Hi, this is my first Oblivion fic. I hope you like it. I enjoyed writing it.
Chapter One: A Night to Remember
"Citizens of the Empire!" The commentator's voice boomed out, echoing through the dusty evening air. "You have all heard the stories about the Arena. The epic battles that we stage. You, no doubt, have come here to see such a battle. And you shall not be disappointed! For tonight, Men, Mer and Beastfolk, I give you… The Tamriel Terror!"
Behind the brooding gates that lead into the Arena, Lorbul gro-Kash scowled. The Tamriel Terror? When he'd killed Agronak and claimed the title of Champion, Lorbul had asked to be named Malacath's Fury. Ysabel on the other hand,had deemed the name 'blasphemous.' The Orc had to admit she had a point, though. Most Imperials trusted Daedric Princes as far as they could spit, so naming himself in one's honour wouldn't be the best idea.
"His martial prowess is well known," continued the commentator. "But can even he defeat three opponents at once?"
At this, Lorbul stared at his opposition through the gates. As the fat Imperial had said, there were indeed three of them. A Redguard swordsman, who looked pretty wiry - Lorbul had fought his kind before, they usually tried to to dart in and end the fight quickly - a Bosmer archer and a Breton mage. The archer had long slicked back red hair and had a silver bow slung over his back. The Breton was tall, strange for their race, and looked like he'd never worked a day in his life. His bright blue eyes glinted with excitement. The Orc frowned. He'd fought three before, but they'd been Argonian prisoners, untrained in the ways of combat. These three looked battle-hardened. The Breton also held a staff in his hands, and even from here, the Grand Champion could see that it glowed darkly with powerful Destruction. Lorbul wasn't sure that his heavy battle raiment would be able to stop the magicka that could be unleashed.
"Combatants, begin!" roared the commentator.
The bars groaned in protest as they were lowered. To the eager screams of the crowds, Lorbul strode out, sand swirling around his feet, a Daedric warhammer held firmly in his right hand, and a vicious snarl plastered onto his face.
"Here you go," said Ysabel cheerfully, throwing a heavy bag of gold at him. The muscular Orc caught it deftly, feeling the weight of the thing. They stood in the Battle-Matron's office, a small room - the plain yellowed walls adorned with the schedules of the coming fights. She sat at a weathered old desk, looking up at him as she flicked through a book.
The fight had gone well. His Raiment of Valor was freckled with the dried blood of previous opponents. A few hits had been managed to land on him during this fight, but had been easily turned away by the defence wards on his breastplate. His Raiment of Valour had certainly perfomed admirally. The protective magicka coursing through it prevented most serious injuries. His helmet had been removed, allowing his mess of black hair to flow down to his shoulders.
"They died well," said Lorbul slowly.
"That they did," agreed Ysabel. "I thought that mage had you for a second, though."
The Orc shrugged his huge shoulders. "I've killed mages before."
"And I'll wager you'll kill more in the future," grinned the old woman.
In truth, the mage hadn't posed much of a problem. It had taken a single blow to the chest to kill him - shattering his ribcage, and his shield enchantment. Of course, the war-hammer had helped. Lorbul had yet to meet a foe could withstand Daedric steel. The otherwordly demons were notorious for their evil, but only a fool would question how bloody good they were with a forge.
"Malacath be willing," Lorbul said.
Ysabel grimaced. "I've told you before, keep your gods to yourself. Personally, I couldn't give a shit who you worship, but there are many in this city who feel otherwise.
The Grand Champion nodded, taking in her words. Despite her age, the grizzled old Imperial was a fearsome fighter. In her youth, Ysabel had been a combatant herself, known as the Crimson Blade - a reference to the glowing red dagger she wielded. Now though, age had turned her hair iron grey, and her skin wrinkled. She still kept her dagger, though.
"I'll never understand you humans," he told her. "You insist to crave honesty, but then hold your noses up to it when served."
"Maybe we should all strive to achieve the bluntness of the Orsimer?"
"If only," he muttered. "The world'd be a much simpler place."
"And a worse one, I'd wager," Ysabel countered. "Sometimes the truth isn't the best choice."
"Lies cut both ways. The truth is a katana. One sharp edge."
"And I knew you'd bring in a weapon analogy at some point," teased the old woman. Lorbul couldn't help a small smile.
"Weapons are easier," he admitted. "If only people were so."
"That's a frightful prospect," remarked the Imperial. "You're blunt enough to talk to already. I can't imagine what it'd be like if you were actually a mace."
"I'd smash that 'fan' of mine to pieces."
She smiled. "I'd like to see that."
"You may one day. He's tempted me enough times already."
"It's expected to have some hero worship," Ysabel said. "Considering your position."
"There's a fine line between hero worship and stalking," he grumbled.
