Hello everyone, Vic here again. Now, I understand that this chapter still took quite awhile to upload and for that, I am sorry. However, I believe this chapter is both better and worse than my original. It is simply different and its focus is in other places. I'll be taken the first chapter, the AN, down shortly. I'll do a smaller AN at the beginning of every chapter to address anything from the last chapter. I'll do my best to update this quickly but I can make no promises. I would appreciate it if you could let me know how you feel about the new chapter, leave me a review, whatever. I'm still new to this writing with predetermined rules thing and I need to make sure I am staying in character. Feel free to criticize me, no rage rants though; at least be constructive about it. Well, I think that's all I have for right now. I hope you enjoy the new chapter, cheers!
Disclaimer: I'm only putting this once. I do not own anything you may see in this fic. All rights of TES universe go to Bethesda. Several ideas in here have inspiration from other sources, I'm trying not to copy and paste their ideas but adapt them.
On Oblivion
Zhak gro-Nurzhuk inhaled deeply. All around him was the symphony known as battle and every part played its piece. As the Orc's massive chest heaved, an arrow as black as night whizzed past his brow, deflected by his magical shielding. The Orc roared and retaliated by hurling a sheer wall of flame in the direction of the missile. His harmonic moment ruined, the Orc turned to the two hundred heavily armed calvarymer at his back. These mer were from the vaulted Second Battalion, a near legendary Orcish military power. Their reputation said that these men had went hand to hand with the small army of Azani Blackheart, the infamous bandit warlord of Cyrodiil, and won. These brave Orcs had singlehandedly decimated much of this Daedric invasion of Orsinium.
It was to these Orcs Zhak owed his life, just as they owed him theirs. They were a unit together and they got their job done with brutal efficiency. This efficiency had earned them the nickname "Gortwog's Devils." Zhak knew that this job that His Majesty asked of them this day would ruin his battalion forever. He knew that this job was the biggest job he would ever perform in his life. He knew, also, that many of his Orcs would die on this day. With this sobering thought in mind, Zhak raised his gauntleted fist to the sky. His warriors, each clad in the dark grey of Orcish steel, raised their assortment of weapons and roared with a bloodthirsty fury only capable of the truly mad. He opened his fist and the roaring died down instantly.
"Orcs of Orsinium! Today, we are faced with a task so great, the very fate of Orsinium may depend on it." The mounted Orc was standing in his stirrups, his magical wards increased behind him as he channeled his voice with magic as well. "A task so great that I cannot ask it of you in good conscious. A task so great that even I fear for our success. This task of ours is arduous in the extreme and no mer will look down at you if you wish to refuse. However, for those of you who accept, great glory lies in wait! This task, my brothers, is to stop this invasion once and for all!" the assembled Orcs roared again before Zhak could quell them. "All of you have fought on the desolate soil of Dagon's hell and all of you have emerged victorious. But today, Dagon brings himself to the threshold of Orsinium, to destroy it! Will we let him?!" The Orcs roared again as Zhak raised his own weapon. Almost as if it were scripted, a great rumbling took place behind the Orc.
On the temporarily forgotten battlefield, three gates stood with fire bellowing from their maws. These gates were occasionally spewing forth squads of all sorts of Daedra. These Daedra were rushing to meet an army of Orcs in a small valley marred by war already. Corpses of both mortal and immortals littered the field already and the battle had only just reached its climax. Gortwog's backup plan was proven as wise as it was unfortunate: To keep his best squads of Orcs in reserve to deal with the threat of a Great Gate. And now, from the center of the three already existing gates rose the obsidian form of a colossal gate, easily three times the size of the others. A flare of fire struck itself and hundreds of Daedra poured out as Zhak bellowed again, time resuming itself normally.
"We are proud Orcs!" he shouted over the noise of the still forming gate, or the rocks still falling from the newly formed gate as you will. "We will kick these Daedric bastards in the teeth and send them home empty handed! We ride for that Great Gate, men, and we ride as apocalyptic warriors! CHARGE!" With that last shouted order, the two hundred heavy Orcish cavalry troops spurred their mounts to war.
