Dark hills of stone obscured his view, the path maddening in its wandering course, winding through the clefts of the mountainside rather than going over top. At last they came around the final curve, allowing Agronak to behold the full splendour of Orsinium.

It was much more...practical than he'd expected. Dominating the centre of town, it was impossible to miss the tall, imposing fortress, built ages ago by Orcs as a bastion against the attackers who'd frequently raided the wealth of the Wrothgarians. It didn't quite have the majesty of a castle, or the grandeur of a palace. If anything it reminded him of a high, gloomy prison, walls made of thick stone blocks, as dark as the surrounding mountains, only the narrowest of slits built in to allow sightlines for defenders and nooks for archers. Even the entrance was built as if the occupants expected an invasion, the door several stories off the ground, accessible only by a narrow, twisting stairway. The platforms built above and around the stairs, offering opportunities to stare down, or perhaps drop things, onto the heads of approaching visitors did nothing to improve the inhospitable air of the structure.

Still, Agronak was impressed with the city, especially since nothing but the fortress stood here when Gortwog won the land in a legal duel. Agronak had trouble believing the crowded streets, the finely crafted buildings—imported stone, wood, and plaster more common materials than the dark rocks of the Wrothgarians—dazzling in their ostentatious displays of elegance, hadn't been in existence for ages.

Though it was the prevalence of green skin that pleased him most, Orcs making up the vast majority of the citizens going about their business. Ladies and beggars, idlers and shopkeepers—everywhere he looked, he saw Orcs of every station, every class, and every level of wealth. He couldn't help feeling a sense of pride at their accomplishments, knowing what he now did of the obstacles and prejudices held and sometimes enforced by their neighbours.

After stabling their horses on the outskirts of the city, they walked through the streets, Agronak looking around trying to see it all, Cerisse whispering soft instructions about proper behaviour to him the entire time. She sounded so weary as she explained how he was to be the assertive, dominant one—even though she was his alleged employer, apparently he was to be the one issuing orders. At least, so long as they were in the city.

She fell silent whenever they passed anyone else. He dismissed her paranoid habits, figuring she still felt jumpy from yesterday's attack, and overtired from a lack of sleep. Surely after a good night's rest she'd be in much better spirits.

So it took a little while before he noticed she'd fallen out of step a ways back, lost near the entrance of the narrow laneway. With a bright flush on her face, she tried to catch up to him, pointedly ignoring the trio of Orcs jeering at her as they stepped in front of her at every turn.

"Looks like the little Breton's gotten lost," the squat one called to his companions in Orcish. "Think we should show her the way to go?"

"Yeah, it's about three days that way," laughed a bald Orc as he leaned into her, making her step back to avoid bouncing off his thick chest. "But you're supposed to drop 'em in another province, or they'll find their way back."

"You want that, girly?" the tallest of the lot sneered down at her, before chuckling to his friends. "She don't even speak the language, the --." A word Agronak didn't know, but could guess its meaning by the way it dripped off the Orc's tongue with dark venom, punctuated his pronouncement.

"Leave her alone," Agronak shouted to them in Orcish, watching as they stepped back to observe him. Why Cerisse faintly shook her head while staring intently at him didn't concern him—the iron mace in the tall one's hands did. He could tell by the way the Orc idly swung the weapon he knew how to use it.

"It speaks," the tall one sneered, "fine trick for a filthy half-breed. Want to see if he knows any others?"

"Urzog, isn't that—" the question got cut off as the mace danced through the air, coming to rest lightly against the bald Orc's armour.

"Don't matter," Urzog growled, appraising Agronak with a leer. "Best in the Empire don't mean the same in Orsinium. 'Cause here, we've got real Orcs."

"Let her pass, and I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Agronak took a step forward, calculating the reach of Urzog's weapon. If he could stay out of range, it'd be easy to counter any sudden attacks...

"Think I'm low enough to hang around a Hawkton?" Urzog spat on the ground as he said the name. "Spend my time with a filthy squatter?" He gave Agronak a malicious grin as he adjusted his stance, the late afternoon sun glinting off his rough iron armour. "I've got more pride than that."

"Pride isn't the same thing as stupidity," Agronak growled back. "Now move and let her through, before I teach you the difference." Easing his battered shield from its resting place on his pack, he adjusted it on his arm.

"No. Bad." Cerisse's sudden outburst, the harsh language of the harpies escaping from her lips, surprised them all. The Orcs stared at her, as if she'd suddenly been possessed by evil spirits, while Agronak was dumbfounded at her meaning. He knew she didn't like violence, but he couldn't see many other options at this point. And it wasn't as if she added much to the stand-off, standing frozen on the spot, squawking out confusing suggestions.