"True enough. It's not just you he doted on, if it makes things better? He was exactly the same with Agronak."
Lorbul stiffened. "I'm... sure," he murmered, avoiding her eyes."Anyway," he said suddenly,"this conversation's making my head hurt. I think I'm done for the day I need a rest." He turned for the door to the bloodworks.
"I'll send for a flagon of mulled wine to be sent to your quarters," she said, seeing his expression.
"No, I think I'll sleep out tonight," he told her quietly.
"O-Ok, then," she said, abashed. He went for the exit.
"Try not to squander all the gold on wine," called Ysabel after him.
The Orc shrugged indifferently, ducking his head as he stepped out the office. The door slammed shut, shuddering with anger. The frame stopped trembling after a few seconds, but the Battle-Matron's stony face stayed the same.
Lorbul didn't have a house. He didn't need one. As an Arena combatant, living quarters were provided for him. But some nights, he'd get the urge to sleep in a Tavern, to lie upon a real bed, rather than a dirty tattered bedroll.
Tonight was one of those nights. The twilight had stretched across the city, bathing it in a brilliant purple glow. The streets were scorched and the crowds that had clamoured there throughout the day had dispersed, leaving only a few merchants dis-assembling their wares.
Lorbul was heading for the Bloated Float. It wasn't the fanciest inn, but he was on good terms with one of the Orcs who worked there. Besides, things in the Waterfront were always a hell of a lot more interesting than the other districts. You never knew when a drunken knife fight was going to erupt. Pickpockets lurked in the shadows, ages differing from six to sixty, all watching the passers-by with the same hungry gleam in the eyes. There were no mansions, no wealthy houses in the Waterfront. Just miles and miles of ruined or crumbling shacks.
As he walked through the harbour, still clad in the heavy chainmail that befitted a Gladiator, Lorbul noticed that the City Guard seemed distracted. They were whispering to each other darkly as they passed, hands drifting to the silver longswords buckled at their side. They looked grim and… scared?
It occurred to Lorbul that he could ask them why they scowled so. He was, after all, the Arena Grand Champion. With his reputation, they might tell him. He considered it for a moment, and then decided against it. It was of little concern to him if the City Watch were feeling nervous. There had probably been a bandit attack or a robbery - nothing serious.
The Orc was jolted out of his thoughts by a tiny Bosmer bumping into him. Despite the difference in size, the Wood Elf looked up at him fearlessly with a smile that split his face.
"By Azura, by Azura, by Azura! I thought we'd never meet again!"
Lorbul's heart sank as swiftly as a boulder dropped into an ocean. When he'd became Champion, the Wood Elf had ambushed him outside the Arena. For several weeks after, he'd been onto to him every time he left the Arena, prancing around him and screaming in delight. It had got so infuriating that Lorbul had actually issued a constraining order, banning him from the Arena district. It was just his luck that he'd run into the elf now.
"Oh, mighty Grand Champion, what can I do for you? Carry your things, a back massage maybe?" chirped the Bosmer excitedly, blue eyes wide with excitement.
"You can piss off," growled the Orc.
The Wood Elf ignored him, instead running a hand through his long golden hair gleefully and saying, "I've heard that you fought three opponents at once! Oh, I wish I could've been there to see it. Golly, it would've an amazing fight to behold!"
"Piss off!" repeated Lorbul, his yellow eyes narrowing with annoyance.
"Can I carry your weapon?" asked the elf, trying to prod the large dagger at the Orc's belt.
Lorbul slapped his hand way furiously, then reached forward and grabbed him by the throat. He stared at him coldly.
"Now you listen here, you little fucker," he snarled. "Back off! I don't like you. I never have! You are the single most annoying, idiotic, excuse for an elf I've ever met! If you annoy me one more time, I will personally rip out your innards and feed them to the crows. Have I made myself clear?"
"Can I polish your boots," squeaked the Bosmer.
Lorbul's face turned red. His grip tightened around the elf's throat. He drew his fist back and punched him in the face brutally. There was an explosion of blood and the mer toppled over, clutching his broken nose.
"I'm thorry if I thave offended thu,"he managed to mumble.
Lorbul resisted the urge to kick him and walked off; leaving the Bosmer sprawled awkwardly in the mud.
As he neared the Bloated Float, Lorbul's rough features softed slightly. He wasn't particularly handsome, even by Orsimer standards. An ugly scar ran down the left side of his face, courtesy of a Breton warlord that he'd encountered during his brief time in the Fighter's guild. He'd been incredibly lucky to escape at all.
The face wasn't made kinder by the rest of his face, his deep set eyes were yellow-bruises, large and bumpy nose marred with small scars, the result of various brawls over the years. His most defining feature, without a doubt, was his hair. Dark and silk-soft, it was slicked around the edges with sweat from his battle and the humid air from the city.
