WARNING! CONTAINS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE!
This story contains detailed, vivid and brutal descriptions of extreme acts of violence. If you are impervious to descriptive scenes of such crooked acts of dismemberment, evisceration, decapitation, incineration, general bleeding, reference to rape and living people having their bodies being torn in half (amongst other things) then by all means, read on! If any of the acts listed above upset or may upset you, then please click the back button now, because this story really isn't for you. If you decide to ignore my advice and read on anyway, there's nothing I can do about that except say that I gave you the chance to turn back and that YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!
The planes of Whiterun rolled golden-green over the landscape, meeting roads and rivers, playing host to the life of plants, animals, man and mer alike.
The planes met the mountains, cold stone that climbed on jagged edges and snowy peaks.
The mountains too caressed the sky and the clouds, and from the clouds the snow fell, dancing its way downward as it returned to the earth, spiralling white flakes that left a trail of wonder and beauty in their wake.
The snow landed on the mountain top, where ancient tombs are built. The summit is graced by the snow, but defiled by its inhabitants. It is here where Bleak Falls Barrow rests.
A tribe of bandits sit around fires. Some drink, some sharpen their weapons, some laugh, and some do all three. The sound of the wind is mingled with the murmur of three dozen men, mer and beasts. They talk of what it is they speak, of their desires, wishes cruel and kind, tales of malice, love and greed.
Above them sits a throne, and on that throne an Argonian rests lazily, his feet up on a chest overflowing with gold, gemstones and jewellery.
At his side, on a stool, sits an Orc, who rests his hand on a vicious battle axe, said to have once belonged to the Daedric prince Clavicus Vile, and also said to be the reason the Orc had lost an ear and an eye on the left side of his face; as it is with Vile's cruel sense of humour.
The Argonian wore fur leggings and a fur cloak. He wore no shirt, exposing his scaled and muscled chest. His hands were covered by iron gauntlets, as his feet were covered by iron boots. He surveyed his little garrison with burning orange eyes, and his lips twisted into an amused smirk, revealing the fangs that they usually hid. Unconsciously, he toyed with a golden ring adorned with a blood-red crystal at its centre, and felt the flow of power that came from the object.
He looked across to his lieutenant, who caught his eye and nodded, a smile touching his scarred face. At this moment, and many others in the past, the Argonian knew he had a trusted friend and ally.
A call came from up ahead that caught the Argonian's attention.
It was the lookout, signalling the return of the hunting party.
Down below a half-dozen men rounded a rocky outcrop, deers and hares strung up on their backs and belts.
The Argonian rose to meet them as they climbed the steps, and two men rushed to help their comrades with their burden.
The Argonian addressed the leader of the hunting party.
"How many?"
"Two deer and a dozen or so hares," the leader - a Nord with dark red hair and hazel eyes - replied. "We'll be eating well tonight."
The Argonian nodded. "Good to hear." He cast a quizzical eye over the rest of the party. "Two of you are missing."
It wasn't a question, rather a statement. The Nord nodded.
"Yes, Chief," he said simply. "One of the recruits deserted. Emrik gave chase. He should return shortly."
The Argonian nodded. "I see." He made his way to the chest and rummaged through its contents, counting out a number of gold pieces.
"Thank you, men, for feeding us tonight," he said, shaking each of the hunting parties hands and offering them the gold.
The thanks was chorused by the rest of the bandits.
The Nord bowed. "It is an honour, Chief."
The Argonian singled out eight people to act as the hunting party for the following day, a duty which they accepted with good levels of enthusiasm.
He took his seat at the throne again and relaxed.
"It's some kingdom you've built here," the Orc at his side grunted.
The Argonian chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is."
A Bosmer approached the Argonian and offered him a chalice of deer blood. The Argonian thanked the woman and drank the blood. With each sip his thirst was slightly quenched, and the animal savagery that had begun to build within him subsided.
Animal blood tasted somehow muskier than that of a man or mer, but he had vowed to never feed off his own. Besides, a victim would present themselves eventually. Especially if Emrik caught the deserter...
"Shouldn't Emrik be back by now?" The Argonian asked.
"I wouldn't worry," the Orc grunted again. "He knows what his doing. Probably making sure he catches the deserter without a hitch. If the deserter made it to Whiterun, Emrik will just be extra careful. But he will return."
The Argonian nodded, trusting in his friends good judgement.
"It's cold," the Orc said after some moments.
"It is," the Argonian nodded.
"Why not take shelter inside?"
"I've told you," the Argonian said patiently. "That is where the dead sleep, and it is in there where they shall remain."
"There's loot in that crypt. The dead aren't using it. Why not relieve them of it?"
"We sent our best stalkers in to take what they could find. One of them didn't return. I'd rather not risk the lives of my men against the likes of the draugr."
The Orc nodded, understanding the decision as fair judgement.
"One question," he said.
"By all means."
"What do we do if more bandits turn up? We can hardly fit the number we have here already."
The Argonian sighed, recognising the truth of the situation. In all honesty, it had been plaguing his thoughts for many days.
"I will think of something," he said at length. "Don't worry."
The Orc shrugged. "I'm not worried. I don't have to sleep down there."
The two chuckled.
The Orc raised his goblet in a quiet toast.
"To our kingdom," he said.
The Argonian touched his goblet to his friends and the two drank.
"To our kingdom."