A/N: Yes, it's been almost three weeks since my last update. A lot of you are telling me to relax over update rates, but while a delay of this magnitude might be acceptable to you, it isn't to a perfectionist like me. On the other hand, I MIGHT have been delayed by the sheer LACK of reviews. Six in two and a half weeks? I got eleven for Chapter 22. Do I really have to nag you to get you to review every chapter?
Random Reader: I always did wonder why some people wore armour 24/7. Surely it'd get uncomfortable. In any case, I doubt there is such a thing as a 'fanboy' in the Orcish culture, but you're right; Gorgoth might just get a couple of extra followers.
Underpaid Critic: There WILL be fatalities, and I'm pretty sure I know when they'll happen now. It just didn't seem like the right time. And, generally, I try to explain time jumps as best I can, but sometimes it's hard.
Cola: It was exciting to write, and generally that means it's exciting overall. I hope so, at least.
Advertisement: If you appreciate good writing, check out 'Brothers in Arms' by Arty Thrip. She deserves more reviews than she's getting (Then again, that could be said of every fairly good Oblivion fanfic). In any case, I recommend it.
Don't forget to review, unless you want me to incessantly nag you.
Chapter Twenty-four: Power
The morning sun was obscured behind the overcast sky, so the entrance to Nonwyll Cavern looked even less inviting than it normally did. A flimsy, shabby door seemed out of place in a rock formation this far from Chorrol, but it seemed that the cavern had once been inhabited. The rocks were covered in green moss, so much so that the dark grey granite barely showed. A handful of trees populated the area, before thickening out to form the fringes of the Great Forest. The only sounds were of birds singing, of two horses snorting, and of plate armour clanking.
"Trolls are weak to fire, or so I've heard," commented Viranus Donton, checking the bindings that held the steel shield to his left arm. The Imperial was clad in a full suit of steel plate armour that looked like it had just been forged. It had clearly never seen battle. Gorgoth was tempted to make the same observation for the Swordsman himself; not much past twenty, Viranus had yet to shed his outward childish innocence, his brown eyes curious and inquisitive, a sure sign of a man who had not been properly bloodied. His rich brown hair was slicked back over his head, and he wore no helmet, a decision of form over function. Another indicator of his lack of experience. "Oreyn tells me that you can throw a spell or two. That would be useful." His voice betrayed both eagerness and nerves.
Gorgoth grunted as he slid the Akaviri dai-katana smoothly off his back, hefting it with his right hand. A natural right-hander, Gorgoth had relentlessly trained himself to handle anything in both hands, and as such was perfectly ambidextrous, but he found it more natural to fight with his right and cast with his left. Viranus imitated him, drawing his steel longsword with practised ease. He had at least had good training; that much was evident in his posture of readiness, if nothing else. "Don't count on me using any magic, Swordsman," he growled. "We do not need anything other than our martial might to fight trolls. I see no reason to use offensive magic."
Viranus seemed to want to protest, but thought better of it. Wise. Master's son or not, Gorgoth outranked him, and would not hesitate to use that against him. "Let's move," he ordered, taking the lead and kicking open the door. The light barely penetrated the perpetual darkness of the cave, and it became harder to make out anything in the gloom as they descended. Gorgoth held up a hand and a glowing globe of light appeared above his head, lighting up the entire caver, illuminating passageways. Viranus raised an eyebrow.
"I thought you said..." His voice trailed off as Gorgoth gave him a withering glance. He shook his head and fell in behind the Orc as they moved further into the cavern. "Do you think Galtus Previa is still alive?" asked Viranus as the passageway narrowed and twisted.
"That's what we're here to determine," was the gruff response. The passage took another turn then opened out into a small cavern. Gorgoth threw up a clenched fist, signalling a halt. A single troll was in the centre of the cave, whining, it's green-furred, bulky arm thrown over its three black eyes, which were sensitive to the blazing orb over Gorgoth's head, having been in darkness for so long. Gorgoth darted in and disembowelled it, kicking the entrails away as they draped themselves over his boot.
"That's not good," pointed out Viranus. "If there are trolls here, he's unlikely to be alive." He frowned as Gorgoth ignored him, bending and beginning to saw away at the flesh of the troll. "What are you doing?"
"Collecting some of its fat," replied Gorgoth, as though that was completely normal. He took a double handful of the bloody, sticky fat and stuffed it into his belt bag. Viranus wrinkled his nose slightly, then rapidly smoothed his face as Gorgoth turned back to him. "And, in response to your observation, not necessarily. These trolls have not been here long; this cave is remarkably clean and does not smell of troll excrement, like all troll habitats do." Viranus frowned and sniffed at the air; vile odours permeated the atmosphere, but not in significant quantities. Most seemed to be coming from the bleeding wounds of the dead troll in front of them.