The typical Orcish battle raiment consisted of a triple layered armor set up. The first layer was the comfort clothes, cotton or furs usually but sometimes other materials were used. The second layer was boiled leathers to prevent the armor from ruining the first layer. The second layer also doubled as a second protection zone, providing one more barrier between the attacker and the wearer's body. The final layer was the fearsome Orcish armor. A dark gray by nature, Orcish steel was considered to be very durable and Orcish smiths were some of the best at the craft. A single plate of well-made Orcish armor would stop any and all lesser attacks, a full suit was a nightmare to attempt to penetrate. This same set up was also applied to the horses, making the steeds nearly as deadly as their riders. The horses themselves were already fearsome beasts, bred for strength and grit, and the armor simply made them devilish. Orcish cavalry also tended to carry heavy blades as big as a lesser man, or perhaps a solid poleaxe for a brutal punch.
All of these thoughts flashed through Zhak's mind in the seconds it took him to reach the battlefield, his armored hands clenching around the heavy poleaxe he carried. Zhak was actually capable of efficiently using the weapon with just one hand, such was the Orc Captain's strength. Zhak readied himself just as his armored mount crashed into the Daedric flank from the left. His horse lurched as its chest met the otherworldly steel of a Dremora's shield. Rearing, it struck its foot through the bare head of the foolish warrior and lashed forward. Zhak swung himself in the saddle and delivered a crushing blow to an unfortunate Daedroth, catching the poor creature in the side as it ran past. Zhak noticed with no small amount of satisfaction that the Daedra tumbled its way through the ranks, clearing a sort of line for the cavalry.
Swinging himself to the other side in time to catch a scamp in midair, the Orc noticed the wedge of cavalry opening up the Daedric horde. He swung his poleaxe down the other side before a Dremora slashed his horse. He was forced to grip the reins tightly as the animal spun around on its own, the horse being trained in several battle tactics for its own use, and smashed its hooves into the chest of a clanfear. Black blood splattered on the dry ground as the clanfear had its chest caved in before it smashed aside several lesser Daedra. The Orc saw a Dremora mage prepare to fling a spell at the recovering animal. As the fireball raced forward, the Orc simply reached out and flicked it with his finger, sending the ball of flames back at its caster. A savage snarl appeared on his face, accessible through the lower open faced portion of his helmet. This was the rush of battle that all Orcs lived for.
Zhak and his warriors destroyed the Daedra that dared step in front of them in a quick and merciless fashion. They were fast and precise as to avoid wasting energy for their battle had only just begun. As the warriors cleared the last Daedric lines, they steeled themselves to storm Dagon's realm. It came as quite a surprise then when several columns of Dremora marched out alongside a large number of Daedroth. Caught by surprise, both groups failed to react coherently for several moments. The Orcs' horses heeled themselves in surprise, an action the Daedroth made them suffer for. Rushing forward, the crocodile headed Daedra leapt towards the nearest Orc they could fins, bearing several riders to the ground.
Zhak himself was the closest to the gate and felt the wrath of two Daedroth bear him down. His horse was killed almost before it hit the ground, the two Daedra ripping its throat out in two different places. Zhak's leg was pinned beneath the beast as it kicked in its death struggles, the poleaxe lay far outside of his reach. One of the Daedroth tried to take his head off but the captain gripped both jaws before they even came close to touching his skin. With the scent of rotted meat assaulting his nose and eyes, Zhak sent a searing blast of flame from his palms, disintegrating the Daedroth's head. The other beast learned from its comrade's mistake and tried a more cautious approach. His efforts awarded him a fiery spear in the gut.
Zhak pushed the dead beast off of him as the Dremora finally drew level with his men. He saw the Daedra reach for bows off their backs, his own men being far too concerned with the Daedroth trying to tear their throats out. Snarling in annoyance, the Orc blasted the entire company of Daedra with a bolt of chain lightning, frying them all before they got a shot off. His Orcs dispatched the remaining beasts with ease and regrouped at the gate. Zhak motioned for them to proceed and then stepped through the burning hell.
