A/N: Well, here's the next bit. More reviews would help, though thanks to Arty Thrip for becoming a semi-regular reviewer. Yes, there WILL be a lot of detail, not only on the Main Quest, but also a bit of the Arena and another Guild. Anyhow, read on.
Chapter Four: Blood and Iron
The sunlight felt good on Gorgoth's rough skin as he crunched his way down the shingle to the water's edge. The deep blue reflection of the sky gave way to sparkling, clear water that was attractive to an Orc who'd just fought a near-continuous battle after hours without slaking his thirst. Gorgoth knelt and splashed his head under, drinking without restraint. A few mudcrabs skittered away from the giant intruder. After a few more seconds, the warrior-shaman straightened, water dripping from his pair of sodden black braids, which - uncut since childhood - hung to his waist. He stood and surveyed his surroundings.
The early afternoon sun was high overhead in a sky nearly free of clouds. It beat down on Gorgoth, warming his skin, drying his face. Across Lake Rumare, a ruin stood, shattered. Its once-proud architecture was now lying in ruins, the white stone reflecting the sunlight, sometimes in all the colours of the rainbow. The Orc admired it for a few seconds, then disregarded it. If he was going to get to Chorrol, then he needed proper clothes, food, and preferably a weapon and armour not dependant on magicka. It wasn't likely that he'd find any of those in a ruin.
Gorgoth turned around. Above him, about half a mile away, stood the bleak grey walls of the Imperial Prison. Beyond that, White Gold Tower rose into the sky, a mighty spear thrusting at the heavens. The Orc started trudging up the hill. Walking past the prison and into the city would be suicide; he'd have to hike the way round to the enormous front gate of the city. Gorgoth set off at a jog.
Just because the Imperial City was located on the island didn't mean it couldn't provide a home for some hostile wildlife. Gorgoth had to fireball a couple of hungry wolves, then bash an imp's head in. He could tell that the populace didn't come to this section of the island often; better to stay behind their safe walls than risk the aggressive local fauna. Good for alchemists who didn't want to be disturbed, but otherwise largely ignored. This made it easy for Gorgoth, potentially a wanted mer as an escaped prisoner, to go easily unnoticed as he passed within a quarter of a mile of the Imperial Prison.
The bridge across Lake Rumare was both vast and impressive. However, the approaching Orc didn't have time to ponder over Imperial stonework; his attention had turned to the equally massive gates to the city, which were open. The road down to the bridge wasn't crowded or packed by any means, but there was still a constant flow of traffic that was fairly large in volume. The Imperial City was the centre of Imperial power, and that made it an important hub.
This traffic made it possible for Gorgoth to slip in unnoticed by the gate guards. In his prison rags, alone, he would have attracted unwanted attention. He was unsure if his description had been passed along yet, or if the Blades had cleared up any problems. Either way, Gorgoth wasn't about to take unnecessary risks. Keeping a low profile was a priority until he could get something approaching normal clothes. He didn't want to have to explain why a seven-foot Orc in prison rags was walking around the Imperial city with the Amulet of Kings in his pocket.
The Market District was his first priority. However, having never been to Cyrodiil, let alone the Imperial City before, all Gorgoth could do, apart from ask directions, was follow the wagons full of goods, in the hope that they were going to the Market District. It was logical that they would go to the markets to sell or offload their wares.
In this case, Gorgoth's normally undeniable logic failed him. Instead of ending up in a market full of people from every walk of life buying and selling, he instead found himself standing in front of the Imperial Arena, with gladiators practising all around him. The wagon he'd followed had been delivering supplies to the hungry gladiators. Apparently, fighting for one's life to appease a baying crowd was hungry work. Gorgoth was now completely lost.
He was about to turn round to try to get a bearing when a Bosmer standing by a huge iron chest spoke up. "Hello, good sir," he chirped, in that annoying voice that Wood Elves seemed to perfect before they could even speak. "Will you be betting on a match?"
Gorgoth looked at him – merely looked – and the short mer shrank back. The two burly guards hefted their cudgels and attempted to look menacing. "OK, I take it you want to join in, then?" squeaked the Bosmer. He held out a trembling finger, pointing to a large door opposite the entrance to the stands. "The bloodworks are down there. Talk to Owyn, the Blademaster." The Bosmer had now pressed himself back against the stone wall. Perhaps there was something innately intimidating about a huge Orc. Gorgoth didn't get this kind of reaction in Orsinium, unless he actively tried to accomplish something of the sort.
