Author's Notes
Hi, you can call me Jerry. Now, I've been extremely anxious to get this entire storyline up on its feet. The stories will all intertwine, but they won't be posted under the same link, simply due to the fact that I don't want it to have 300 chapters. Reviews are appreciated, even if they aren't criticism. Tell me what you like, what you didn't, and also I will add ways for you to interact with the characters. I do hope you enjoy. :)
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The sun slowly rose over the Colovian Highlands and spilled over the vast woodland and forest, filling in the shadows and moistening the cold grass with morning due. Birds sang their morning songs and set out to work finding food for their chicks as the rest of the wildlife, mostly already awake, got to their daily routines. Cougars yawned lazily as they stretched their sleek muscles while the half-earth-half-human spriggans went about their natural work of blessing both animals and plants, making them healthier, stronger, and much more majestic to behold.
It was the norm of the county Chorrol, a beautiful summer morning with a bit of cold mountain air leftover from the prior night to bring its blissful residents back to reality.
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The amazingly quick and agile dunmer skipped stone to stone; it seemed he felt the rush of air under his boots more than the firm feels of stone as he quickly traversed the boulder strewn mountainside. Any observing the dark elf would have surely been impressed, even the cat-like Kajiit would have been hard pressed to keep up with such agility. Though the ranger was not thinking of how elegantly he looked while he scaled the slope. Ever looking to improve himself, he scrutinized himself sternly whenever he came up short of his intended target, which was far from a common occurance.
Two hours from his camp, a simple bedroll and chest inside a small dell not far from Chorrol's north gate, he was nearing the area just south of Cloud Top. To the southwest of the mountaintop lay a serene gorge that was worthy of an artist's rendering; a sloping decline to the large, jagged rock in its center with a small brook running on the northeastern side of its green field. It seemed a paradise, with exotic wild mountain flowers beckoning to be further examined and the sun brightly showing over the jagged peaks of the not so distant Colovians.
Fighting the urging need to be at one with nature that the mesmerising gorge seemed to only enhance, the dunmer knew better then to venture gaily into the enthralling place. In fact, it was the entire reason he had been summoned to do this service.
The ranger's darting eyes scanned the surrounding scenery, searching for the best point of observation. Though it held the best view, the southwest corner was completely out of the question. A large, menacing mountain overlooked the valley, holding many caves. Many caves.
The elf spotted a promising spot in the canopy of a large elm that dominated the northeastern side of the gorge; not too far from where he was. The ranger chose his path carefully, using the often intertwining branches to his advantage. Trolls weren't big fans of climbing trees, the dunmer knew from past experience. He approached the ancient tree from a sturdy branch of a close by tree. The leap from the rather flimsy end of the limb to another bough five feet above him would have been a next to impossible task for some others, but this dark elf was an athlete devoted to his path.
After a few moments, the dunmer was seated comfortably on one of the higher branches with his back against the main trunk, slowly chewing on some roasted squirrel he had treated with a solution to douse the smell. Now came for the hardest part: waiting.
The moments quickly passed as the ranger held his post over the serene wilderness. The sun moved over the blue sky unhindered by any clouds at its own pace. The stream to the east kept a steady sound that almost seemed a lullaby to the dark elf. Though, for all of the perfectness that seemed to flow from the peaceful area, another vital clue furthered the dunmer's suspicions on the area, no wildlife was in the region. The birds' enchanting songs were hushed, no insects chirped their tunes, and no animal ventured into the lush gorge. Surely if all was right with it, this place would be a haven for wildlife. Just another sign I'm in the right spot, he assured himself, though it wasn't really needed. He knew these wilds better than anyone, even the half crazed altmer Honditar.
Another hour and a half quickly slipped by. The sun slowly made its arc through the sky toward its hiding place behind the long Valus range. Its bright rays began to beat down on everything it could find, though up on top of such a high tree the wind began to pick up, which helped alleviate the sun's unforgiving heat.
A slight rustle of vegetation in the southwest corner caught the ranger's red eyes immediately. Was it an animal straying somewhere it didn't belong? The elf quickly brushed that thought aside as animals had a keen sense about the things in their world, and they always seemed to know what was safe and what wasn't. The dunmer recalled how many time Kynareth guided a game animal away from the tip of one of the ranger's natural arrows.
The dark elf set his gaze upon the lightly forested area, hoping to get a glance of his quarry. Nothing for a little while, but then he spotted a strange figure in the tall grass laying flat. As the vegetation was almost completely blocking his point of view, he could barely make out several rotten boards lying on top of four others, each with rusty nails in them and hinges at their ends. The dunmer's suspicions were well placed; his mark was hiding in the long abandoned mines of the Golden Rivers tunnel.