"Noisy bitch," the short one muttered. "I'm not sticking around for the guards to show up."

With a vicious smile, Urzog twirled his mace, sliding it into a loop on his belt with a practiced flourish. "See you around, half-breed." Keeping his distance, he stepped past Agronak, leading his companions away on the deserted street.

"What was that?" Agronak asked Cerisse when they were alone, switching back to Common. He resisted his conflicting urges to hug her while shaking some sense into her. "Why didn't you call me? You couldn't handle that on your own."

"I was doing fine," she snipped, glaring up at him. "They get bored after a while then wander away. I'm used to it."

"That happens often?" Looking back down the street, lined with closed doors and shut windows, he relaxed when he didn't see anyone else about.

"I'm a Breton in Orsinium," she answered with a bitter smile, falling into step beside him. "It's how things are."

"That's not right," he frowned, disappointed at her statement. He'd hoped to find something better here in the homeland of the Orcs, something more noble than the common contempt he'd met in Wayrest. It was disappointing to discover the Orcs didn't hold themselves to a higher standard than their neighbours. "It's always like this?"

"Oh, no," she hastily began to explain, "I don't mean everyone is like this. But there are some, like them, who'll say things when you pass by, or they'll—"

She didn't get a chance to elaborate, her words turning into a shriek as Urzog's group of Orcs leaped out from an alleyway, Urzog's mace whistling through the air, narrowly missing Agronak's head. As Urzog attacked again, aiming a powerful strike towards his chest, Agronak noticed Cerisse vanish while he brought his shield up to deflect the blow. Urzog snarled as Agronak used his shield to drive the momentum of the attack down to the street, causing the Orc to stumble as he tried to regain his balance.

A strong fist slammed into Agronak's arm, sending up a dull pulse of pain. Not able to stop it from striking, he took the opportunity to twirl around when the bald Orc pulled his arm back in preparation for another blow, launching the thick edge of his shield up into the Orc's jaw.

Temporarily stunned by the blow, the Orc stepped back, hand coming up to touch the trickle of blood flowing from his mouth. Agronak didn't have time to follow up on his initiative, ducking as the short Orc aimed a powerful punch at his head. As he crouched down, he grabbed the collar of the short Orc's armour with one hand, and using his shield as a lever, turned his attacker's force against him by tossing him over his back, sending him flying to smack heavily into the bald Orc. They both went down in a tangle of limbs.

"Slippery bastard," Urzog jeered in Orcish as his mace grazed along Agronak's leg, leaving a streak of agony in its wake. "You're not so tough."

He could have responded in so many ways—pointing out the fighters in the Arena had more honour than to launch a cowardly surprise attack, or perhaps remind Urzog his odds had been reduced from three against one to an even tie—but he didn't bother. Instead, he decided to teach the Orc the subtle difference between pride and stupidity.

Waiting until Urzog launched another attack, heavy mace tearing through the air, Agronak side-stepped the weapon, bringing his shield across his body in a forceful blow, hard enough to knock the mace from the Orc's hand while breaking a few small bones.

Fury clouded Urzog's features, the Orc's mind lost to a frenzy of anger. At that point the battle was over, Agronak recognizing the mindlessness of the whirling attacks. He blocked and counter attacked, using no other weapon than his shield and occasionally a fist to knock Urzog back, waiting out the moments until the Orc's mind caught up with his battered body.

It finally happened, a wall of pain making Urzog's nostrils flare and his eyes flutter. Suddenly gasping for breath, clutching his bruised and broken arms around his cracked ribs, he sank down to his knees. Risking a glance, Agronak looked over to Urzog's friends, the two Orcs closing their eyes while feigning unconsciousness under his watchful eye, clearly not wanting to experience the same sort of pummeling as their leader.

"No," the firm command was accompanied with a swift kick, the newcomer's steel-clad foot knocking the throwing dagger from Urzog's hand. "You've shamed yourself enough." Looking back, Agronak recognized the Orc with a smile. Not that he needed the help, but he was glad to see a friendly face. Gurak gave him a gruff greeting. "Agronak. I see you're still offering lessons."

"Free, as always," he answered back, gesturing towards the Orcs sprawled on the ground. "But I didn't expect to have so many students so soon."

"Urzog's good at taking advantage of free lessons, but not so good at remembering them," Gurak sneered down at the sullen Orc. He pointed his fingers at the dishonorable attackers, summoning two waiting guards from the alley. "My men'll be happy to teach him some more."