Gorgoth moved to turn around; he had no intention of putting his life on the line for sport when he had an amulet to deliver. However, a thought struck him; he had no money, and no easy means of building up any from scratch. Fighting in the Arena could possibly pay for clothes and a weapon. He might even be able to grab a bedroll on the bloodworks floor, if that was possible. Gorgoth sighed and kicked open the door. It swung shut behind him as he stepped into chaos.
The first thing that hit Gorgoth was the smell; the stench of blood slammed into his nostrils. Gorgoth was used to and not bothered by blood, but it seemed as though blood had become ingrained into every possible part of the bloodworks. He could now see how it got its name. Underneath the blood was sweat; the cramped space was full of gladiators swinging relentlessly at training dummies; to move across the room, Gorgoth had to dodge sharply several times, one near miss almost severing his left braid.
An Imperial, not looking where he was going, walked straight into Gorgoth's chest. He looked up at the Orc with an expression of fury that dwindled away to shock. Murmuring something unintelligible, he attempted to move past, but Gorgoth grabbed his shoulder.
"Where's Owyn?" growled the massive Orc. He wasn't prepared to wander around looking for the Blademaster and have his head chopped off by a stray sword.
The Imperial nodded in the direction of a grizzled Redguard, then twisted his way out of Gorgoth's grip. The Orc strode over to the indicated Redguard, who looked away from watching the gladiators practising to look over this new arrival.
"What do you want?" he spat, having taken a total of about three seconds to look Gorgoth up and down and classify him as a potential combatant. "If you're here to fight, say so and stop wasting my bloody time. It's precious enough as it is."
Gorgoth didn't point out that the Redguard seemed to spend most of his time standing around doing nothing but glare at the training gladiators; this wasn't the time for a confrontation. "I'm here to fight," he grunted. "How much do I get per match?"
"For a Pit Dog like you, fifty drakes if you win." Owyn spat again, his saliva mixing with the blood on the floor but not diluting it in any way. "I'm sure your thick skull would burst under pressure if I filled you in on everything." The irate Redguard folded his arms and leaned against the doorpost. "You wear a raiment at all times in the Arena. You fight for the Blue team against the Yellow team. You can't loot, and you only leave when the opponent dies. Got it?" Owyn barely waiting for Gorgoth's nod before indicating a row of large cabinets against the near wall. "Good. Get a raiment from a cabinet over there. Should be one near enough your size. Make sure it's blue."
Upon ripping the cabinet doors open, Gorgoth discovered a series of raiments, both light and heavy, that offered more protection than his rags, but not by much. Grunting in disgust at the poor quality of the armourers who had made these pieces of crap, Gorgoth pulled out the biggest, heaviest blue raiment he could find and tried it on. A bit tight across the chest, but any armour was better than no armour. Merely classing this as full-body armour was a farce; it offered no protection to the head, forearms, or most of the legs. Gorgoth worked his shoulders as he walked back over to Owyn, getting used to the armour.
"What are you staring at me for, you gormless mutt?" snarled the Redguard. "Get up that ramp and die well." He nodded towards a broad opening that led to a ramp, presumably leading to the sands of the Arena. He also didn't seem to care how Gorgoth had no visible weapon.
The Orc wasn't one to rely on his magic alone. In place of the conjured mace he'd been using, he plucked an iron mace from a weapon rack on the way to the blooded ramp. It was too short and rusty, but it was better than nothing. His other hand, he kept free. Other Orc warriors would use a shield, but Gorgoth preferred to have a hand ready to fling a spell. Using a shield in his off hand would limit his offensive magical options.
Owyn looked at the Orc as he walked steadily up the blood-soaked ramp, sure-footed, not slipping like the usual new recruits did. He was starting to change his opinion of the newest addition to the Arena. Normally, Orcs of his size mainly used their sheer strength in battle, but this one looked like he could use a good turn of speed, and keep his balance. The lack of a shield either indicated foolishness, foolish bravery, or the need to keep a hand free for magic use. Owyn decided not to dismiss this new Pit Dog out of hand just yet.
The Redguard felt a presence behind him and turned, to find a pale Orc looking past him at the Pit Dog. "Your opinion, Agronak?" he grunted. The reigning Grand Champion of the Arena was surprisingly good at judging potential.
"He's a good one. He's got huge strength, but he's fast, I can tell." Agronak gro-Malog's voice was deep and hearty, like most Orcs. The pale skin wasn't, and was part of his Imperial blood. Half-breed or not, there was no doubting his outstanding ability on the sands. The half-Orc was without doubt one of the best fighters to ever walk Nirn in the Third Era. This has predictably helped him see off all challengers with ease during his five-year reign.