That tunnel would forever go down in legend in Chorrol, since it was one of the biggest reasons the mountain city was founded. Back in the day of the ruler Tiber Septim, a number of golden veins were discovered throughout the northern Valus Mountains, and every aspiring mountain man and miner in Tamriel spewed forth from their city gates or their solitary huts' wooden doors to take a claim of the golden wealth surging from the mountains. Those who were there and experienced the rush first hand indeed thought that the mountains' coffers were endless. Many years later, the mining village developed into the northwestern frontier that was Chorrol. The mountain soil yielded fresh and amazing crops every year, its hunters collected a great amount of meats and furs, and of course the gold rush a few miles north of the city didn't hurt the economy at all, either. It quickly grew to be the number two city in Cyrodiil, shadowing the enormous island fortress, the Imperial City.
However, they say that when good things happen, you will have to pay for them in some form. Their payment came through grief and sorrow. At the beginning of the wars with Orismer folk of Orsinium, invading war parties quickly passed through the rugged trails of the Valus range and into the forests of Cyrodiil. Chorrol was right at the foot of the invading orcs, and fell in less than a week.
The orcs quickly took control of the mines and worked them with the profound skill that was in their blood. The tunnels had never yielded more material in their lifetime. However, the orcs' greed pushed them further. They dug for weeks on end; often the supplies such as food and water would not find their designated parties as they would have accidentally taken a wrong turn in the stone labyrinth. Tunnel collapses, scores of workers dying from thirst, hunger, exhaust or fatigue became the norm over the next several months that the orcs occupied Chorrol.
After two months of orchish occupation, they had realized their err. Not only had the mines become next to a death sentence, but they had mined too deep. They had dug so deep into the Valus range that they broke the barrier of the Malyuis; a fabled cave that the Aylieds had tricked a terrible beast into, and immediately sealed shut to protect the world from its unspeakable terrors.
The creature's wrath quickly killed or drove out all those in or around the mine. To the first hand witnesses, they insisted that even Chorrol's high walls weren't safe enough.
Several months later, the mountain city of Chorrol was in Cyrodiil's control again. The Legion attempted many special ops missions to run the beast out. None of them came close to a success.
Now, thousands of years later, they were ready to try again. Uriel Septim had sent an agent north to Chorrol to hire a famed expert ranger to dispose of the creature and retake the economic super power in the name of Tamriel.
Legends of the dunmer ranger had circulated for two hundred years, though the elf never was happy to accept his fame. Humility, replaced hubris. He never expected the fame that had found a resting place upon his name due to his forsaking his family.
When he was a young dunmer, his parents introduced him to the world of hate, violence, and crime. This was the world of the Morrowind Morang Tong assassins' guild. At the young age of nine, they installed into the young elf's head the inhuman practices of torture, murder, and, the one thing that most disturbingly he was best at, planning the kill. After fifteen years of the madness, the young dark elf couldn't take it anymore. While out on a contract with his mother and father, he intentionally ruined their plans. He wished for his heirs to simply accept their arrest and simply go to jail. He couldn't have been more wrong. They fought to the death; taking thirty guardsmen down with their innocent-blood corrupted blades.
While still mourning for his parents, the guards were able to suck the information they needed out of his moping mind. They used him to kill the corrupted Morang Tong, earning him the reputation as a vigilante.
He left the unbearable city life and looked to find his true calling in the wilds of Morrowind. Though Morrowind's wilds are among the most dangerous in Tamriel, and adventurers do not fare well on their own in the forsaken wilderness.
Dozens of years traveling around Tamriel taught him many things: how to track, how to predict the weather, what foliage is appropriate to eat, furthered his already incredible skills at melee, and, his favorite and most distinctive trait, how to perform alchemy.
The ranger performed many deeds that would build up his reputation, waging war on pirates in Hammerfell, hunting Minotaur by Cheydinhal, and sniffing out Dark Brotherhood members in Valenwood. Each place visited was an enjoyable stay for the young elf, helping people as best he could (which was usually the best help around), but the once young elf was aging. The short, meaningful years of his life blended into tedious long ones. The fact became so much so that he eventually altogether forgot to keep track of his ever growing age and simply let the years slip by without much notice. The life-weary elf became bored with all the places on Nirn, as none rekindled the spark he had enjoyed feeling in his young years, save the mountainous region of Chorrol. Maybe it was its rich history or its pure meaning of sheer nationalism, but it reminded him of why he was helping the people of Tamriel, and refilled the missing part in his heart.