"Traitorous half-breed pig." Urzog's hateful insult, spat out as he was roughly hauled to his feet, earned him a sharp jab to the ribs, the guard loosing a low growl to demonstrate his displeasure at his prisoner's talkativeness.

As the guards hustled Urzog and his friends away, Agronak looked around, wondering what had happened to Cerisse. She'd gone invisible—he'd seen her vanish—but she hadn't reappeared yet. It wasn't until Gurak asked him what he was looking for did she come into view, stepping out from behind the small landing of a nearby building.

"Lady Hawkton," Gurak gave her a curt greeting, "I trust you aren't injured."

"No, thank you, Warlord," she answered, lowering her head meekly.

Without another look at her, Gurak turned back to Agronak. "I'll walk you to your inn." He didn't wait for a response, striding off down the laneway, sun sparkling off his polished steel armour. Agronak quickly caught up with him, able to keep pace despite the fire along his thigh. He felt a bit concerned about Cerisse's short legs, but every time he glanced back to see if she kept pace she'd give him a glare, a shake of the head, and an angry gesture for him to turn around.

"So you've finally made it to Orsinium." Gurak's words were a statement, not a question, the tone giving nothing away, no hint to indicate whether he was pleased or not to see his friend again. He led Agronak through a series of narrow passages, more often taking the alleys than the streets. "About time you came for a visit. I tried to arrange suitable entertainment for you, like we got in Bruma, but Urzog's the best I could do on short notice."

"Got much more lined up?" Agronak asked, playing along with the joke. He could feel his hands and forearms starting to swell under his armour, singing a lament about the differences between leather and solid metal. Maybe he should have used his shield more frequently than his fists. He'd never considered his sword—killing an Orc in Orsinium, even in self-defense, probably wasn't a good way to announce his presence in the city. Besides, he'd recognized Urzog's attack for what it was, another would-be warrior trying to prove his skills. Relatively harmless in the scheme of things, and a good way to keep him on his toes.

"Urzog's the worst of the lot," Gurak answered, following Agronak's gaze as he looked back to Cerisse. She quickly changed her expression to a supplicating smile before staring at her feet. Turning around, Gurak changed course, ducking down another dark alleyway. "Once word gets around you fought him off, you won't get many other challengers. Lucky break you bumped into him so soon."

"Get a lot of fights in the streets?" Distracted by the graffiti painted over the walls—all in Orcish, rather than Common—Agronak only half listened to the reply.

"Been getting worse lately. We're seeing less of the regular clan skirmishes, and more alliances—bigger numbers, worse injuries. Hopefully Gortwog will settle the succession before it gets too big for my guards to handle."

"You're in charge of the law here? I thought you used to be in the army," Agronak inquired as they stepped out onto a wide avenue. Pedestrians crowded the walkways, while wagons and horses jostled for space in the street. It took a moment for him to realize why the scene was so similar to every other town, and yet so different, but it finally struck him—every person passing by was an Orc. Never had he seen anything like it.

"I'm still a warlord," Gurak replied, pressing a path through the crowd, careless of those who bumped off him as he strode past. Nobody protested, through a few gave him dark looks and foul mutters when he was out of sight. "Gortwog put me in charge of the guards a couple of months after I got back from Bruma." He shook his head, slowing his pace a little. "They ever get the wreckage of those gates cleaned up?"

"Nah. Turned it into a monument."

"Clever." Gurak smiled for a change, amusement lightening the faint scowl he always seemed to wear. The only indicator Agronak had noticed to the Orc's true feelings lay in his eyes, and even those rarely gave anything away. But then, it hadn't been an easy time in Bruma, handling the brunt of the attempted daedric invasion. Gurak never appeared to be anything except thoughtful during his stay. The rest of Gortwog's forces—sent to aid the motley army assembled at Bruma—were friendlier, quicker with a joke, but it was Gurak that Agronak found himself listening to when it mattered.

As they walked into the entranceway of the elegant inn, Agronak began to understand how high his friend ranked in the social hierarchy of the town. Maids and clerks bowed to him, well-dressed lords and ladies greeted him with polite words, and the proprietor of the inn himself came out to inquire about his needs.

"Lord Lovidicus," Gurak stressed the title, pointing over his shoulder to Agronak, "needs a room."

The innkeeper leapt into action, stealing the room ledger from a busy clerk, flipping through the pages while muttering, fingers of his free hand flicking as he made some mental calculations. "How many days will his Lordship be staying?"