Staggering out of the gate came all of the warriors. No matter how many times they stepped through a gate, the sensation of burning alive was always an unnerving one. Zhak took a few steps to steady himself, the sulfur stench invading his nostrils. He quickly scanned their immediate surroundings and noticed, with a slight sense of relief, that there were no Daedra in sight. He waved his hand for his troops to spread out and move out. The sooner they found the Sigil Stone the better.
After almost ten minutes of looking around and after having put down several lesser Daedra, one of Zhak's sharp eyed comrades spotted the obsidian tower pulsating the strange magicka. Their path would lead them through a long bridge over a vast pool of lava but other than that would be unheeded. Zhak grit his teeth, easily spotting the trap but knowing there was no other way forward. His men and he made good time for the bridge, conversation nonexistent in this hellish world of fire and death.
Zhak's first actions were to scan the bridge with both his eyes and his magic. There were no magical traps set on this bridge and he could see no places where it was weak nor places where it would crumble. Not liking the order he was forced to give, he began to move across. His first thought was how screwed they were once they were midway; so many death dealing options could await him. He and his mer were definitely not dropping their guards.
It came as a pleasant surprise when his boot touched the ash on the other side unmolested. He breathed a small sigh of relief as the rest of his battalion also came across. All except Yorag. The last Orc off of the bridge was swiftly shot down by a Daedric arrow as Zhak watched in shock. The kid was barely through his seventeenth winter, Zhak even knew his mother personally for several years. Yet, in that moment, Zhak knew Yorag was simply the first. They had carelessly dropped their guard for a single second and the Daedra had pounced.
Dremora archers stood on some cliffs some ways past the bridge, bows taut as they released a storm of arrows into the black sky. Daedroth and clanfear rushed at the Orcs, saliva running freely from the gaping maws. Zhak even made out a few Dremora mages amongst the crowd, swearing he caught a glimpse of a massive Xivilai storming through the ashen dust storm being kicked up from under the approaching horde. Zhak bared his fangs, as he was certain his two hundred warriors did also, and roared a wordless battlecry.
Like something from a children's nightmare story, the black and flaming arrows rained down upon his men. Though there may only have been a few dozen archers, Zhak felt sure they were firing multiple arrows and possibly using enchanted bows. Regardless, the rain of arrows crashed down amongst his mer. Several hid beneath shields, praying that they would be unhurt. A few more, Zhak included, raised magical shields to turn the arrows aside. And one gallant battlemage sacrificed himself under the withering storm to cast one final spell. Being free from the mortal constraints of limited magic because of his imminent death regardless, the Orc mustered every ounce of strength he could into a solid beam of lightning. This beam cut clean through the archer's cliff before detonating in a shower of lightning filaments that killed every archer as they fell. Zhak bared his teeth once more at his comrade's suicide, vowing to avenge him in this battle.
His rage was not enough to blind him however and he picked up on the clanfear rapidly bearing down on him. He took a few steps forward before planting his left foot. Using all of the strength of his massive and heavily muscular body, Zhak swung the poleaxe with such force that, with only the haft hitting the Daedra, the impact shattered the bones in the immediate vicinity. The unlucky clanfear howled as it was rocketed backwards, slamming several creatures aside in its death trail. The black, acidic blood sprayed everywhere and added to Zhak's aggressive offensive against these hellish beings.
Like a freak of nature or perhaps a monster of battle, Zhak and the heavy poleaxe shattered the initial Daedric front. Zhak himself was a blur, his body always in motion, and the axe always in a position to strike. He ducked under the swing of a Daedric warhammer and slammed the jagged butt of his poleaxe into the Dremora's gut. As the Daedra staggered, Zhak decapitated it with a spinning swing. Before he even finished spinning, his fist had launched out and smashed a scamp's head in. The axe came round again, slicing through a running Daedroth's hide, before it finally met a firm stopping point. Zhak felt the jolt in his arm as his attack was neither finished nor blocked but actually caught.
He glanced to his right to see the Xivilai form the opening moments of the battle. The burning eyes of the loincloth clad mass of muscle locking onto the ghostly blue of the similar sized Orc. Zhak knew that this foe would be the strongest on the field and that, likewise, the Xivilai recognized his power. This Daedra had hunted him out to do battle in single combat. Both combatants understood this from a simple glance; the Xivilai nodded and released the poleaxe as both warriors took up their own combat stances, the other combatants pausing for a moment to comprehend the situation before attempting to take their own fights away from this clash.
