AN: Hello lovely readers! Here is your teaser to introduce a new OMC, Torug, and give a little backstory on him. This flash fiction series will not explain all of what happened at the end of "Hero by Mistake", it's not supposed to, but it will give a couple hints and help readers understand things that will happen in the sequel to "Hero by Mistake". That is, until Deborah hears about it herself.

That said… Part 2 of the Hero Series will be called…

"Hero by Choice"!

Many thanks to Kira Mackey for beta-reading this short story. I will be posting each chapter separately over the course of a somewhat short period of time.

I keep hearing Kanye West's "Amazing" whenever I think of Torug, so I'm going to name that his theme song.

DRAGONBANE

1

"Torug"

Torug gro-Dushnikh, one-time clan-brother of Ghorbash gro-Dushnikh, on the full moon was named protector of the Forsworn. Torug and Borkul, sometimes called Borkul the Beast, were the only orcs ever accepted into the tribe of tiny Bretons. The acceptance was easy, as both of their clans had been allied with the Reachmen for centuries. After helping Madanach, once known as the King in Rags, escape from Cidhna Mine, a prison deep in the bowels of Markarth, Torug and Borkul lived with Madanach's tribe. Months later, the King of the Reach named the orcs his personal guards.

Borkul had nowhere else to go after serving time in the mine for over ten years; his stronghold had been destroyed by local Nords over a land dispute. As for Torug, he was clanless before he was arrested and thrown into the mine. He was banished from his stronghold for daring to touch the third wife of his chieftain. The fact that she touched Torug first didn't seem to matter. When the male youngling she bore had no hint of horn buds above his brow – a sign of their chieftain's blood – the chieftain, Burguk, grew suspicious. He hired a Forsworn shaman to use blood magic to find the youngling's father, and the magic led the shaman to Torug. The youngling borne by the third wife, Arob, was killed, and Torug was banished. For years he had nightmares about what Burguk did to Arob after that day.

The guards in Markarth had tossed Torug into Cidhna Mine after he was caught "stealing a horse", despite the fact that the horse they claimed he had stolen was no bigger than a dog and would have been crushed under his weight. What truly happened, he thoroughly believed, was that the Silver-Bloods, a rich family in the city, had used their spies to find out Torug was living with the Forsworn, and tossed him in the prison as an example to show others what would happen to anyone who joined with the Forsworn.

While he would forever be Orsimer, he would no longer be like other orcs, not ever again. He was Forsworn, a Reachman, and scourge of the Nords.

. . . . . .

"Our blades are honed, our quivers full, our wills steeled for battle.

You want to know who the Forsworn are?

We are the people who must pillage our own land,

Burn our own ground.

We are the scourge of the Nords."

As he gazed at the tent roof, Torug listened to the soft, steady breathing of the three ladies tangled around him. They could not handle their fermented juniper berry juice as well as he could.

After Torug and Borkul had been named Forsworn, the reveling had begun. Drinks were drunk, songs were sung, and women danced naked or nearly so to ancient drum rhythms. The members of Madanach's tribe celebrated life and liberty in every way they knew how.

There were more than just these three women last night who, with their bodies, praised Torug and his new station. He didn't know all of their names, not yet, but the only woman he remembered not participating in the pile of writhing bodies was Madanach's wife, their Queen, Leagsaidh. She had waited for him all those years he was locked away underground, never letting another man touch her, and killing any who tried. Torug had to respect that.

The redhead to his left stirred, still asleep, and her waist-long curls fell to cover her chest when she turned toward Torug. He undid this travesty, brushing the tresses over her left shoulder in order to gaze upon her small, firm twin mounds. Rhianne was her name. She was one of his favorites. Behind her, arms wrapped around Rhianne's waist, lay a blonde-haired huntress named Eibheag. She preferred women, but often found herself in Torug's bed when he took other women into it. To his right was Torug's, for lack of a better term, lover, Seaghdha. Her hair was as black as Torug's, but soft like water, not coarse like rusted iron. Seaghdha was a shaman, and the tattoos all over her face and body accentuated her features in such a way that entranced Torug. He himself had tattoos – robust, dark green designs, marks of his once-clan and station. Seaghdha's marks were delicate – intricate and unending black vines curving around her body.