At midday, when the sun was at its arc, the ranger had picked up few tracks from his high up perch. Near the large stone in the center was a trampled down area, and the paths leading to it were numerous and chaotic at best.
Though the black elf had no hard evidence to support his suspicions, he had in the back of his mind on what kind of target he was given. But, he knew that assuming without proof was a foolish thing to do. Always prepared, the dunmer reached down to the veils tethered securely to his doe skin belt. He chose one in particular, and lifted it against the sun. The tube appeared empty, but when he saw the shadow of the glass filled with something, he knew he had chosen the right one.
A potion of the chameleon spell. Its contents would quickly dissipate when ingested, seeping into every part of his body. His dark skin would soon begin to feel rather cold, and then his very appearance would turn rather opaque. A minor headache would come along with it, but it was a small price to pay for the ability to move about unseen. The dunmer held it in his hand a moment longer, slowly reciting the ingredients.
With a spell in the back of his mind, the black elf slowly rose to his feet, sore from the long period of sitting and observing the serene wilderness. He began a chant, remembering to keep his voice down to barely a whisper, and slowly strode out to the far reaches of the bough. He was beginning to feel the effects of the spell when he was nearing the end as he swung around protruding branches and ducking to keep himself from walking into a face full of leaves. The ancient tree's limb began to moan in protest at first, but then slowly quieted after the pressure was greatly relieved.
The dunmer began to feel each footfall feel lighter, and the carefree feeling that only levitating could bring began to seep into his heart. He took a few steps more, wanting to make sure the spell was in full effect before walking off a tree. When he could fully step onto twigs that would usually bend and give way, the ranger kicked off the firm wood underneath his boots, propelling the elf through the air toward the meadow.
Upon reaching the edge of the tree line, the dunmer ranger was welcomed by a mix of cool wind and glaring heat from the sun. With the wind blowing against him, it was much more likely for him to come up short of his designated area, but it was alright. The creatures were nocturnal ones, as their three black eyes were blinded by the sun.
As he levitated deeper into the meadow, the dunmer realized another danger, the fact that the meadow was so enchanting. The levitation spell naturally required all of his concentration, which the valley tugged on. He had no problem keeping his attention diverted from the beauty of the flowers, the grass bowing in the wind, and the balance of life, when he considered the alternative. And, just to remind himself, the elf often looked at the rocky terrain dozens of feet below him to keep himself motivated.
The spell began to wear off eventually, and the ranger could feel himself start to slowly plummet to the now grass covered earth. He came up a couple dozen feet short of the trampled grass. Not too bad, he thought to himself as he looked back at the elm he had glided from about a quarter mile back. Not too bad at all.
The ebon skinned elf did not need to follow the path at all, he had seen what he wanted to as soon as he came upon it in the tall grass. A larger circular paw print with four other smaller paws around it like the spokes of a wheel was imbedded into the damp soil. Then, not too far away was the print of a large knuckle. The trail of his quarry. Though hunting it down now would be foolish, the elf thought to himself. Attacking it now would forfeit the elf's ability to make the choices. Choices against such opposition would be the only thing that would save the dunmer's life. Choices on were to attack, when, and how. His mind was already formulating plans and preparations for the objective, and time would be on his side.
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(I am going to start something that attempts to relate with the viewers and/or just make it more interesting for you to read my stories by letting you interact with and decide the fate of the characters. I know what you're saying: "Oh, but Jerry, we aren't nearly cool enough and are so undeserving! How will we ever be able to deserve the opprotunity that you, the Great One, has given us?" Oh, well, you're right. You are right. I will hold anything from TES trivia to what kind of soldier I hope I'm gunna be when I enlist. So, keep your eyes pealed for questions in between segments. Back to the story.)
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The flickering candle light brought Carter an abnormal serene feeling, a serene feeling that he didn't mind. He put the dwarven gauntlet back underneath the water and brought the steel wool back to it, scrubbing the rust off of the ancient armor as best he could. He had found it in a bandit caravan.
A smile subconsciously appeared on the Breton's lips. A group of about thirty bandits had three wagons packed with so many valuables that the horses were getting ulcers from pulling the loads. Thankfully, someone tipped the Fighter's Guild off, and the bandits were either killed or brought to justice. Most were just killed, though. It was his first assignment, almost six months ago.