Zhak stood firm yet balanced, his weight was wasn't on his toes or his heels. He was poised for any type of move he may have to make for this first strike, the long poleaxe brushing his shoulder as he tightened his grip. The Xivilai stood in quite a similar fashion. Even footed and carrying a battleaxe by his side in only one hand. The four foot long weapon seemed more of a simple axe in the giant Daedra's hand. Once both fighters were ready, they each gave a nod.
The Daedra made the first move: a simple and safe opening strike by swinging his axe off his side at the Orc's head. Zhak was ready and easily put the steel of his own axe in the way. As the Daedric metal bounced, Zhak pulled with his offhand and forced the axe head to spin, almost catching the Daedra in the arm. But this Xivilai was talented and easily backstepped away from danger. His other hand came round for a haymaker that the Orc dodged, a green leg coming around for a sweep kick.
It was here that the Daedra first surprised the Orc. In an impressive display of acrobatics, the grey skinned humanoid flipped himself in mid punch over Zhak's leg. Furthermore, while he was airborne, he swung the axe back around for a massive, two-handed sweep. The Orc barely parried the blow and was forced back. When he had recovered, the Xivilai was waiting for him to regain himself with a cocky smirk on his face.
Zhak rushed in this time, his poleaxe coming around for a mighty overhead slash. The Xivilai nimbly sidestepped and pushed the blade away with his free hand. Zhak expected this though and used the momentum to bring the axe around for another, rapid slash. Blood leaked from a shallow gash in the Daedra's chest, a scratch which enraged the Xivilai. The battleaxe whipped up and around in a flash, almost taking Zhak in the head if not for his timely duck. Using the middle piece of his weapon, the Orc punched the Daedra in the face and sent it reeling. A quick slice to the leg almost won the match but the grey skinned foe stepped over it by accident it seemed!
It bellowed a challenge and smashed the axe down. Zhak had leapt clear of the axe but failed to notice the magical aura of the attack. The subsequent blast of wind shot the Orc across the field, slamming him into the side of the crumbled cliffs that had been all but destroyed earlier. Upon impact, some rocks crumbled down on top of the Orcish warrior. The Xivilai walked slowly across the field, kicking the Orc's fallen poleaxe away. As it neared the pile of fallen rock, it spoke.
"Mortal." It said in an inhumanely deep voice, one that also snapped like the crackle of a fire on some of its syllables. "You fight well and brave. It has been several centuries since I have faced one such as you and I look forward to rending the flesh from your bones. Let it be known here that I am Chekra, of the Flying Axe. Will you provide me the honor of knowing my opponent?"
The rocks shifted during the speech, a dark green/gray gauntlet lashing out. Zhak, his armor scuffed but mostly unharmed, pulled himself from the rubble. He dusted himself off before meeting the Xivilai's eye.
"Chekra, of the Flying Axe, I am Zhak gro-Nurzhuk, Orcish Captain of the Second Battalion and proud leader of 'Gortwog's Devils.' Know that you will be slain here on my blade in honor and look forward to the time when you retell of your defeat." The Orc's strong words stirred the Daedra but Chekra made no move of ill intention. Zhak reached over his shoulder, the forgotten handle feeling at home in his grip. With a slight flourish, he yanked the ancient Ayleid blade off of his back.
Sinweaver, an ancient Ayleid greatsword of such power that even the Ayleids locked it away. It was the Orc's most prized possession for it had been the only thing he had taken from the entire camp of the bandit warlord, Azani Blackheart. Though intended for use as a greatsword, the massive Orc was capable of wielding the four foot blade like a normal sword. A smoky, black aura radiated off the burnished silver of the blade, a sinister vibe engrained into the blade since its birth. Chekra did not miss this aura nor the powerful air it gave the Orc.
