Chapter 10: Flanker

Everything he did was wrong…

Everything he did was wrong, and this he knew. From the way he thought, the way he lived, and the way he fought. All of it was so perfectly out of line for the natives of Orsinium. But of course, Oranzul had not been raised in his so-called homeland. He had been raised in High Rock, a place of magic, education, and civility. His mother had raised him as a Breton, and sheltered him from the world. She did this both out of a want to protect him, but also out of fear, and possibly shame.

The world seemed to despise Oranzul. He was the product of war, unfortunately quite literally. He was a Half-Orc, the offspring of a Breton seamstress and an Orc warrior. Needless to say his birth was not happy moment for his mother. This fact made it so he was unfit for either society, as it turned out. His Breton mother had tried her best to make the city forget about her son, and had never even named him. His skin was a pale green, his ears small, but pointed. His dark black hair grew short, and rough. He was about as strong as a Breton, which certainly made him seem weak, with his Orsimer appearence.

When he finally fled to the constantly changing lands of Orsinium, the Orc war-parties laughed at his feeble build, and felt he was unable to fight properly. Ushargol, however, wanted any and all soldiers he could get, and so the newly self-named Oranzul was drafted.

In his first battle, he ended up separated from his group, in a dense forest. He had peered out from the trees, onto the field, where the battle raged. He snuck up, and then rushed into the enemy's flank. He had killed twenty six by his count. But this, of course, was a disgusting and wrong way of fighting, fit only for cowards and weaklings. He would be remembered in the armies as "Flanker". No matter what he did after, he was always viewed with distrust and contempt from his comrades. Like nothing else, he longed for a life free of all this hate and war, to be his own person. But he continued to serve, and continued to be punished, it seemed, for existing.

But, perhaps there was some merciful force who had found pity in him. In one particular battle, his commander had been struck in the head by an arrow, and killed outright. His unit continued their brutal push forward, through the enemy spears, but Oranzul stopped to, at first, mourn his death. Despite his cruelties, he was a good leader, and had won the heart of the Flanker. Then, he noticed a small pouch dangling from his armor. Oranzul, having gone without pay for months, quickly snatched it, despite the pangs of guilt he felt as he did so. Within the pouch were multiple gemstones, some gold, and a small, jagged piece of black metal. The metal had a silvery edge on one side, which was sharpened and easily capable of cutting.

Though the metal was likely worthless, the contents of the pouch seemed quite valuable indeed. He quickly thought of the things he could do with it. At first, he thought he might gradually hand the gems over to other commanders, in exchange for more coin. But it was entirely likely they would just take it from him. He then thought of giving it to some civilian to exchange, but his warband wasn't exactly known for its kindness.

Then, he realized. If he could flee far enough south, perhaps to the Empire, he may be able to trade the pouch for coin, and get far enough from Orsinium to start an honest life. He knew that, should he go through with this, he would be murdered if he were ever found. Just in case he decided to, he searched him for anything else, and found a well-made, ornate scabbard. Perhaps what the metal had once belonged to?

With his newly collected back-up plan, he rejoined the army. He would only consider it if he felt it was worth the risk. That night, after another set of lashes for failing to join the charge in the battle, he decided he would chance it after all. He stole one of the few horses they had, and rode it far and fast.

He was half-way through Hammerfell when he first realized he was being pursued. He spotted them for himself from atop a large dune, deducing from the dust that only a hand-full were following. But he couldn't understand why. He had taken only pouch's worth of jewels, and some antique. Surely they weren't important enough to hunt him down for. Whatever the reason may be, he thought, he had to continue. He crossed into Cyrodiil, and desperately searched for somewhere to hide. But they were always catching up, always right behind him. And so he continued on.

He had made it across the Old Bridge when his horse was killed. One of them had brought a bow, and was well versed in its use. Oranzul kept running, eventually dashing into the dense forest. But the two kept after him, and he could hear their horses pursuing, and closing in. He tore what armor he had on off, desperate for any additional speed he could muster. He leapt over a fallen tree, making an awful crash. He was tearing the last boot from his foot when he could have sworn he saw some massive lizard. He was left no time to focus, however, as an arrow narrowly flew over his shoulder and found lodging in a tree.