Agronak wasn't exactly sure. Glancing around, hoping Cerisse could help him provide a firmer estimate, he couldn't spot her. With a shrug, and some wondering where she'd gotten to now, he guessed. "At least a few days, maybe a week. I don't have an exact date..."

"I don't need one," the Orc answered, scratching something out in his ledger. "Your room will be ready within the hour..."

"Hour?" Gurak asked, his voice crackling with practiced authority. "He's ridden through the western pass—he shouldn't have to wait so long."

The innkeeper gave an apologetic bow, before snapping his fingers to wave over several of his staff. After a hasty huddle, as well as some commands to 'offer her anything she wants, but get her out of there,' he returned as his employees scattered, the maids almost running as they raced towards the stairs. "It will be mere minutes. They're putting the finishing touches on our best suite as we speak. As soon as the registration is finished, I'll personally escort him to his room." As the thought occurred to him, he added some more details with a grand smile. "His complimentary room."

With another snap of his fingers, the innkeeper summoned over a nearby clerk. In between answering the standard questions, Agronak spoke quietly with Gurak. "Thanks for the help, but I'm in no rush."

"Nonsense," Gurak retorted. "It's your due. Nobody can say we don't know how to treat a lord here in Orsinium."

"It's a nice change," Agronak murmured, watching as Cerisse finally entered the inn. He saw the reason for her slow progress, the way she kept darting aside to make room for any and all passing Orcs. She gave him a brief glare when she noticed him looking at her, before heading to the far end of the counter. Strange little nymph—he needed to ask her about her odd looks when they were finally alone.

"Bretons can be...Bretons." The diplomatic answer made them both chuckle. Gurak continued, resting his hand on the counter, heedless of the corner of parchment crumpling under his metal-clad fingers. "Have you eaten?" Upon learning Agronak hadn't, he gestured towards the street. "Then you'll dine with us tonight at the Warhammer Club. After you freshen up, of course."

"We'll be there," Agronak happily accepted. "Will the others from Bruma—"

"We?" Gurak interrupted, staring past Agronak to Cerisse, watching her being ignored by the clerks as they waited on those who arrived after her. "It's an Orc only club."

"Of course," Agronak hastily bluffed, "Me. I meant, I will be there. You know this escort business, you get used to saying we...so, where did you say the club was?"


By the time Gurak finished giving the simple directions (just three doors down the street, large sign out front, can't miss it), the innkeeper was hovering around the edges of the conversation, eager to show his honoured guest to his room. Clapping Agronak on the shoulder, Gurak said his farewells. "Take your time. Nobody gets there early." He paused, before giving a curt nod. "It is good to see you again."

Agronak watched the warlord walk out to the street, head high, confidence in every step. Finally acknowledging the proprietor's lurking presence, he was rewarded with snapping fingers and a flurry of employees eager to carry his bags. Amused by their reverence, he glanced over to Cerisse, expecting to share the humorous moment. But she still waited passively by the counter, patiently allowing everyone else to go first.

"It is our finest room. We don't let just anyone stay in it," the innkeeper enthused, talking up his establishment as he took hold of Agronak's arm. He gently tried to guide his important client to the stairs. "Only the right class of..."

"Why is she still waiting?" Agronak brusquely asked, shaking off the Orc's hand. He had no intentions of leaving Cerisse alone, especially since he still carried her luggage.

"What, the Breton?" the Orc asked, baffled by his interest. "We can't give her a room until our other patrons have registered. Imagine what would happen if we gave her a room, and then had to turn away..." His glib explanations faltered under Agronak's glare, and he shrunk back a little while he quickly tried to soothe his esteemed guest, "...ah, I meant to say, and we hadn't turned the room over. Wouldn't want a guest to have a dirty room, would we?"

Roughly tugging over the nearest assistant, the innkeeper gave a hissed command, before shoving the startled Orc in Cerisse's direction. His amends made, he continued to try to charm Agronak, grandly speaking of the importance and history of his inn, while listing some of the more notable people who'd slept under its roof.

Fortunately her transaction was brief, sparing Agronak from a recitation of the dignitaries who'd last visited. With Cerisse trailing along, he had the Orc take them first to her room, explaining he had to see his duty as escort fulfilled. The innkeeper appeared mollified by that, seeming to understand Agronak's concern.

"It's perfect," Cerisse lied smoothly, graciously thanking the innkeeper. Agronak wasn't impressed—apart from the higher quality of the furnishings, and the lack of oil pots below the bedposts, it wasn't much roomier than the dreadful inn he'd stayed at in Wayrest. But she gave him another one of her warning looks, so he didn't protest on her behalf.