A snarl of battle crossed the grey skin of the Daedra's face and it gripped the battleaxe tighter. Zhak placed Sinweaver in front of him, the smoky aura flowing from the motion. Neither combatant moved, only stared at each other. And then, Chekra made his first mistake of the battle.
The Xivalai flung the battleaxe out straight, hoping the head would force the Orc back. Zhak leaned his body to one side and watched the axe scrape across his Orcish plates. With a ferocity not yet shown on this battlefield, the Orc swung Sinweaver into the grey arm so fast the Xivalai didn't notice the blow till his limb fell to the ground, severed from the elbow down. A cry of pain was issued as Chekra took several steps backwards, the wound smoking with the same sinister vibe as the blade.
Zhak pressed his advantage with a series of rapid slashes. Chekra, off balance by the missing arm, barely avoided or blocked each one. Zhak threw a fist out and smote the Daedra on the injured arm's shoulder, forcing the Daedra to twist his body. A shallow cut to the leg saw the massive being drop to the ground. The Xivalai could feel the two wounds burning slowly but not from fire. He couldn't place any weight on his leg either, despite the cut being quite shallow.
"What trickery is this?" the Daedra spit out. Zhak approached the fallen warrior, noting that his own forces had defeated most of the remaining Daedra.
"It's no trick." The Orc held up the sword. "Sinweaver is an ancient blade with an ancient enchantment. Unique in the fact that it judges one based off of their sin. And the best part, sin depends on the owner's point of view. For instance," he dropped to his knees, the smoking Xivalai grunting periodically in pain. "You killed some of my men. I take that as a personal offense, a sin against me. So my blade simply branded you for your sin. The pain you're feeling right now is your very atoms being slowly oxidized and destroyed from the inside out. Be thankful you only killed a few of my men. I have struck people with this blade that disintegrated on impact. You were doomed from the first strike." The Orc stood tall again. "You were a good opponent, and you have earned a good death. Not to die by this blade's curse. Know, Chekra, that you lost to a superior enemy." And with that, Zhak brought the blade down to end this fight.
He gathered what was left of his men and they pressed on. There would be time for mourning later, for now they had to close this gate. As they approached the obsidian tower, they took note of a small gathering of Dremora by its entrance. Zhak readied Sinweaver once more to taste the blood of demons. That was, until he noticed the curled horns of one Dremora, a Valkynaz the most powerful of all Daedric underlings.
Zhak rushed into action, bee lining himself for this Valkynaz, who responded similarly with his own greatsword raised in challenge. The two met as the other combatants did, both sides slamming into shields like a tidal wave of flesh. Zhak dropped his shoulder and caught the Valkynaz in the opening hit of their battle. The Dremora rolled with the blow and sprang back to its feet just in time to slash open the throat of a foolish Orc who stumbled into it. The Daedra roared as it leapt at Zhak, hot blood flying from its sword. Zhak parried the blade and butted his shoulder into the Dremora once more.
The Valkynaz was prepared this time and spun itself in midleap as the shoulder connected. It dragged its serrated blade along an opening in the Orcish armor, a gap between plates on the ribs that led way to soft flesh. Zhak gritted his fangs as he swung his blade around. The Valkynaz used its horn to catch the blade and fling it back, leaving Zhak open for another slice across the chestplate. The Daedric steel tore through the metal with slight resistance. The message was clear: the Daedra could have swiped the neck and killed Zhak but hoped for a better fight from the giant Orc.
Zhak slammed his fist into the side of the horned helmet, lurching the Daedra to the left and hacking at his main sword arm. The cursed sword dented the armor but failed to punch through. The Dremora lashed its leg at the Orc's knee, sending the warrior down. Zhak grunted in pain as he felt his knee snap but parried the Daedric blade. He forced himself to tackle the Dremora to the ground, where his bigger body would prove to be more dominant. The Valkynaz, to its credit, fended off the Orc's attempts at breaking its face in admirably. The Orc finally connected with one solid shot that shattered the face plate.
The Dremora blasted Zhak off of him with magic, now enraged and uncaring about the morals of honorable combat. He flung spell after spell at the Orc, seeking an end to this pest. Zhak cowered behind his magical shield under this onslaught and waited for the moment he knew would come. He subtly buffed his speed with a finely focused Alteration spell. At last, his opening came as the Daedra charged a stronger spell in an attempt to break the Orc's defense.