"Didn't look like he had much on him. Could be just looking for a quick fifty drakes to spend on booze," snorted Owyn. "Either way, I'm interested." Without waiting for a response, the grizzled Redguard jogged through the Bloodworks to the access to the gladiator's stands, where gladiators could watch as their comrades did battle. He wasn't surprised to hear Agronak accompanying him.
Gorgoth had grown bored of the announcer's speech almost before it had begun. Poetic twaddle used to bring in the masses. Gorgoth snorted over such trivialities. He could see his opponent in the other team's barred area. A female Bosmer. Not much of a challenge by any means, but Gorgoth never underestimated anyone. It led to defeat. She was already gripping her longsword, and was clad in a light raiment, but Gorgoth couldn't see much more across the great distance that separated the two gladiator cages.
The sun was hot. His heavy raiment might cover little, and was no heavy weight on Gorgoth's broad shoulders, but it was still restrictive enough to make his pores clammy with sweat. He bounced the haft of his mace on the palm of his huge hand, contemptuous of its short length. But it would have to do. It was better than his bare fists, though he could kill easily enough with those, even without magic.
His left hand rose, and spells burst forth from his clenched fist, covering him with a glow that rapidly faded. Gorgoth always cast a small plethora of spells before battle. Shield spells to supplement his armour, spells that gave resistance to the elements, and spells that would attempt to absorb any magicka cast at him. He had been casting these spells for so long that they barely tapped into his large reserves of magicka. The Orc looked his opponent in the eye. He was ready.
Finally, the announcer finished his long, drawn-out, boring speech and the bars gave a protesting screech as they were lowered. The Bosmer dashed out across the sands at the same time that Gorgoth barrelled out from his own cage. She had less weight to pull, a lot less, but his legs were far longer and were used to carrying his immense bulk. The crowd's apprehension and lust for blood was almost tangible as the two warriors drew closer to each other, both running near enough flat out.
The Bosmer slowed and started swinging her sword as Gorgoth drew to within range. He didn't stop or even attempt to block, just adjusted his posture slightly and kept running. Before the Bosmer could complete her swing, or even comprehend what the warrior was doing, he had cannoned into her at full speed.
The massive impact took them both to the ground. The Bosmer screamed in agony as the huge Orc landed on top of her, the combination of his momentum and weight shattering several of her ribs and crushing her right arm. Her longsword dropped from her now-useless hand as she struggled vainly to get Gorgoth off her. He stood up and swung his mace in a high arc into her head. The blunt head penetrated her skull, forcing bone fragments and the crude iron mace head into her brain. Death was almost instant.
Gorgoth stood up amid the crowd roaring. The match had been far shorter than they had expected, but as most had bet on the huge Orc, most were happy. The announcer's voice broke out over the cheers and jeers as Gorgoth simply washed the assorted blood and brain fragments off his mace with magically conjured water, made by forming ice then melting it with fire. A very useful spell. The broken body of the Bosmer stared up at the sky with the never-ending glazed gaze of death. Despite her being forgotten by the announcer and the crowd already –no-one cared about a loser – Gorgoth knelt and closed her eyes before straightening and heading back to the bloodworks.
The warrior-shaman kept his balance easily on the blood-slicked ramp, idly wondering if anyone ever cleaned it. He walked around the basin in the centre of the small room leading to the bloodworks. He could feel the powerful magic in its waters, but had no need of it after not taking a scratch. Gorgoth marched over to Owyn, avoiding the occasional swing by over-exuberant gladiators.
"Too easy for a mammoth like you," growled the irate Redguard, tossing a small bag of coins to him. "Fifty drakes. Next time, you might actually have to work for it. Now get out of my sight." The Redguard spat, leaving Gorgoth wondering if he ever swallowed. The Orc turned on his heel and headed over to a less crowded area of the bloodworks. Sitting down on a tattered bedroll, he spilled out the gold coins into his palm and counted them. Fifty exactly. Grunting satisfactorily, Gorgoth refilled the bag and put it in his pocket. He looked up as another Orc sat down beside him.
