence. I sensed a 'but' coming. "But-" Here it comes, I thought as she jabbed the spoon at me. "-I bet it's real hard to scout around undetected in those iron boots, am I right? I'm decent with a bow, a fair alchemist, and as you've no doubt seen for yourself, I'm very good at not being seen when I don't want to." A hint of a smirk formed on her lips at the last bit.

I gave her another one-over. Despite her high-class attire, there was soot under her nails, and behind a pair of wind braids her blonde hair was hastily gathered into a loose bun. I scowled. I wasn't quite sure what to make of this young woman. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Two is a safer number than one," she pointed out. I knew she was right. I didn't mind ranging alone, but there were plenty of things that would be a lot easier and safer with a competent partner. She was talking again. "…we split everything down the middle. Loot, expenses, everything."

"Fifty-fifty?"

"That's typically what people mean by 'splitting it down the middle', yes," she said, the corners of her mouth tugging up again in a mildly mocking smile.

I ignored the jab. "I'll think about it," I said noncommittally, but I had already decided against it. She was an unknown quantity, and I had already been burnt before, working with a partner. It was probably safer to hunt alone. As I turned away and headed for the door, the Breton bolted up and ran after me. On the street, I quickened my pace, and so did she. I cursed under my breath. Some people just cannot take a hint.

"You're really going to think about this, right? 'Cause we'd make a good tag team, and- oof!" In her haste to keep up with me, the foolish girl had run headlong into Ulrich Leland, the recently-appointed captain of the Cheydinhal City Guard.

Leland's mouth was set in a hard line. "Know that assaulting a city guardsman is a very serious offence, woman. But I am reasonable. Pay a fine of ten gold and we'll be done with it."

The Breton girl spluttered with indignation. "Come on! I bumped into you, is all!" She turned to me. "Can you believe this?"

The girl was a newcomer, then. Ulrich Leland had only been captain of the guard for less than a year, but already he was amassing some notoriety amongst the citizens for his short fuse and willingness to fine anybody for anything. To hear Dervera complaining about it, the Cheydinhal City Guard had collected more fines in these short months than it had for the past two decades under old Captain Dranton. It was possibly an exaggeration, but not by much, I think. In my short stays in Cheydinhal I had already seen Leland hand out hefty fines for the littlest things. Sure, no one like littering, least of all myself, but five septims? At any rate Leland was not someone I wanted to cross paths with at all.

Leland advanced menacingly on the Breton, and instinctively I put a hand on his padded guard cuirass to halt him. "Ten gold does seems a bit steep for a mere accident, captain," I admitted reluctantly. I shot a quick scowl in the direction of the girl. Despite my imposing physical presence, I was not one for contesting authority. A childhood spent in the Waterfront slums and an unpleasant incident with the Legion just a year past had drilled the lesson of obedience before authority firmly into my mind.

"Get your green hands off me, Orc," Captain Leland said coldly. "You just earned yourself a ten-septim fine as well." I groaned inwardly. This is just great. And I thought I moved away from the Waterfront to get away from this shit.

"This is ridiculous," the girl said, folding her arms.

"If you have a problem with the fine you can take it up with the garrison at the castle, ma'am." He stressed the last word mockingly. "There's always a cell in the dungeons for a pretty thing like you."

"And you, sonny," he snarled, turning on me when I tried to protest, "don't think you marauders can just so brazenly come into my city to spend your ill-gotten coin," Leland snapped, eyeing me suspiciously.

That look again. Anger flared inside me, and I threw caution and a lifetime of experience to the winds. "Excuse me, captain, my name is Malak, and I swear in Zenithar's name-"

He interrupted me with a sharp dismissive gesture. "I don't know you, and I don't care to know you. Now cough it up, both of you, before I fine you another five gold for obstructing the Emperor's justice!"

Grumbling, the girl relented, reaching for a leather pouch by her waist. As she pulled the pouch free of her ornate belt, something small and shiny slid from under the belt and hit the pavement with a small tinkle. It was a ring of some sort.

I could see the captain's dark eyes widen at the sight of the small ring. "Ah, the Count's signet ring. It was stolen from the count's chambers not two days ago. I wonder how it came by your possession."

Her eyes darted to me, and then to the ground. "I, um, found it. I was going to return it…"

"Nice try," Leland sneered. "You two had better come with me to the dungeons."

Did Leland just say "you two"? Now wait a fetching minute… "Uh, captain," I said, "this is a mistake, I had nothing to do with this. I don't even know this woman!"

The girl made a face at me. "Gee, thanks, Malak." And she knows my name. Of course she knows my name.

Leland's voice was almost too smug to bear. "Hope you rot, criminal scum."

I grimaced as I allowed myself to be led away. This is going to suck.

A/N: So here's chapter one. It's mostly setup so there's not a lot of action, but that'll probably change in future chapters. R&R.