As if seeing things in slow motion, not an unlikely thing given the amount of adrenaline running through Zhak's body, the Orc dropped the shield just as the fireball spell was cast. The Orc took several steps forward before the spell came near. Zhak threw his weight to the side, narrowly avoiding the flames and watching the look of shock overtake the Daedra's face. The silvery blade of Sinweaver rended through the gut of the warrior, ending the furiously paced battle. The Daedra choked out some gibberish words as, in its final moments, its eyes slid shut. Zhak pushed the body off of his cursed blade with an armored boot.
In that moment, Zhak knew that they had won. His men and he had defeated the Daedra on their own home turf. He felt a swelling of pride in his chest as he turned to survey the battlefield. The body of the Valkynaz was smoking but not on fire, a horrible blackness creeping over his body like some form of malicious rot. Zhak never saw the downed Dremora to his left knock an arrow. He barely heard the twang of the bowstring and immediately dropped himself to the ground. It was a well-practiced move, he dropped his shoulders down as he rolled his body to one side. This move had saved his life several times before. It failed him this time.
The massive Orc hit the ground far harder than he had intended. The Daedric steel tipped arrow had easily punched through his Orcish plate. The arrowhead had buried itself deep into his side, rupturing his right lung. He saw from the corner of his eye as his men beheaded the wounded Daedra but it brought him no joy. As they kneeled beside him, he knew his fate was sealed for they had no potions left and no healers either.
Fighting off the symptoms of his encroaching death, the Orc raised his hand. One of his men clasped it with his own and squeezed tightly. The Orc spat out a globule of blood before flashing a bloody grin. "Go." He told them. "Go and end this wretched war. Our mission is done, my fight ends here. Let me watch as our people triumph once again while I die here, on this Daedric battlefield. Go, my brothers, and let my death not be in vain."
The Orcs stood shakily to their feet. Many were red in the eyes, an unusual thing for a people as hardy as Orcs but this was a special occasion. These men loved Zhak, their leader was fearless and brave, a great commander. Yet, they knew their duty to their people and with that in mind, they wiped their eyes, replaced their helmets, and stormed up the obsidian steps with a fury to match Hircine's hunting grounds. The Daedra stood no chance as the powerful Orcs, enraged at the loss of their leader, threw caution to the wind and used their Berserker's Rage to ensure these demons would pay.
And as Zhak watched the last of his men leave, he had but one thought running through his brain. One single thing that haunted him like no other. As he lay there, all he could think of was his lover back home. She would miss him of course, but he felt confident that she would find a new mate soon enough. Especially seeing as how they had no children. Another thought to add guilt to his dying thoughts: his bloodline ended here. He would be immortalized in Orcish history books for sure but his family ended here today.
As the sickly orange light suddenly waned, his attention was piqued. His thoughts coalesced themselves into a fury as the light suddenly began to shine far brighter than it was ever intended to shine. He would die here, he kept thinking, alone and on foreign soil. He would miss the parades in his honor, he would miss the last respects of the other brave men who had died here today. The light became erratic, pulsing and thrashing about like a living flame. He had never gotten to say just how much he loved her, never gotten to say a proper goodbye to his father. Even with all of their problems, he was still his father and deserved a proper goodbye, much like his lover. As his vision faded, he closed his eyes. The last thing he saw was the pillar of burning light exploding inside of the tower and rushing across the land. He felt the intense heat sear his mortal body, relieving him of several aches he had not even known he had. His final thought crossed his mind: We won, but at what price.
The Orc's consciousness deteriorated quick rapidly after that. His thoughts quickly became incoherent and random. Being dead was an unusual circumstance and trying to label it with one word was impossible. He had expected death to be colder than this. He actually felt quite warm, as if he was floating on some fiery sea. Floating was a good word to describe it for he felt himself bobbing on some unfamiliar surface. As his thoughts spiraled out of control and his memories became distant, he thought he heard words of laughter. Though he could barely hear them, he understood their meaning.
"And so it begins."