How the time seemed to fly over the first three months. He had advanced up through the ranks of associate and apprentice in a matter of three months, a feat most would-be adventurers strove for. But the last three months were pure torture. Hardly anything for the mercenaries to do. And what little jobs there were, they would often end up being over-ruled by the law. The last few months had been extremely hot, even for Chorrol. Most guild members blamed it on the hot weather. People were getting ancy, temperamental, and often taking matters into their own hands instead of leaving it up to the professionals that would demand money in return. It was the worst draught in years, and it affected everyone it could even in the slightest.
Onti caught himself daydreaming, an occurance that seemed to happen only too often. The breton went back to scrubbing the red rust off of the gold colored dwarven armor. He forced excitement back into his mind by remembering that he was almost done restoring the set of armor. He had already finished the perfectly designed cuirass, a project that had taken him the greater part of the past two months. Before that he had the greaves and the shin guards, two of the easier jobs. Next came spending an arm and a leg on a chainmail hauberk and a rarebrace that he had been looking for what seemed too long, then the restoration of the boots and then the helmet. Just the thought of cleaning the helmet brought throbbing pain to his temples. The areas in the open were perfectly smooth, but the small nicks, grooves, and eye slits were covered in rust.
An unbelieving smile appeared on Onti's face. He let go of the irritating steel wool and of the exquisitely crafted gauntlet, which promptly hit the bottom of the tank with a resounding thud. Onti held his ridiculous smile and turned around, sitting with his back against the condensed what a stupid predicament he had found himself in. A Fighter's Guild journeyman, someone with a rock hard image to the populace in Cyrodiil, was stressed out most by a simple helmet that he wasn't looking forward to scrubbing.
The breton recalled the last time he had felt the adrenaline rush that he had joined the guild for; the high that "separated the bookworms from the men", as his drill instructor had put it. A little over two weeks ago, Onti had been given the duty of escorting a wealthy collector's group of adventurers bearing a deadric war axe from Anvil to Bravil.
When he was assigned the duty, the young man cursed his luck, not believing that simply escorting a weapon even as powerful as a deadric war axe was the Guild's top priority. They ran into little opposition on the way there, the run-of-the-mill highway men. Upon arriving in their target city of Bravil, they were attacked by an opposing collector's forces. Nothing to serious, but it was the last time he was allowed to shed blood in the name of the Fighter's Guild. But then the Guild proclaimed that they would stay out of the two competitors' feud, as the group of mercenaries claimed they would not want to take side against anyone, much to the opposition of its members. Now, many headlines ran in the Black Horse Courier proclaiming about massive, heart pumping struggles between the two forces, as if the Nine were punishing them for some horrible sin.
The cold feel of the condensation on the back of his neck snapped the breton back to reality. He let a moan out, and then made his way back onto his sore knees. Carter fished around the bottom of the tub for the gauntlet he had dropped, unable to see through the rust-red water. He felt the cold touch of steel on his freezing hand, and reached in further through the cold water for it, leaning against the metal tub. He put too much of his weight on it though, and the cold water sloshed back and forth, some splashing over the edge and onto the breton's bare chest, streaming down into his nether regions. Onti's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he fought for the breath the cold water had stolen from his body. "Gods damn it!" he yelled underneath his short breath to keep himself from startling everyone else in the guild hall.
Modryn Oreyn knocked on the Breton's door, somewhat puzzled by the noises emanating from the room. "Enter!" he hear the man shout from inside. The dunmer frowned, the lines across his forehead scrunching on top of each other.
"What makes you think that's the way to address a superior Guild member?" the usually frustrated elf questioned with an agitated edge on his voice as he swung the wooden door opened, squeaking protest every inch of the way. The light spilt into the room, blinding the wet, shirtless breton shuffling through his drawers for new pants and underwear. "Well, shit, Onti," Oreyn couldn't hold his smirk back, an uncommon occurance with the mer. "All these years I've been mislead. I'm apparently supposed to wear my clothes to the bath tub." Oreyn folded his arms as he leaned against the door frame, and Onti couldn't help but notice the uncommon phenomenon that the dark elf was smiling.
The breton almost forgot himself and immediately snapped to attention, dropping his new change of clothes to the floor. "As you were," the usual stern look returning to his face to replace the smile.
"Yes, champion." The breton replied, bending over to pick up the tattered clothes off the dusty floor. Onti had never really talked to Oreyn as a friend, instead keeping a professional respect for the aged warrior. From what little he had heard the dunmer converse with the other, higher ranking Guild members, he seemed like a nice enough guy. Would he be able to become friends with the living legend during this encounter? The breton meant to find out.