With Cerisse safely tucked away the innkeeper brightened, escorting Agronak upstairs while effusively listing all of the amenities and services his staff could provide. Anything he wished, on the house—so long as he made sure to mention how well he was being treated to Gurak.

Thanking the Orc for all of his help, as well as politely nodding his gratitude at the empty-handed staff who'd followed along, perpetually offering to carry his light pack, Agronak managed to send them off, leaving him alone in the grand suite. As he began to get out of his armour, eager to sink some healing spells into his arm, he caught a floral scent on the air. Sniffing carefully as he worked his cuirass off, he walked over the plush rug, around the decadently covered bed, and past the fine wardrobes. It wasn't the flowers in the vases he smelt, but an expensive blend of perfume. Whoever she was, they'd hustled her out so quickly she'd left her scent behind.

He exhaled with relief once his armour came off, his sore hands and bruised thigh grateful to be free of the constricting leather. Inspecting his minor injuries, absently flicking off minor spells to quell the swelling, he began preparing a bath. Between yesterday's journey, sleeping on the rocky floor of the cave with nothing but an old bedroll for cushioning, the day's travels, and the fight with Urzog, his muscles ached for some soothing heat and a nice rest.

Regretting the absence of witch salts, as well as the nymph who frequently accompanied them, he sank gratefully into the large tub. Apparently in Orsinium they designed the baths for Orcish bodies with room to spare. A large sigh escaped him as he slipped down, letting his head dip underwater, warmth penetrating every weary limb.

He lingered like that for a while, letting only enough of his face surface to breathe, listening to his underwater cocoon—the rumbling noise when his feet grazed against the side of the tub, and the splashes when he jostled the water. Sitting back up, wiping the moisture from his eyes, he startled when he heard the soft click of metal falling into place.

"Who's there?" he demanded, tensing his muscles, ready to spring.

"Shh," Cerisse whispered as her invisibility spell fell away, "keep your voice down."

"I thought I'd locked my door," he grumbled, watching as she came to kneel beside the tub. The dark smudges under her eyes, telltale signs of her restless night, almost matched the bruises on his arms.

"It's a simple lock, no magical protection to it," she answered while draping her arms on the edge of the bath. The fingertips of one hand dipped into the water, sending droplets to fly as they impatiently tapped out her unsettled thoughts.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, a little concerned about her. She'd been through a lot yesterday, and having to face violence again so soon probably hadn't helped. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No, but there's things you could have done," she replied, trailing off into a deep sigh. With darting glances, her eyes not meeting his, she continued. "Or not done, which would've been better."

He stared back at her, feeling the tension knotting in his body, disappointed it had come to this so soon. He recognized all the classic signs – the cryptic comments, the brittle attitude, the hazy talk of how he should have known. If he could read minds he would've joined the Psijics instead of the Arena, but none of his lovers ever seemed to consider that. No, they'd rather wait for him to somehow guess what they wanted, then get upset when he never did guess right. He'd hoped Cerisse wouldn't be like that, but here she was, ready to start a quarrel over imagined slights.

"What was it this time?" he asked, hard edge to his voice. "It's because I didn't introduce you to Gurak, isn't it? Or the way you were treated by the staff? I tried to make it better for you—"

"That's just it, isn't it?" she interrupted, flicking her hand to send a splash towards his toes. She still didn't look at him. "I never should have let you come here so unprepared. It's all my fault."

He stared at her, wondering what madness had taken hold in his little nymph's exhausted mind. She felt guilty about...something, he wasn't at all sure what. While he was glad she wasn't trying to pick a fight, he wasn't at all happy she was behaving so strangely. "Maybe you should get some sleep. You aren't making any sense."

"Goddess' grace, you don't know even know what you've done, do you?" She looked over at him, wide eyes in smudged sockets regarding him with surprise. "Because of me, you've already got a reputation for being pro-Imperial. You've already taken sides."

"Sides in what?" he demanded, water splashing against the sides of the tub as he sat up. If she didn't start making sense soon, he'd put her to bed whether she wanted it or not.

"In the age old debate," she muttered, resting her chin on her arm. "Of Orcs against everyone else."

"Alright, that's enough. Bedtime for you," he stated, gripping the sides of the tub in preparation to stand. "I think you're so tired you're dreaming out loud."