Torug turned to her, his lust stirring once again. At the touch of his mouth to Seaghdha's tiny, dark nipple, his little shaman moaned. She enjoyed the mix of pain and pleasure that his tusks left across her skin. Within moments of waking, his little hawk flung herself over Torug, pinning him to his furs and sinking her teeth into the flesh of his chest. He grabbed a hold of her long, straight coal-black hair and tugged it back, forcing her to look at his face. She was grinning. She had not drawn blood, not that time, but she had a habit of doing so. The scars on his body originated from all sorts of battles….

Without him needing to urge her lower, Seaghdha shifted to Torug's waist. As her mouth lowered onto his swelling organ, he briefly wondered if he was able to produce younglings with these tiny Bretons. Before last night, Rhianne, Eibheag, and mainly Seaghdha were the only Forsworn women he had shared his furs with, and to the best of his knowledge none of them had been impregnated. He didn't care, in the end; he was simply curious to know if any of the women he had fucked the night before would wake up in several weeks vomiting and cursing his name. The thought made him laugh.

Seaghdha lifted herself from Torug and replaced mouth with hand. "What's so funny, eh Torug? Am I tickling you?" With her question, she grabbed a hold of his short-and-curlies and tugged.

Torug grunted, but kept laughing. "No, little hawk. I was just wondering if I could make life within a woman of your… delicate structure. There were many, last night." He laughed again.

His crazy shaman narrowed her black-brown eyes at him. "It's their own fault if they conceive a child from a union with you or Borkul. I don't want to think about birthing such a large baby…."

Torug shrugged. "I don't think it'd be that bad." He looked down to admire her handiwork. "You can fit that inside you, after all."

Seaghdha then crawled up Torug's body until she was sitting on his organ, pressing it against his body. "Be thankful you do not have to care about little brats running around your knees. You, my protector, will have enough to worry about soon. But, until then…." His midnight hawk pierced her own flesh with his sword, taking it all within her. Her sharp fingernails raked down his chest and torso as she impaled herself again and again. Torug watched as the white feathers tied to strands of her flowing hair fluttered up and down.

He then felt more warm hands upon his chest. Rhianne yawned and stretched, and her red curls tickled his arm. He shared his affections between her and Seaghdha, cupping one of Rhianne's small breasts, rolling the pink central bud between a finger and thumb.

Eibheag, still curled up behind Rhianne, groaned. "Why's the… shaking...? Ughhh…."

Through their grunts and moans, Seaghdha and Torug laughed.

"Torug! Get outside! NOW!" The voice belonged to Madanach.

Damn it, Torug thought.

Seaghdha slowed her hips and moved to get off of him, but Torug forced her back down. "Don't you dare leave yet."

"But—"

He held Seaghdha's waist as he flipped her to her back, pinning her down. With newfound urgency, he finished what his shaman started.

"Torug!" The King's voice called again.

"Rhianne, go calm your King," Torug grunted. The woman, with Eibheag wavering behind her, obediently left the tent.

Several moments later, Torug didn't bother dressing before pushing through the unfastened flap of his tent. "This better be good," he bellowed. Madanach took note of Torug's nakedness but chose to ignore it. The King pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the northeast. Torug squinted against the light of the rising sun and saw a dark expanse move across the horizon. "What is that?" he asked his King.

"I may have been underground for many years, but I've read enough books," Madanach replied. "I know a dragon when I see one."

Torug paused a moment, keeping his eyes to the northeast. "Dragon?"

The King shouted for his people to retreat into the nearby cave they used in times of bad weather.