"You got any plans this month, journeyman?" the dunmer elf unexpectedly asked while looking at the newly restored dwarven breastplate that Carter had on a particularly sturdy wooden shelf.
"Uh-n-no...no." the Breton stammered, completely taken aback by the question as he slipped the ratty green shirt over his head. Carter had heard much talk of how the Fighter's Guild champion treated the associates worse then he treated his enemies, but yet he treated the members who had proven themselves to the guild with complete randomness. He had been around Oreyn only three times so far. First was his signing up for the Guild, and then the one week basic training program, where the mer treated him lower then he treated rocks. Then was Onti's first time performing his Guild duties. Oreyn still could care less for the man then, but it was common knowledge among the seasoned Guild members that after you complete your first duties, the champion won't mind you so much.
"Yeah, that seems to be everyone's song lately." Oreyn commented as he leaned against a wooden wall, seeming thoroughly unimpressed with the blandness that the breton had left the room in. All the man did was change the pillow and bed sheets, put up a professionally done painting of his old farmstead, and put the armor on a shelf. He then looked at the nearly burnt out candle on the dresser that did a lousy job of lighting the room. "You ever think about putting any more candles in here?" The dunmer pondered aloud, not really caring if Onti would be offended.
But the breton was used to the commonly asked question. "It breaks me down to a more natural sense, champion. I use it when I work." Onti explained as he nodded toward the tub full of rust colored water and the steel wool that lay beside it. "Besides, champion, it reminds me of my home as a boy." Onti's eyes drifted off as he put his wool socks on.
He had spent his childhood in High Rock, and had held the standards of the regular breton farmer when he was a lad, being proud, respectful, and holding an immense knowledge and vocabulary. Though, as Onti grew older in his life, he grew to be an embarrassment to his proud family. He grew to be a rowdy young man that his parents labeled "half nord", an insult to most other, as Onti called them, "purebred" bretons. Though the young man took the intended insult as a new label, as he was a rare type of breton that actually enjoyed their rugged neighbors. True, Onti was unlike the greater part of his race, as he wasn't above being rude, picking fights with both his and neighboring families, and skipping class at a university of the arcane arts to instead find his way to a local tavern. At age fifteen, Onti's parents planned to banish him from their home, stripping him of his family's name Onti. The agitated young breton would beat them to the punch, though, instead forsaking his race's snooty ways and fleeing to Cyrodiil instead.
"I don't care about your homeland, boy, and keep your schedule free," Oreyn said blatantly, completely destroying Carter's train of recollection and thought, "the government's saw fit to give you a job."
A feeling of shock and happiness flooded through the Breton, dispelling any thoughts of his former unhappiness due to the mer's uncaring. "A-a contract?" the Breton blinked. "When is it?" The dumbstruck man still couldn't believe that he, out of all of the other Guildmates, had been the first to receive a contract within two weeks. Haffy's gunna have fun hearing about this, the Breton thought to himself with a smirk.
"Sometime this month. Other than that, we can't say." Oreyn replied with his usual withholding information until the last second. The champion fighter continued studying Onti's room, and noticed the steel wool that had apparently been used to restore the Carter's dwarf armor that half the town knew about. "You're using that?" Oreyn asked with a confused frown. "That is as sure as all the Planes of Oblivion not going to make your armor look new." The black elf delivered the information that Onti's friends told him almost daily.
"That aint what I'm looking to do, champion." Onti explained while he strapped his boot laces together, not daring to turn his head and look the dunmer in his red and intense eyes. "Apparently whatever kind of mettle this is, the entire set is made out of it." Onti began to explain as he finished strapping on the worn leather boots. "So whenever I take the wool to it, the original color never fades away." Carter finished as he stood up to properly address the champion. Oreyn still held a somewhat confused look on his hard face.
"Folks are going to think you got into a tussle with a family of porcupines." Oreyn's ever unimpressed expression still on his face. He looked from the extravagant armor on the plain and dusty wooden shelf to the Breton, who was now fully dressed and standing at ease; what a lower ranking member of the Guild was expected to do when the champion entered the room.
Onti couldn't help but chuckle as he had never seen the champion make an attempt at humor before. "I like to keep people guessing, champion." Onti smiled.
"Yeah…" Oreyn muttered as he picked up a dwemer shield that was sitting on the Breton's desk in place of books and paper. "This is a sweet baby you've got here." The dunmer warrior marveled at the perfectly balanced shield. It was made of the same goldish metal that so many other dwemer metals were. A perfect disc shape, with the two Mountains, Ehlnofey and Velothi, standing next to each other with a large maze of squiggly lines representing the dwemer mines. "How did a journeyman like you get this?" Oreyn inquired, balancing the light-yet heavy duty throwing shield.