"What? No, sit down." She pressed his shoulder down, her strength not nearly enough to stop him, but her intentions halting his attempts to rise. "I keep forgetting you're new to it all. I need to fill you in before you go off to dinner. I wouldn't want things getting worse."

As she lifted her hands off him, he tried to get comfortable again. The heat of the water felt so delightfully soothing to his aching muscles. Giving her a nod to keep speaking, he began sending some mild restoration spells into the discoloured flesh of one forearm. The bruises didn't need to be fully healed, but he at least wanted to change them from livid purple to mildly green.

"Gortwog has always been clear on his purpose. To set the Orcs as equals amongst all other races," she explained, watching him work. "The debate lies in how that should be accomplished. Gortwog, and many of his warlords, believe by working with, and being accepted as a part of, the Empire it will lead to the best results."

"Not everyone agrees?" He switched his magical ministrations to his other forearm.

"Oh, no. There have always been those who think it isn't enough. That by begging for Imperial aid, Gortwog is lowering himself, dragging his kin down with him. They believe only by declaring the superiority of their race will they gain their entitled mastery."

"What?" he asked, pale blue light of his interrupted spell fading away in the air. "Mastery over what? Do they hope to take over the Empire?"

She let out a sharp laugh at the question. Trailing a finger along his bicep, letting him continue his work, she elaborated. "No, they want nothing to do with the Empire. What they want is Orsinium gro-Orsimer," she growled out the Orcish phrase, before repeating its rough translation in Common. "Orsinium for the Orcs."

"But they've got that," he pointed out. "Gortwog is King of Orsinium."

"Ah, but it's not really a kingdom, is it?" she asked with a wink. "At least, not until we've done our part. Even still, it's not recognition they're after. It's complete control over their domain." A small taint of bitterness slipped out into her words, prickling his attention as he wondered what had caused it. "It was different in the beginning, so I've often heard. When the small piece of territory that became Orsinium was given to Gortwog, many Breton families fled, leaving their homes and holdings behind to the terrifying monsters. For those who chose to stay, which were few, they were seen not as spies, or squatters, but allies. Gortwog recognized they'd chosen to become pariahs, because they saw Orcs not as enemies, but neighbours. Following his lead, they were warmly welcomed into his court."

"Your father must have some interesting stories," Agronak remarked, resting back against the tub, letting his magicka recharge before he continued his work. "I think I can see why Orsinium Hawktons aren't viewed the same way as the Menevian kind in Wayrest."

She smiled, plucking his near hand from the water. Pressing it between her palms, he watched as she again compared sizes of her dainty hands and his massive one. She never seemed to tire of it, or cease being amazed by the difference. "My whole family has great stories. But they haven't been as amusing since the Warp in the West. That's when things began to change. When the peace negotiations finally settled, Orsinium ended up with almost as much territory as the other Iliac Bay kingdoms. It was different—far less people left, and most of the nobility refused to give up their estates. Not that Gortwog asked them to."

"But that was good, wasn't it?" he inquired from behind closed eyes. Between the warmth of the water, and her gentle touch, he felt very relaxed. "They didn't run this time. They chose to stay with the Orcs."

"Ah, well, it depends how you look at it. This is when the debate really began." She paused to press his hand against her cheek, nuzzling into it with a kiss. "Those who agree with Gortwog think it demonstrates their point. By proving they can live amongst others and flourish, the reputation of Orcs will change for the better. I personally agree with them. It's harder to see in Wayrest, where history runs so bitter between them, but in other parts of the province the people are becoming very accepting of Orcs. It's so different in Daggerfall, or Sentinel. There, it doesn't really matter."

"Remind me to go there instead the next time I take a vacation," he joked.

She murmured a non-committal noise, not particularly mirthful, in response. After a brief pause, and a soft sigh, she continued. "Problems came with the new territory. The nobles, in particular. They wanted nothing to do with Orsinium, refusing to pay taxes. Gortwog tried to keep it quiet, but the rumour that Bretons were flaunting Orcish authority spread quickly, stirred up by those who disagreed with him. And then there was the matter of the mines. The treaty hadn't properly covered off what would happen with them. With one misplaced word, nobody was sure if they were the property of their original owners, Gortwog, or the men who worked them."

"That must have gotten ugly," he added, opening his eyes. Lifting up his bruised leg, he hooked his knee on the edge of the tub, letting his calf rest along the cool marble. The small healing spells he sent into the sore flesh felt wonderful.