"Can we move on?" he asked, somewhat impatiently. Gorgoth nodded and turned, walking swiftly up the passageway, light bobbing up and down above his head in tandem with his steps. Viranus, not a tall man, had to jog to catch up, the clanking of his armour echoing off the narrow cavern walls. Keeping his sword and shield held in readiness was becoming awkward in the narrow passage, but his trainers had stressed that being caught unawares was something best avoided.
The next small cavern was host to three trolls, who recovered quickly from the shock of the light and launched themselves at the Guildsmen, whining and screeching. Viranus blocked the wild lunges of one with his shield and felt the shock of the blows jar his entire arm up to the shoulder. Trolls were stronger than he'd thought. He took a step back, wincing, and sliced its arm off. Howling, the troll turned to run, but Viranus darted in and severed its spine. Gorgoth stepped back smoothly to weaken another troll's charge, then stepped forward, swinging up, slicing the troll open from groin to face. The final troll roared and grabbed at the Orc's dai-katana. Gorgoth kicked its legs from under it, snatched his weapon away its weakening grasp, and stabbed down into the troll's heart.
Viranus frowned at the dent in his shield. It was brand new, never used before in anything other than sparring. Gorgoth, noticing the damage, shook his head and muttered something about poor smithing before leading the way forward. "Try not to block a full-on charge," he advised. "Little can defend against a troll at full speed; block its normal attacks, but dodge its charges. It normally means that it will overbalance." Viranus nodded. It appeared that Gorgoth was far more experienced than the Imperial had expected. He should have known. Those eyes had seen death many times before.
A troll was pawing at the wall up ahead. It turned and immediately whimpered and shielded its eyes, scuttling backwards. Gorgoth threw out a hand, palm outward, while thrusting with his dai-katana. The troll jerked as its body was dragged through the air against its will, impaling itself neatly on Gorgoth's weapon. Casually booting the dead troll off his dai-katana, the warrior-shaman ignored Viranus's praise at his unexpected, unique usage of telekinesis and moved on. "Didn't want that one alerting the others in the cave," he grunted in explanation.
"Well, the element of surprise is a pretty valuable tool," agreed Viranus. Gorgoth shot him a sidelong glance.
"The element of surprise is the most powerful weapon that can ever be wielded," he grunted. "Using surprise, the lowliest slave can kill a king." The Orc's amber gaze turned fully to lock the young Imperial in its vice. "Do not let that happen to you. Be ready for anything." Viranus swallowed and nodded. Another cavern loomed up ahead of them, Gorgoth's light illuminating numerous lichens and fungi, as well as two trolls.
Both lunged for Gorgoth, who sidestepped and kicked one into the cavern wall, then spun and sliced neatly through bone and tendons to sever the arm of the other. Viranus darted in and sunk his blade through the flesh of the troll that Gorgoth had kicked, sliding through its ribs and finding its heart. The Imperial wrenched his blade free and wiped the thick, stinking troll's blood off onto the body it had come from. Gorgoth had disposed of the other troll and was waiting at the far end of the cavern, seeming to be somehow peering through the rock walls at something. Viranus suspected a detect life spell, but said nothing as they moved on.
A rotten door, almost completely eroded by years of damp and neglect, collapsed at Gorgoth's lightest touch and they entered a larger cavern. Five trolls, alerted beforehand to the presence of intruders, charged towards them, howling and roaring with rage and pain as their eyes were attacked by Gorgoth's light. Viranus, acting on Gorgoth's advice and his own instinct, sidestepped a troll's wild lunge and tripped it over as it stumbled past. He moved in and swung down, cleaving its chest in two.
Gorgoth swung horizontally, slicing a troll in two at the chest, before meeting the charge of one with a drop of the shoulder and a counter-charge. The Orc's sheer strength overwhelmed the troll and sent it skidding towards Viranus, who stopped it with a boot on its shoulder and stabbed it through the face. Another troll attempted to catch the Imperial unawares, only for Viranus to spin and smash it around the head with his shield, stunning it and giving Gorgoth time to grab it with his free hand and hurl it into the last troll. Both fell to the floor, and were still scrabbling pathetically to disentangle themselves from each other when Gorgoth stabbed them both, his dai-katana piercing both of them in one thrust.
"You're... stronger than a troll," gaped Viranus, closing his dropping jaw with some effort.
Gorgoth snorted. "The mountain trolls in the Wrothgarians would use these forest trolls as toothpicks," he replied, contempt lacing his deep voice. His gaze fell upon a corpse that was not a green or hairy, and he moved closer, going to one knee, sheathing his dai-katana. It was an Imperial, killed recently, his body not yet decomposing. His coarse clothes spoke of a farmer, and Gorgoth didn't have to turn out his pockets to know that this was Galtus Previa.
"Damn it," growled Viranus, kicking a nearby rock. "I'd hoped that he would still be alive. Bloody trolls."
Gorgoth fixed the Swordsman with a critical gaze. "I find hope useless," he rumbled. "When your high hopes are dashed, despair sets in, rotting you, eating away at you. Hold no hope, and you will not be disappointed." His gaze dropped once again to the body in front of him. "Trolls did not do this," he observed. "If they had, his body would have been torn to shreds, or eaten. These wounds-" the Orc's thick green fingers traced several slashes in the farmer's abdomen "- were made by blades."