Torug watched as dozens of tiny, naked Bretons scattered about the camp, trying to find their scraps of animal skin clothing. How these people managed to stay alive while wearing next to nothing to protect their skin, Torug didn't know. He credited magic. After admiring the view once more before various ladies re-clad themselves, Torug turned back to the northeast and watched the dark figure flap its wings. Whenever he thought the beast was drawing ever nearer, it soon swerved further away.

A hand brushed his, and Torug turned to see Seaghdha. "Ever fight a dragon before?" he asked her.

"Only the one between your legs," she smirked. "Go get dressed, ore-for-brains. Quickly." She smacked his bare green ass as he walked back to his tent.

Ore-for-brains. She was a keeper.

His old orc armor was still in good shape. Torug thanked Malacath that Madanach had someone retrieve it from the Markarth prison lock-up just before they all escaped. Once dressed, he picked up the legendary warhammer Volendrung which stood more than half his height. The weapon shimmered green, signaling its enchanted status. A small, glowing red orb in the center of the hammer's head glowed brighter when held by its intended owner. For an ebony weapon, it was extraordinarily light in weight, and became even lighter with every enemy it took down during a battle. The multitude of spikes decorating the hammer's head never dulled, and could pierce the strongest of armor.

The weapon had mysteriously appeared the morning of their last day inside Cidhna Mine. Madanach took one look at the weapon in Torug's hands and knew the sign he had been waiting for had come. Malacath was watching over the orc. Malacath was watching over all of them. The betrayed. The forsaken. The Forsworn.

Volendrung felt light in Torug's hands. He grinned. "This is gonna be fun."

Seaghdha stood her ground at Torug's side, ready to defend their camp from the dragon when it came.

"I am ready," Torug growled.

"Yes, you are, my protector." She wasn't looking at him, but rather at the dragon.

Torug walked forward, somewhat away from their camp, wanting to lure the beast to a safer place, away from his tent, away from their food and their beds.

It was coming.

Ice. The dragon breathed ice. That was not expected. The stream of frost came right for Torug when the dragon paused its flight to attack, but he ran away and took shelter behind a rise in the earth.

"We need to bring it down!" his fierce hawk screamed. She sent forth fire from her hands. Before the dragon swooped away from her magic's reach, it let out a sharp squeal. The fire worked.

And soon the beast was grounded on the meadow before Torug, across the shallow river from their camp. The pair ran toward it as fast as they could, Seaghdha all the while sending fireballs at the beast. Torug was faster than her, though. He was always a fast runner, even for an orc of his size. His heavy armor barely even registered against his flesh as he barreled forward, Volendrung raised. His fiery shaman distracted the dragon with her magic as he quickly, easily, smashed the end of his warhammer into its skull. The spikey surface pierced all the way through to the dragon's brain. A groan from deep within the giant animal's chest rumbled. Dark blood spattered everywhere.

The dragon collapsed. The ground shook. Torug hitched Volendrung to his back. Seaghdha ran up to him, panting. "By Hircine, that was… that was not easy." She grabbed a tiny green glass bottle from her hip pouch and drank its contents.

Torug smirked and turned back to gaze at the mountain of scaly flesh before him. "We killed a dragon, little hawk…. I had heard they were back, that they were not just legend. The first returned while I was in the mine with Madanach. Burnt a fort in Falkreath Hold to the ground. I wonder if this is the same dragon, or if there are more."

"Hmph, well, I suppose we'll find out. Hey, let's see what it tastes like," she said, grinning as she hopped to her feet.

"Hurr, it probably tastes like anything else you cook."

"Eat your hammer, orc. I have more important things to do than learn to cook like your old clanwomen."

"Yeah, yeah." Torug stepped forward to touch the beast. It was as cold and hard as ice.

"Nahagliiv! Zil gro dovah ulse! Slen tiid vo!"