He could now hear them, hollering and calling out to him. Their words were unintelligible, but he had no desire to find out what they were crying. He ripped the pouch from a cord round his neck, and threw it into the forest. Then, he took the scabbard from his waist and did the same. If he were to be caught, perhaps they would spare him if he was without their prizes. He made a break for the edge of the forest, where he could see the sky clearly. To his surprise, where he could see no trees, he also found there was no ground. As he burst from the brush, he tumbled down the incline and into the clearing, eventually coming to rest at the foot of a massive statue. He groaned in pain from the unexpected fall.

Finally, his two pursuers peered out from the trees. They rode down and around the incline, and before Oranzul could get up and away, the archer landed a painful blow to his leg, bringing him back down. The archer, a Nord, quickly bound Oranzul's hands behind his back, and ripped his sword from its sheath. He also, after kicking his prey to the side, pulled a dagger and a partially concealed scabbard from Oranzul's belt. The other hunter, a warrior named Malron, unsaddled and started over to him.

He coughed, clearing his throat, and regaining his breath. "So, Flanker. Did you really think that you could get away? First, you fail us in battle, and then you outright betray us. I guess we should've expected it."

The Nord tossed Oranzul's weapons to the side. They made a clang as he spoke to Malron. "Ey, d'ya suppose we could somehow stick 'im on that spear?" He looked up to the statues, with some Daedra with a spear some 25 feet in the air. Oranzul moaned, fully aware they'd probably try it.

Sure enough, Malron bellowed in laughter. "Haha! Yes! Oh, now we have to. But not yet." He glared down at his victim, and delivered a swift kick to the gut. Oranzul folded in pain. Meanwhile, Malron turned back to the Nord. "You would have done well as a Orc, blood-kin."

The Nord approached Oranzul, drawing a sharp and jagged blade. He knelt down, a sick grin on his face, eyes darting around, trying to read the emotions on Oranzul's face. The blade was quickly pressed against Oranzul's neck. "Aye, and I'd 'ave loved to be one. Now then…" His accent was strange, certainly not Nordic, almost like some strange adaptaion of the Altmer tounge. "What exactly have you been running from, Flanker?" He made sure to emphasize the last word. Malron spit down in disgust toward Oranzul. The Nord turned up to him. "Not while I'm down 'ere, if you wouldn't mind?"

Malron nodded and backed up. The Nord cleared his throat and continued. "We've a need for what you stole. Chief liked it on 'is mantle, and it's not like it'd do you much good." He leaned forward a bit, and whispered. "Not like any of that shite's true, right?" Oranzul let his face show a small sign of confusion. To this, the Nord motioned toward the weapons he had taken. "I see you're smart enough not t' use it for one of your rusty blades."

Suddenly, Oranzul understood. But only half of it. They had followed him half-way across Tamriel, not for the pouch of valuables, but for the scabbard he had found on his dead chief? Why? Was it really that valuable? And what did this man mean by "none of it being true"? What wasn't true? Before Oranzul could voice any of these questions, however, Malron drew his sword.

After the rescue…

Oranzul now sat at the party's camp, secluded in a tent one of the women had lent him. He still, after two hours of discussion, had no idea who these people were. other than Vigilants. He didn't know why they went and collected the items before going to sleep, why they only wanted the scabbard, why he wasn't dead, or what in Oblivion happened back at the statue. He had, however, decided on something. He needed work. And it was evident he wouldn't be allowed peace by the fates. These people were rather small in number to be going about on their own. They were fine with letting him onboard, and they were set to leave a few short hours after dawn. They promised to pay him well, weekly at that, and were eager to have another swordsman in their group. So he finally decided to retire for the night, not bothering to ask why the elf had a flaming sword and the one woman's shield was seemingly built facing the wrong-way round. He already had enough to question.

End Chapter 10

Subsequent chapters in the works will be added upon their completion & revision. All critique & feedback is encouraged.