Onti hid his smile as he recalled his coming across Boomerang, a nickname his shield had earned due to the fact that it would eventually find its way back to its wielder. "Killed a bandit who had stole it from the adventurer that had killed the last dwemer, champion." The Breton explained, referring to an adventurer a dozen years back in Vaardenfell who had wandered into a dwemer ruin, and found one last dwemer still alive; but the Deep One was changed and had gone completely insane. After consulting with the Imperial Legion (and receiving much protest from many scholars and professors), the adventurer killed the last Deep One, earning himself the nickname "The Six Foot Deep One". The Dunmer adventurer had then been invited to join House Redoran, which he grew to be a leading member of. The Six Foot Deep One had earned himself the right to join the Nerevarine in her fight against Dagoth Ur, forever confirming his name in legend as a member of the Nerevarine Loyals.
"You do know how to use this, right?" The Dunmer asked, not entirely sure the Breton actually knew how to lob a shield at an enemy.
"I do, Champion. In fact just the other day, Master Donton commented on my skill." Onti replied, gaining confidence from the memory. Oreyn said nothing in reply, but instead just grumbled and set the shield back down.
"The briefing's this Morndas, journeyman. I expect you to be there." The Champion informed Onti on his way back out the door.
"Yes, champion!" The Breton said happily, though at the same time somwhat bewildered about if Oreyn was being friendly, or just toying with the young man.
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(Allright, back to the competition thing. I will be asking random questions, and the one who gets the most right within an alotted time gets to do decide the fate of a character. Now for the rules: 1 - You can only answer once. 2 - The first three ones to answer are the ones whose scores get counted. 3 - If you give me an answer consisting of multiple answers, you won't be counted. 4 - If you have already won one of my competitions, your vote won't be counted. 5 - A question with * around it means first one to answer gets double points. At the end of this chapter, you'll be given a sample of one of the future questions. Go ahead and answer if you like, but the most I'll do for you is mention your name in the next chapter. And yes, I'll keep score of people's points.)
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"Foreward fighting!" A gurgling, demonic voice commanded his mix of skirmishers and bezerkers as they charged through the sub-mountain underbrush. "First one of you asswhipes to take so much as one step back get's nailed down in the wolfy pen!" The creature screaming at his goblin kin was truly a mountain of meat and muscle. Gai-Gohck was his name, a new arrival that had immediately began climbing up the chain of command of the Heavy Feather Tribe. Resembling a mix of human and goblin, it's bone structure and skin color was that of a human Nord, but its claws, enhanced sense of smell, barbaric strength, and instinctive knowledge of war and its ruthless art.
The Heavy Feathers had been stalking a group of merchants on the Black Road from the Imperial City to Chorrol for the past two days now, and Gai-Gohck had a good feeling about this one. "Little to no casualties." The beast had told his underling war band in the predawn hours of the morning. "If these damned merchants lost a man to three imps, we had better not lose one of you dipshits to them; especially since we have the drop on them!"Gai-Gohck had quickly built a reputation throughout the clan by being the toughest leader around. He pushed his minions further then any past goblin would have dared to. Gohck was the first of his newly spawned kind to take the role as a leader of a goblin chieftan, and he did not want to make a bad impression. His skirmishers and bezerkers were trained to approach unseen, and fight on pure combat experience when engaged.
Green feet moved through the Niben forest floor without so much as a twig snapping. They moved with a steady pace, inhaling deeply through their noses, and exhaling through their mangle toothed mouths just as slowly. "Total surprise must be achieved." Gai-Gochk's words echoed in each of the goblins' minds. "These are untrained merchants traveling along a somewhat tamed road. There guard will not be high. These aren't Legion type, so don't worry too much about scouts encircling the merchants. Our scouts report there are none, but I don't give a shit. Archers will still be at the head of the charge. If you see a scout, shoot him. Infantryman! If you see a man or mer lying on the ground with an arrow sticking out of his gob, poke him to make sure he'd dead or dying." Gohck's detail in how to perform the art of battle was a completely new concept for the goblins of Heavy Feather. Past chieftans instead promised victory and glory, but told no way of how to accomplish it... which was probably a good reason it alluded them so often.
The lead skirmisher, a tall veteran of many battles, led the raiding party through the forest. To the owls scoping the landscape for mice and rabbits, the goblins seemed as shadows sweeping along the floor. The sun was still an hour from reaching over the distant Valus Range, with the nocturnal creatures beginning to settle into slumber, while the beasts of the light began to stir. But this was still the the nocturnal creature's time. And so, the goblins jogged for miles accross the floor of the temperate forest. No leaf was stepped on, no animal signaled danger, no sign for the humans of their enroaching danger.