This Orc was not only paler than any other Orc Gorgoth had ever seen, but he moved with the gait and posture of a master warrior. Gorgoth could instantly tell from his raiment that he was of importance in the Arena. Another odd thing was that the newcomer was smiling, and not a false smile. It was friendly, unlike the various other receptions Gorgoth had received in the bloodworks. The other thing that caught Gorgoth's trained eye was the Orc's weapon. It was a scimitar, made from finely crafted ebony. There were numerous scratches in the blade, indicating years of hard use. Gorgoth instantly felt respect for this warrior's ability, whoever he was.
"I'm Agronak gro-Malog, reigning Arena Grand Champion," greeted the Orc, offering his hand in greeting. Gorgoth shook it, interested that the Grand Champion would sit and talk with, as Owyn succinctly put it, a 'lowly Pit Dog'. Agronak continued: "I was watching your fight. You're not bad. A bit brutish, and crude, but I'm suspecting that was only because that Bosmer was simply no challenge for you."
Gorgoth nodded in agreement. "Comparable to infanticide, that was," he growled. "People actually pay to watch slaughter like that? I'd rather listen to bloody High Rock political intrigues all day." He turned to Agronak. "I will admit that I'm only in this for the money to buy armour and weapons. But I expected to have a greater challenge, to have to actually earn my winnings." Realising that he was doing Agronak a discourtesy by not giving his own name, he added: "I am Gorgoth gro-Kharz, from Orsinium."
Agronak grunted. "I've never been to Orsinium; I was born here in Cyrodiil," he muttered. "Been fighting most of my life. I'm only half-Orc, that's why I'm called the Grey Prince, partly." Agronak shook his head in disgust. "My father was a lord, I think, but I've never been able to prove it." The half-Orc's head snapped up. "But, you don't need to hear about me moaning about my birthright," he said, a small smile appearing on his face. "I'll talk to Owyn, see if he can get you a bigger challenge next match." Agronak surged to his feet, nodded in goodbye, and walked off in the direction of the named Redguard.
Gorgoth let his head fall back against the stone wall. Predictably, he felt dried blood crumble at the point of contact. Ignoring it, he pondered his options. Fifty drakes didn't get much in Orsinium, and it was likely the same story in the Imperial City. It looked like more boring battles for him, at least in the near future. He felt for the Amulet of Kings in his pocket and clenched his fist around it lightly, comforted slightly by its presence. With that in hand, he had a purpose.
The shaman rose to his feet and stomped over to Owyn, who was just seeing off a Khajiit up the ramp. The Redguard turned back to him. "Back for more, are you?" he asked, spitting yet again. "When that cat gets back, get up the ramp, and try to make it more exciting this time." Owyn turned and strode off. Gorgoth leant back against the wall and waited, idly tapping his mace against the wall, ignoring the crumbling of the dried blood. Looking down at the blunt weapon, he spotted some blood from the Bosmer still staining the iron mace head. He wiped it off.
Looking around for a better weapon, Gorgoth was disappointed. Racks lined the walls, but they held weapons that were all crudely made, mostly of low quality iron. The sooner he got his own weapon, the better. He spotted a warhammer that might have done as a weapon, but dismissed it. Too top-heavy for one-handed use. It might put him off balance. In addition to that, rust was creeping over the head of the weapon like a wasting disease, eroding the metal. Gorgoth snorted; properly maintained weapons, made of fine Orcish steel, wouldn't rust easily, if at all.
A Breton, staggering back after being hit by another gladiator when sparring, bumped into Gorgoth. The Orc shoved him away, not powerfully, but enough to make him stagger. The Breton turned, anger in his posture, but upon seeing Gorgoth, he appeared to think better of it and returned to his sparring. Gorgoth, if he had been more prone to openly displaying his emotions, would be smiling. He'd never had this effect in Orsinium.
While thinking up uses for his new-found intimidation ability, Gorgoth looked up as the Khajiit staggered back down the ramp and washed himself in the basin. Blue healing magic made a soft sound as the blood fell from his fur and his wounds closed. Gorgoth nodded in appreciation; powerful magic indeed. The water wasn't even bloodied. A growl from Owyn snapped him out of his thinking and sent him on his way up the ramp for the second time.
Gorgoth jogged up the ramp, still able to keep his balance. He could, however, see the problems it would cause for those less endowed with good balance and quick feet. The bloody handprints dried onto the dark wood of the door were a macabre touch, probably left there to unnerve the new Pit Dogs. He ignored them and pushed the door open.
Immediately, the sound of the Arena was amplified. It was ever-present in the bloodworks, but down there, it was heard as a muted hum. Here, Gorgoth could hear the full voice of the crowd resounding off the stone walls leading to the gladiator cage. He started off towards the sands of the arena, the hard-packed, cool sand grinding under his boots. His mace swung from his fist, the iron head audibly swishing through the air as he strode with confidence in his step.
