Todagog: Stories Of An Orc Battlemage Volume 1: Introduction

To call myself a Battlemage, is perhaps to stretch the reality of my situation. Whilst it is true, I have spilt the blood of my enemy with fire, ice, lightning, and Atronach summoned, and on one occasion Daedra, during the civil war of Skyrim, I only have had experience of that much longed for chaos during said time.

As a wizard, I am drawn to the mystic arts, mysteries of magic, and also am intrigued by Dwemer artefacts, most notably the mechanical spiders and guards that most men and I dare say even mer, would be unfortunate to encounter upon explorations to the depths of Dwarven ruins.

For all these things, I was cast out as an Orc.

The son of a chief killed by a successor, at least that's what they told me. My memory of those times are hazy, and I care not for them in any case. Orcs are sword wielders, as is our way, by the guide of our most honourable saint, Malacath – Daedric Prince Of The Spurned and The Ostracised. Through the teachings of Malacath, I felt my power as an Orc of the Arcane. But my kin rejected my gifts, perhaps not surprising, I could best most of them in a training session exempt the small minority of times. After all, I too am Orsimer, and wield a sword as if it were an extra limb.

Like many of my kin, I feel my Orc nature, for battle, blood and glory, at all times. Yet it conflicts with my desire to explore my magical capacity, for that is how I truly grow as a warrior. It was from a young age, I knew both my ability for magic and a blade, both wielding and crafting. Unfortunate it was, that my kin did not see this as a blessing. They tried to end my life during my pubescent years while I slept... Cowards and fools as I remember them. Cowards for fearing my magic head on, and fools for thinking they could defeat with ease. To those involved, I took their lives as payment for their ignorance. But one I let live... The Chief. Such an act was a great dishonour to any Orc, both the one spared, and the one sparing him. But I cared not to lead a clan of such weaklings.

But perhaps Malacath did not deem this reason worthy enough. My following years landed me in jails, sleeping cold on the dirt grounds of Highrock, and my magic eventually dwindled without regular practice. As an Orc though, harshness is expected, and being a sell-sword was easy enough,

but if only the pay could've granted me the needed materials for learning my craft sufficiently... I wondered if I should have headed south for the land that beckons me... It still beckons, and still I wonder, Cyrodiil. I could sense much magic there, I'm sure many could, after all, it was home to the Oblivion crisis, once upon a nightmare.

And so years passed, I found myself upon the borders of Hammerfell and Skyrim, working as a sell-sword for Schimitar wielding Redguards. They didn't judge me much, but I still couldn't learn to appreciate the Scimitar blades. They are strong blades, but somehow they are lacking, perhaps in spirit – for what is a blade without a connection to its wielder. Something like that could never be compensated for by mere aesthetic curvature.

But on a fateful day, somehow drunk as deaf penniless Bard, drinking away my coin to pass time on a whim, I fell in the dirt and selpt, and woke from the dirt into a ambush. Weapon-less, armour-less, groggy, I found myself in carriage with storm-cloak Nords, on their way to fulfil an appointment with chopping block in Helgen... The place where I first met Alduin, made my first steps towards my destiny, and understood myself better as I came to realise and understand what I was.

Indeed perhaps Battlemage is a title that Stretches the truth. But what does stand as solid fact is this, I am Orismer Todagog, The Dragon Born.