"And before you take off for your victory," Gai-Gohck informed his goblins as they prepared for the trek to the Black road, "My scouts inform me that a dark elf has joined the caravan. He has white hair, wears two scimitars, and looks the most dangerous of all." A twisted smile shown Gai-Gohck's misformed fangs jutting from his mouth. "Kill him first, and bring me his head." A wry grin appeared on every goblin's face, and the bezerkers' hearts began to beat with the adrenaline rush already on its way.
Two hours had passed since the goblins left their cave, and they were nearing the road. Wildlife began to quiet, most of the plants useful in alchemy were already harvested for ingrediants, and the distant smell of humans was promising indeed.
A pile of dead leaves, twigs, and an assortment of mosses that sat at the foot of a great oak began to move. Loud sniffing noises broke the night's serene silence. "That them?" A goblin lying under another nearby ghilly blanket asked in their guttural language of grunts and snarls.
"Yup." The creature confirmed as the sniffing stopped. It stood up, shedding the collection of dead vegitation to the ground. It motioned for the rest of the goblin scouts to do likewise, which they did.
"Ooooh, damn!" One of the creatures moaned upon standing up and stretching its stiff legs. "Lying down like 'is gunna be death o' me! I gots a me a family o' mices that wanna make a home right abo' me head!" The six goblin scouts had been tailing the merchant caravan since they had set foot on the Black Road. Since most of the scouts were freshly trained (if you would call their camp out in the woods for three night training), they had trouble staying down and in the same place for hours on end.
The goblin scout party had taken up residence on a large hill overlooking much of the Heavy Feather Tribe's territory. The landscape was mostly that of the rolling hills with small marshes and ponds in the lower areas. Trees were thick off to the east, but to the south and along the Black Road to the west, the area mostly sub forest; an area of a great many skirmishes the goblins had won. It came to be there type of warfare. They would place bezerkers in the lower boughs, and would place a wall of skirmishers and archers farther beyond the sparsely wooded area. Many goblins and human invaders alike fell surprise to the bloodthirsty goblins at their rear.
Two experienced goblin scouts were on the northeastern crest of the hill watching the goblin war party pass through the night not more then a half mile away. They would come up the steep slope and demand their information, the two knew, but they had something else in mind other then just letting the skirmishers and bezerkers run on, whooping and screaming with their maces and axes flying around and barring their teeth.
"That's them, I s'pose?" The shorter of the two, a gangly creature named Smink, asked, referring to the silent figures at the slope of the large hill.
"Yeah," the taller one named Gruphk sighed, "Bet yous a lamb's leg they aint go'a be quie' like tha' whe' they attack." Smink instead just remained silent, knowing better then to take a one-sided bed like that. It was a given that the skirmishers would approach stealthily enough, but would let the entire world know when they got their first kill through whooping, hollaring, and trembling in the feeling of pure adrenaline coursing through their veins.
A moment passed as the two watched the band silently begin their ascend up the hill. It took another minute for Smink to notice the frown on Gruphk's scarred face. "Yous gots some'm on yo mind?" The shorter goblin picked his friend's brain.
Another moment of silence passed, untile Gruphk broke the silence "Let me do the talkin' on 'is one, aight?" The taller creature asked his smaller companion, not taking his gaze away from the horde of eager killers.
"Awwll right." Smink agreed. Another moment of silence past, and the footsteps began to be much more noticable to the two sets of trained ears then moments earlier.
"Smink?" A freshly new goblin scout asked the short goblin, breaking the serene silence that Smink was enjoying.
"Wha?" Smink questioned the new meat, not even bothering to face the nervous creature.
"Mangslak wants tuh know if we's s'posed to do somethin' for da skirmishers." The young, nervous goblin asked as he wringed his clawed hands.
"Wha? Who da hells told him to do tha'?" Smink began yelling at the younger goblins, creating fear and tension throughout.
Gruphk still stood underneath a great oak tree, now able to see the war party's black eyes. "They don't deserve your spit on their boots! It's too holy for 'em." The scout couldn't help but smile as he heard the riled Smink ripping on the young goblins.