A few strides later, long, strong legs taking him quickly down the stone steps that led to the inn's door, Lorbul was standing outside the Bloated Float. He paused for a second, recalling the days he and Agronak had spent drinking and laughing on the boat. Thinking, the Grand Champion pushed the door open and stepped into the smoky tavern. The smell of roasted boar was thick in the air. Gamblers sat around tables, making bawdy jokes and spilling ale. Two Nords were busy armwrestling in a corner.
"What you lookin' at?" rumbled an Orc.
"You," replied Lorbul, turning to see the Float's bouncer, Graman gro-Marad leaning against a tavern wall, a spiked club at his hip and a smirk on his face. "You've got to be the most fucking pathetic excuse for a bouncer I've ever seen."
"Am I?" snarled Graman. He wore a dark padded shirt, and steel boots that reached his thighs. His face was rough and his cheekbones jagged, eyes sunken yellow bruises.
"Oh yes."
"It's still better than having to prance about an Arena all day!" spat the bouncer.
Both Orcs stared at each-other for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. Then they both burst out laughing.
"Good to see you, old friend, "said Graman slapping him on the back.
"You too," said Lorbul, flashing one of his rarer smiles.
"I've heard about your latest match," said the Orc. "Three at once, 'eh?"
"Three at once."
"Gods, I remember the days when you'd first started in the Arena. You didn't know which end of the sword to hold."
"If you say so."
Graman smiled. Like Lorbul, he wasn't exactly handsome, Orcs seldom were, but his face was unscarred, and his ponytail was slicked with sweat. He had a habbit of picking his teeth when bored, something that infuriated Lorbul to no extent.
"I suppose you'll want a room," ventured Graman after a few seconds passed.
"I will."
"Talk to Ormil, then. You know where he is."
"Of course," said Lorbul. "Well, I hope that when you're off duty, we can have a drink."
"I do hope so. We've got a lot of catching up to do."
The Grand Champion nodded and walked off towards the reception area. There, he found Ormil, entertaining a group of rogues. They all wore the same battered leather armour and hungry expressions.
"Some say that the Golden Galleon is still on this ship," the High Elf was telling them. "A statue said to be made entirely out of gold!"
"You sure about that?" an Imperial woman asked suspiciously. She had long curly brown hair, running halfway down her back. That made her look almost innocent. The large sword resting at her side ruined the effect slightly.
"Quite sure," said Ormil pompously.
"Hmm," grunted one of the rogues. "How do we know that this Elf isn't lying?"
"Watch your tongue," snapped the Imperial sharply. By the tone of her voice, Lorbul guessed she was the leader of her gang. That, and the steely determination in her bright blue eyes. "I'm sure that Ormil is telling the truth. And if not…" Her hand strayed to the enchanted longsword at her hip.
"Well," coughed Ormil, mopping his temple with a handkerchief. "Can I get you lot a room?"
"We'll take the biggest you've got."
"Good, good," muttered the High Elf, bending over behind his cabinet to find a key. After a few seconds of searching he reappeared, a key in his hands.
"There you go," he said, tossing it to the Imperial.
She nodded in thanks, passed him some gold, and gestured for her men to get up. They strode off, no doubt in search of this, 'Golden Galleon.'
As soon as they were out of earshot, Lorbul stepped forward and said, "Business isn't going well for you."
Ormil's head jerked up. "Wh- oh, Lorbul, it's you. What do you mean?"
"I mean that you didn't use to have to rely on stories about hidden treasure to get guests," rumbled the Orc.
The tall High Elf scowled bitterly. "Keep your voice down," he told Lorbul, annoyed.
"Fine," rumbled the Orc. "But the Golden Galleon?"
"I've heard worse stories," retorted Ormil indignantly. He was a typical High Elf. High slashes of cheekbones, narrow golden eyes, thin lips and wearing a regal expression, as if he were an Altmer noble, not a shabby innkeeper. He wore a flowing purple robes, as was the custom of many Altmer. Back on the Summerset Isle, if you weren't clad in silk, then you weren't worthy of being spoken to.
Lorbul shrugged his huge shoulders. "Still, those rogues looked pretty taken with it," he said. "They're not going to be happy when they realize it's all a hoax."
"I know, "said the elf, looking troubled. "It'll be fine…"
He didn't sound too sure.
"Whatever,"said Lorbul, shaking his head. If Ormil wanted to make up stories about the inn, it wasn't any of the Grand Champion's business. "I'm going to be staying here tonight. That is if you've got a room," he added.
Ormil brightened up at the thought of another customer. "Oh, don't worry, we've got plenty of rooms to spare. I promise, you won't have known a night's sleep like it."
He didn't realize how true that statement would turn out to be…
Well, that's done. I know it's not much, but I've got big plans for this fic. Bear in mind that updates will probably be very slow.