The roaring of the crowd peaked as he stepped out into the sun. Overhead, the blazing ball of fire in the clear blue sky had barely moved since his last match; some of the audience clearly recognised him, screaming for a longer match this time. Gorgoth ignored them; he was here for money, not for their appeasement. While there was no honourable reason for killing for the sake of entertainment, the Orc justified it by convincing himself he needed money for armour and supplies to complete his Emperor-given quest.
At last, the announcer finished. As the bars finished shrieking their way into the soft sand, Gorgoth cast his standard pre-battle spells and walked quickly out onto the sands. The crowd increased their volume as his opponent, an Imperial in a heavy raiment, charged out to do battle to the death. Gorgoth raised his mace, bent his knees, and fell naturally into the combat stance that he had used for over a decade.
The Imperial came to him. His longsword flashed in the sunlight, either an attempt to blind the Orc or a simple trace of luck, but the result was the same; Gorgoth didn't blink, as many a lesser warrior would, and so his vision remained clear. In an instant, the Imperial was within range and was stabbing. Gorgoth swung his mace up and knocked the blade away. His old mace would have bent or chipped the steel at least; this one merely did its job, no more.
Put off balance by Gorgoth's parry, the other combatant stepped back to regain control. Gorgoth stepped forward, swinging his mace with gusto. The Imperial stepped back again in a simple dodge. Cursing his mace's short reach, the Orc followed up with a swift punch to the ribs; it connected, a good, solid punch, winding his opponent. Gorgoth moved to strike again with his mace, but the Imperial wisely darted out of range to recover.
His opponent was now wary, aware of Gorgoth's speed despite his deceptive bulk. The Orc flicked a small fireball at the Yellow team Pit Dog. He normally refused to use offensive magic in fights against non-mages, deeming it dishonourable, but he guessed that Owyn would like it if the crowd was awed by some magic. And it was hard not to use offensive magic considering the shoddy quality of his equipment.
The crowd held its breath for a moment as the fireball streaked past the Imperial, who had seen the danger and dived out of the way just in time. The fireball hit some sort of magical barrier and exploded; most likely a precaution implemented by the authorities to reduce spectator deaths. The Yellow team combatant scrambled to his feet just in time to dodge another swing of Gorgoth's mace. He counterattacked, but his swing simply bounced off Gorgoth's magically-reinforced raiment.
The Orc took advantage of this and smashed his mace into the Imperial's lower ribs. He distinctly heard them crunch despite the protection offered by the heavy raiment. The crowd went through a curious mixture of sounds, from groans of empathy, cheers at a telling blow, jeers from those who had bet on the Yellow team, and a few chants for yet more blood. Gorgoth ignored them all and swung again. His opponent, now unable to dodge as quickly, managed to parry the attack. Fighting on with shattered ribs meant he was a worthy opponent, with some semblance of endurance.
Gorgoth went on the offensive, swinging his mace again and again with speed and ferocity that he knew the wounded gladiator couldn't cope with. The Imperial's defence crumbled and he eventually succumbed to death as the iron mace head smashed into his skull, lodging there. As the crowd responded once again with that odd mixture of sounds, Gorgoth retrieved his mace, letting his dead opponent fall to the floor. No point in closing his eyes. His entire face was caved in due to the entire front part of his brain being splattered on Gorgoth's mace. He attempted to shake it off on his way back down to the bloodworks.
The grey matter proved stubborn, so Gorgoth submerged the mace in the Basin of Renewal, the blood washing off and seemingly being absorbed by the magical water. Owyn stomped over and tossed him another bag of coins. "Better than last time," he grudgingly admitted. Gorgoth raised an eyebrow at the normally irate Redguard. This seemed to return the Blademaster to his usual surly self. "But still a bloody good cure for insomnia," he growled. "Next match, if you win, you're a Brawler. Might actually get some respect then." With a final discharge of saliva onto the bloody floor, Owyn stalked off to find the next combatants.
Gorgoth added the bag to the one already in his pocket and leaned against the wall. He probably still needed more money – a mere hundred drakes wasn't going to be enough – but fighting on an empty stomach was never wise, and the Orc hadn't eaten since the early morning in his cell. His stomach rumbled, and some gladiators looked around for the avalanche before they figured out what it was. "Where can I get some food?" asked Gorgoth, suppressing another mighty rumble.