Stin! Oh, how it felt good to fly! Thousands of years of rest in my grave had rejuvenated me. "I smell you, joorre! I smell the stench of your puny, rotting mortal bodies." I soared over a village and watched in delight as pale-skinned bipeds ran in fear, several becoming statues of ice under my blessed breath. "And magic! I smell magic! Where are you, Akatosh-blessed? Meyz! I want to play! Voth fus ahrk yol ahrk iiz…."

Torug saw the world as the dragon he killed had seen it. He understood him. He understood his life. Fury Burn Wither was his name. Torug then watched with wide-eyed confusion as its scales and muscles and viscera disintegrated into a golden swirling light, much like his little shaman's healing magic. "What is this?" he asked Seaghdha.

"I-I don't know, Torug. It's… it's magic. The dragon's magic is flowing into you…."

"Heh, it tickles…. Hurr hurr hurr. Like butterflies floating inside me." He chuckled again.

"Torug…."

"What?"

"The dragon…."

"Yes, the dragon. What of it?"

"You have absorbed its magic."

"Yes, and?"

Seaghdha blinked at him. "You've lived in Skyrim all your life, and you don't know what this means?"

Torug narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

"You killed a dragon. You touched it. You took its life inside your own body." His little shaman took a step back from him. "You're Dragonborn."

He had certainly misunderstood her. "What?"

"Dragonborn. I swear by Hircine you need a good smack sometimes."

"Maybe later," he grinned.

Seaghdha crossed her arms in front of her barely-clothed breasts and grumbled something about cocks. "The Dragonborn, Torug. That god of the Nords, Talos, he was one, I think…. The Dragonborn takes a dragon's life force into his own. Or its soul, perhaps. The only other thing I know is… that the monks on the Throat of the World, near Whiterun, they train the Dragonborn to use the dragon tongue, to Shout."

"Shout?" Torug took a step toward his little hawk. "Wait. Didn't you say that Markarth was taken from the Reachmen by a man who could Shout?"

"Yes. Ulfric Stormcloak. He murdered my people by Shouting them from the ramparts, from the towers and from the gate. The Empire sent him, let him loose on the city, and under the veil of a night fog he destroyed my people with thunder from his mouth."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember now. Are you saying he was Dragonborn?"

"No. The old monks trained him to be like a Dragonborn, same as that Jarl in Whiterun, Balgruuf. That much I know. Ulfric can Shout a man to the ground, as well as disintegrate his weapon. That's how he killed the Jarl of Solitude, the Nord King." Seaghdha walked up to Torug and clutched his forearms. "Torug, you are what Ulfric pretended to be. You are Dragonborn. I bet you can Shout, now…."

Torug licked his tusk, something he always did when deep in thought. Seaghdha hated the habitual movement. "How exactly would I do that?"

Seaghdha walked up to the dragon's skeleton and ran a hand along a rib that was as long as she was tall. "Think like the dragon. I bet that's the trick. Just like when I call upon the old magic, I have to think like the old gods."

Torug recalled the brief dragon memory he had been shown, and the few words that were spoken by him in the memory, as a dragon, in a language unfamiliar to him. He turned to the skeleton and said one of the unfamiliar words aloud. "Iiz." He watched in amazement as a burst of frost formed in the air in front of his face and landed on the dry bones. "By Malacath…."

"No, by Akatosh…." Seaghdha's hand grasped Torug's. "You are Dragonborn…."

He turned to his worried shaman to gaze into her warm, dark eyes. "What does this mean? For me, for the tribe…."

"I don't know, Torug." His little hawk's wings tickled his cheeks as she held his face in front of hers. "We need to tell Madanach. We need to send word north, to Haafingar and to High Rock. The exiled Reachmen… those hiding, waiting in Markarth… they need to know. They need to know who we have with us, now. They need to stop hiding. We can take back our home, Torug…."