Before too long, a large goblin, taller then Gruphk, ran past his skirmishers to get the report from the scouts. Angk`ull was definately a sight to behold. Sporting just one eye and one ear, the goblin used his scars from battling a spriggan's bear to install fear into the younger and more impressionable goblins. He had caught a claw to the left side of his face, crushing his eye socket and raking off his ear. Even more assertive was his cocky sense of superiority that he held over most others. And he hated Gruphk with a passion... With Gruphk returning the favor. The entire time.
The band slowed to a halt, not needing to catch their breath. Goblins had a natural affinity for running. Their long legs pumped tirelesly, and their lungs stretch farther then any other race's. The green skinned folk had been known to run up to a day straight, needing only one deer bladder full of water.
"'S make this quick-like, Gruphk, huh?" Angk`ull growled as he crossed his arms, "I an' my boys ain't got all day, now, and those humans ain't gunta be's waitin' fur us, now are they?"
Gruphk just offered a resigned shrug, immediately throwing his counter-part on his heels. Angk`ull had grown accustomed to dominating conversations and savored the chance of being able to argue with a scout. But now, Gruphk wasn't putting up a fight; a very un-Gruphk like thing to do. "Sure," The goblin agreed, "Me 'n me boys 'll show ya to 'em."
"Show?" Ang`Ull's black eyes showed curiousity as he asked Gruphk. "Yours is t' tell me, so's I can kill me some pink skins!" The veteran shouted, drawing a large cheer from his war party. The scouts growled back and shifted, their clawed hands slowly yet casually inching toward their weapons.
"Mine is to let ya know where the stinking pink skins are, ain't no guidlines as to how. Just like the way there ain't no guidlines on how scouts ain't supposed to fight!" Graphk replied with a snarl, bringing smug grins full of jagged teeth to the scouts' faces.
"You be walking a fine line, bo'." The skirmisher warned, his claws twitching, his eyes so narrow they were naught but black slits.
"But I be walkin' it." The confident scout quietly replied, his back straight and his head held high in defiance.
"Gai-Gohck ain't gunna be happy hearin' bout this, scout." Ang`Ull threatened, putting as much emphasis on the leader's name as possible to scare the cocky scout back into submission.
"How do you know?" Gruphk's asked as his frown turned into a smile, "I think he'd be happier with us being sneak-like on this one, instead of running in and makin' you'selves look like foo's."
"You say one more word like that," Ang`Ull breathed as he got so close to Gruphk's face that both their pig-like noses touched, "An' I'll make my mace rather well aquainted with you' face."
"My own men have threatened to do worse to me." Gruphk chuckled. It was as much of a slap in the face that the scout could give right now, without getting into a goblin-on-goblin brawl.
But Ang`Ull wasn't as gracious as Gruphk had hoped. He puffed out his muscled chest and began to threateningly raise his claws to strike. The scout knew he wasn't as strong as his skirmisher counterpart, so he would have to get out of the way somehow. A quick roll to the left, Gruphk thought, raking across his shin on the way. But that would make Gruphk be the one to draw first blood, and would make Gruphk be the one that Gai-Gohck's wrath would come down on. But as the smaller goblin saw the look in the skirmisher's eyes, he knew it was that or a humiliating defeat.
"Hey!" Came a call from the anxious goblin crowd. Smink pushed his way through the entranced scouts and skirmishers, knowing if he didn't break this up, one of them, or possibley both, would end up dead in the long run. "Hey!" came his burly voice again. Gruphk held back a sigh of relief as he saw his short friend come up to stop the fight. He too had thought about the concequences. If either of the two had disabled or killed the other, their leader would not let it go without sever punishment. "We can't rightly show ya or fight by yer side if you's a bunch o' dead corpses, now can we?" The shorter goblin joked as he put himself inbetween the two routy creatures. "Now, shutup and get ready fo' a walk." Smink continued when both the goblins lowered their claws. "Pink skins're seven big hills away."
Ang`Ull began thinking of the battle to come as he yelled at his underlings. "Skirmishers, berzerkers! On Smink! Move it!" It would be a shame if one of the two cocky scouts were to understand the danger they were trifling with... especially the tall one. Scenarios began playing themselves out in the skirmisher's mind, and his loss of pride would soon be regained.
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(Kay, here's the question: What kind of creature will the Heavy Feather Tribe leader be? Hint: "Wait, what does Sauroman have to do with this?")
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Well, that's the prologue. Hope you liked. Please review, saying anything that's on your mind. Note: These chapters will come in what will seem like rediculoulsly long intervals. Expect some more in October, maybe.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bethesda Softworks, or any of the Elder Scrolls franchises. If you can Google any of the subjects in my story, they aren't mine. But, my characters, names, and places that you can't find on UESPwiki are mine... except for Sauroman.