As did the curious exploration of her hands continued, busy marveling over the size of his dripping leg. She measured the length of it, comparing from her fingertip to elbow against his knee to ankle. She came up rather short. "It did. There was fighting, and angry debates in Gortwog's chambers, but it wasn't until the Hawksley Mine massacre did he officially decree possession of the mines stayed in the hands of the original owners. That's when the opposition truly began to campaign against him, making it sound as though he'd ruled in favour of the Empire against his own people." She shook her head at the idea. "He was only being fair, and just. If he'd taken the mines, he'd have stolen them, which is far less honorable. But they never mention that if you ask."

"What about when Elysana gave him part of Menevia? Did the same thing happen?"

"No, they were both too savvy to let the same mess occur. It took almost two years, but Elysana and Gortwog managed to keep things peaceful with a lot of careful planning. She approached the nobles, offering gold in exchange for their estates, or businesses, or mines. And Gortwog made certain to assure all those who stayed they'd encounter no trouble, nor would anyone try to steal their land."

"Clever," he murmured, feeling grateful he didn't have to worry about things like this. Suddenly Durus' grumpy complaints that his neighbour's fence was on his side of the property seemed like very minor matters indeed.

"Well, yes, but his opponents are clever too. Again, they pointed at his actions, making it out as though he and Elysana were close confidantes, that he'd lost sight of the needs of the Orcs. And they seized on the start of the treaty, in which Elysana gifted the land in token of Wayrest's friendship and esteem." Cerisse shook her head as she let out a heavy sigh. "Ever since it's been argued that if it was a gift, then the land—and the buildings, mines, and farms—should be the rightful property of the Orcs, making the Bretons who live in the region nothing but delinquent tenants."

"Squatters," he guessed, slipping his leg back under water. He remembered the way Urzog had growled the word, as if it was the lowest of insults.

"Yes. Over time the term began to apply to all Bretons living in Orsinium, even those who were there from the start." She relinquished his hand, resuming her position draped over the edge of the tub.

"Like your family," he offered, watching as she nodded her head softly, small frown on her lips. "But what about those who welcomed them in the beginning? Have they changed their minds?"

"No," she quickly stated, "they're still as friendly as ever. The problem isn't that those in power think the Bretons should go, but those against them are the ones agitating for expulsion of everyone who isn't Orcish. As it always happens, the lesser elements of society—criminals, opportunists, idiots—are eager to join the cry, taking up whatever anti-Gortwog slogan comes their way. They're much more likely to act on it, with threats, harassment, and even violence. And of course, if a Breton ever fights back, they're portrayed as being a typical example of their evil race."

"Is that why you were so passive when those Orcs were bothering you?" he asked, grimacing at the remembrance.

"Partly," she answered with a weak smile. "As I was trying to tell you while you were sightseeing, social norms are different here. If you offered to help a lady sit at the dinner table, you'd be insulting her, and her family, by implying she was weak. It's a point of pride to be strong, and fearsome. You can fight with someone as a sign of friendship, but you should never make it look as though you're coming to the rescue."

"So I've insulted your entire family?" Agronak goggled. Oh dear, he hadn't meant to do that at all. Maybe he should write Evie an apology and send it off through the Mages Guild. On second thought, he'd have to apologize doubly if he did that – he was pretty sure which mage would want to personally deliver the note.

"What?" She chuckled at the question, tension relaxing from her posture. "No, I was talking about Orcs. You can make Bretons look as weak as you like. Nobody worries about that. The problem is you're new here, you're only half Orc, you're somehow friends with one of Gortwog's most powerful warlords, and you've already made it abundantly clear you're on good terms with Bretons. I'm sure everyone thinks you're pro-Imperial by now."

"Well, I'm half-Imperial, I'm lord of a Cyrodiilic village, and I'm friends with the Emperor. I can't see how they'd expect me to be anything else," he joked, sitting higher up in the tub. He'd tended to the worst of the bruises, but a couple of dark ones lingered on his chest. "So I hardly think you've made me do anything to surprise them."

Her mouth dropped open as she tried to think of some way to protest his dismissal, but the only noise she made was a long exhalation of relief as his words sunk in. "Not when you put it that way, no," she agreed. "But I still want you to ignore me as much as possible while we're here. I've worked very hard to keep a low profile in Orsinium and Wayrest. When they ignore you, they sometimes forget you might be listening," she added with a coy smile. "And don't forget you're famous here, so everyone will be paying attention to what you do. I'm worried even if you're nothing but cold to me, someone, somewhere, will misinterpret something and start rumours about us."

"Why is that such a bad thing?" he asked, giving her a wink.

"It's dangerous, for reasons I'd rather not get into," she replied quietly, looking over at his toes, pointedly avoiding his eyes. "When I get back it won't matter as much, but even still we should be careful."