Seaghdha flew into Torug's arms and kissed him, hard, sending them to the grass next to the dragon's skeleton. She began to furiously undo the buckles at his waist. He chuckled and turned his head to gaze into the maw of the dragon, his new source of power, the divine gift that could help him be the savior for his new people. He reached out and grabbed a hold of one of the dagger-sized, serrated teeth. "I'm gonna make a necklace outta you…."

A faint voice in the back of Torug's mind laughed and spoke in the same new language he had heard while experiencing the short dragon memory. Nox fah drokurvon, dovahkiin…. Nox. Nox…. Torug did not know the language, but he understood what the voice was saying all the same. Thank you for playing, Dragonborn. Thank you, thank you….The voice slowly faded, and he never heard it again.

As his crazy shaman began to unhitch his leg armor, a roar sounded from the east, and she stopped undressing Torug to look for the source of the sound.

"Another?" he asked. The world grew silent, and birds once again ceased their morning songs. Torug heard the distant chatter of young Forsworn.

Suddenly the ground shook when an enormous, black, ragged-looking dragon emerged with fierce speed from over the distant hills to the east. It was coming right for Torug and Seaghdha. His little hawk began again her fiery assault as Torug refastened his armor. This dragon was fearless. It roared, and thunder sounded from its lungs, shaking them to their feet.

Fire-breath then came down upon them, the Forsworn camp, and the field around it all. Seaghdha and Torug were near enough to the river to not be burned alive by the ensuing grassfire, but the position left them very much open to aerial assaults. Torug heard shouts from behind them, and when the black dragon again soared above the camp, arrows were loosed upon it.

Torug turned back to his tribe and shouted, "Aim for its wings!"

When he turned back to look for Seaghdha, she was gone. He then spotted her running back toward the camp, back to her people who had left the protection of the cave to help with the second dragon attack. The dragon swerved, ignoring Torug and heading straight for the camp. "Seaghdha!" he screamed for his little shaman.

Torug was too late. As the dragon approached the camp, it reached out with its giant claws and snatched up several of Torug's new kinsmen, including Seaghdha. After soaring to a nauseating height, the claws opened. Time slowed as Torug watched his little hawk fly to her death.

The dragon spoke aloud in that same unknown language Torug had heard before in his head.

"Meyye! Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan. Zu'u Alduin, zok sahrot do naan ko Lein! Zu'u hin daan!"

Fools! Torug understood the dragon. Those who do not bow will be devoured. I am Destroyer Devour Master, most mighty of any in the World! I am your doom!

As the black dragon soared off to the north, Torug sank to his knees. Madanach, standing tall on a short hill surrounding the camp, caught his eye. Torug wondered if his King could sense the rage building within him. He growled, hoping the dragon that had escaped him could feel his desire to rip its eyes out with his fists.

The violent urge would not subside. Torug stood, gazing to the north, and screamed a word he knew the black dragon would understand. "YOL!" After the word escaped his lips, a burst of fire shot forth into the sky. He could breathe fire as the dragons did. He was a dragon. He was a beast.

Torug closed his eyes. His head hung forward. His shoulders sagged. His fists loosened. Volendrung dropped to the ground.

Dragonborn. Dovahkiin. His world had ended once before, and it had just ended a second time. The orc rose to his feet, reborn yet again.

Torug gro-Dushnikh was dead. Torug Dragonbane had taken his place.

He walked over to where Seaghdha had fallen. Her hair flared out like a black flame, white feathers still clinging here and there. Her back had broken over a rock, and her limbs were flung at awkward angles. The dragon's claws had ripped through her torso, interrupting the flow of her elegant tattoos as well as, Torug realized , likely causing her immense pain before she died. Torug knelt down, gathered her in his arms, and walked her over to the riverbank. She would have to be sent back to her gods soon, with the others, by way of a funeral pyre.

After an eternal moment of gazing upon his little hawk one more time, Torug went to go search for some wood.