He shook his head, still displeased she intended to disappear somewhere without him, all the while refusing to explain where or why. If he was asked, he was to make vague comments about her visiting family. Despite her assurances, he knew he'd worry until she returned safely back at his side.

"Who hit you there?" she asked, noticing the small, angry bruises on his chest. "I don't remember seeing Urzog connect with anything other than your leg. But then, I was a bit distracted."

Lifting up the small hand hovering over the marks, he gave it a kiss. "You did. You hit pretty hard, for a nymph."

He laughed as he watched her face, her conflicting emotions apparent as her features tried to choose which mood to display. There was amusement at his term for her, dismay at the damage she'd caused, and something else, a hint of tenderness around the eyes, a shy smile at the corners of her mouth.

With a shake of her head, she cleared away her thoughts. "I'm sorry for that. Let me fix it." Pausing, her hands pressing gently over the worst of the bruises, she broke out into a grin. "But I'm no nymph. Unless I'm Lysorya, who looks sort of like one. But they're even more attractive than her."

"I think you're the most attractive wild creature I've ever seen," he replied, stroking her face with wet fingers, "so as far as I'm concerned, that makes you my little nymph."

There it was again, the odd expression she sometimes wore. Eyes darting around, shyly watching him, flush on her face, and the twitching corners of her smile as she fought to keep it under control. She always looked so delighted with something when she acted like that.

And she always tried to hide it, this time by whispering a spell, sending a golden trickle of energy from her arms into his skin. He pulled away before she could repeat it, frowning at the assistance. "That's the spell you used on that Bosmer, isn't it?"

"It flows both ways," she replied, puzzled at his reaction. "I can share health as well as steal it. Let me finish..."

"No," he said firmly, grabbing her wrists to keep her hands away from the bruises. "You're in worse shape than I am. I know you barely slept last night. Keep your energy."

"Thank you," she whispered, rising off the floor so she could bend over the tub to give him a gentle kiss. "You're right, I need to get some sleep. I'll be leaving well before dawn. And you should hurry, to get ready for dinner. I know Gurak said not to rush, but I also know you've got a habit of being late to important dinners."

"I told you, I was trapped in the labyrinth," he protested, standing up in the tub. With the extra height it gave him he towered over her, feeling like some dripping predator, risen from the darkest swamp to wreak a path of destruction. Though he didn't feel quite so aggressive, he was getting ideas about carrying her off...

"I still can't see how," she teased, tossing him his towel along with orders to dry off and get dressed. "It's really not that complicated."

"In the fog it is," he grumbled back "Can't see much more than an arm's-length in front of you, with nothing but the same damned hedges and statues to be found."

"Only an arm's-length?" she pondered. "But if your arms are so long, then that isn't much of an excuse at all, is it?"

She danced out of reach as he tried to grab her, instead throwing his pants at him with stern commands to get ready. He quickly did as she asked, noting how quiet and still she got whenever she stopped talking. It looked as though she would fall asleep where she stood.

"Enjoy yourself, and try to remember what I've told you while I'm gone."She patted his tunic into place, fussing with the laces. Satisfied with his appearance, she threw her arms around him. "I'm going to miss you."

"Then don't go," he replied, hugging her back.

"I wish I didn't have to, but I made my decision days ago. It's time I followed through." She moved away, then changed her mind, grabbing his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"I'm never the one getting into trouble. Everyone else does it for me," he corrected her with a wink. Finally stepping back from him, she wove her invisibility spell about her, disappearing from view.

With a deep bow, he stood to the side, then opened the door grandly. He didn't notice the figure on the other side, nor did she until she bumped into it, her spell falling away, her distraction as she looked back at Agronak readily apparent.

"Lady Hawkton," Gurak greeted her politely, his face as impassive as ever.

"Warlord," she replied, voice not much louder than a whisper. She quickly looked back to Agronak, valiantly trying to cover up her discovery. "Thank you again, Lord, for escorting me safely to Orsinium. I should very much like to travel back with you when you leave, should our journeys align."

Deciding not to match her flowery politeness, Agronak settled for a deep grunt. He was almost certain she nodded in approval at it.

Paying her retreating figure no more attention than Gurak, he greeted his surprise visitor. The Orc briefly surveyed the room, before nodding to Agronak. "I see you've settled in. Are you ready to go?"

Agronak was more than ready, grateful the Orc never seemed to spare a thought for Cerisse, or what she'd been doing sneaking out of his room.