"You mean he was murdered?" asked Viranus warily, cleaning his blade on a nearby troll and sheathing it, putting his shield back on his back.
Instead of answering, Gorgoth picked up a shield that was lying near the body. Deep scratches and cracks in the steel rendered it effectively useless; one good blow and it would shatter. Turning it over, the Orc's gaze instantly hardened. The insignia of the sword and axe crossed in front of a tree was not one he would soon be forgetting. He hung the shield by its strap from the hilt of his dai-katana as he rose to his feet. "We should get back to Chorrol with all haste," he growled. "I do not like the look of this."
"In the name of all that is holy or unholy, WHY did it have to snow again?" Aerin shivered and attempted to draw her cloak even tighter around her as she led Firebrand to the Cloud Ruler Temple stables. Upon reaching Bruma earlier in the morning, she'd been horrified to discover not only heavy snowfall but a biting north wind and threatening clouds. Ilend and Gnaeus had shared amused glances the entire way up from Bruma. The Wood Elf's near-death experience in Boethia's realm didn't seem to have dampened her spirits for long.
"Like I told you, just think of that fire in the Great Hall," reminded Ilend as he led Javelin to his stall. "If the mere thought of it warms me, imagine what the real thing will do. I guess it's not working for you." He smirked.
"It just makes me hate this bloody cold even MORE," whined Aerin, rushing through the process of removing Firebrand's saddle. She hugged herself and waited with tangible impatience as Ilend took his time. Gnaeus muttered something about repairing a few scratches on his blade and headed off in the direction of the smithy. Aerin briefly considered following him – it would be warm near the forge, and she needed some new arrows – but Ilend finally finished with Javelin. She grabbed his arm and virtually dragged him though into the Great Hall.
The roaring fire sent waves of heat washing over the pair of them as they shrugged off their cloaks. Ilend checked to make sure Goldbrand was secure in his sword belt, and headed over to where Captain Steffan was warming his hands. The Imperial's face was red with the cold, having evidently been exposed to the conditions for hours while patrolling the perimeter. "The Emperor's in his quarters" he grunted when Ilend put the question to him. "West Wing. You'll know it when you see it. I doubt Baurus and Glenroy leave that door even to sleep."
Upon showing him Goldbrand, Ilend and Aerin were waved through by Baurus, who, despite his stiff back and alert gaze, could not disguise his boredom at self-inflicted constant guard duty. Glenroy, who had the night shift, was sleeping in an adjacent room, despite the fact that it was normally reserved for nobility. Not that nobility would have any reason to visit Cloud Ruler Temple at the present time. Most of the West Wing hadn't been used for years.
As the door swung shut behind Aerin, Martin looked up from intently studying the Mysterium Xarxes. His table was covered from end to end in piles of books that contained subject matter related in some way to daedra. Selene was at the opposite end of the table, scribbling some notes on a heap of parchments, so absorbed in her task that she barely acknowledged the newcomers. Martin, on the other hand, looked relieved to have a distraction from the tome in front of him, pushing his seat back and rising, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "You have an artefact?" he asked hopefully.
In answer, Ilend withdrew Goldbrand from his sword belt and held it out. Martin took it and bared an inch of the blade, eyebrows rising in shock as the sun-rivalling light threw deep shadows across the room. Selene looked up and blinked several times. The Imperial hurriedly sheathed it again. "This blade has slain many a hero over the years," he muttered, speaking half to himself. "Tamriel will be better off without it for a while, if we sacrifice it."
Aerin raised an eyebrow and planted a hand on her hip. "What do ya mean, if we sacrifice it?" she demanded. Ilend inwardly winced at her tone. She clearly didn't know how to address an Emperor, even informally. "I went through hell and back ta get that for ya, and you suggest that we might not even use it?"
If Martin was taken aback by Aerin's indignant attitude, he did not show it as he placed Goldbrand on a clear area of his table. "The messenger sent to Gorgoth said that he was going to the shrine of Malacath," he explained. "I do not doubt that we will get an artefact from him as well. Thus, we'll have a choice of what to sacrifice." The Imperial folded his arms and smiled somewhat gratefully. "That does not, however, dilute your accomplishment in any way, shape, or form. You can be proud of yourself, Aerin; few on Tamriel would willingly do what you have done."
Aerin's expression quickly changed from one of indignation to one of embarrassment. Blushing, she mumbled her thanks while attempting to make herself smaller, determinedly not looking at Ilend, who was hiding a smirk with some success. Fortunately for her, Martin took her reaction as simple modesty and returned to his seat, grimacing as his eyes once gain fell upon the Mysterium Xarxes. "Regretfully, further translation is proving slow going," he growled, his frustration evident. "It will be a while before we can make any headway. What's more, reports have been coming in of Oblivion Gates opening far from any civilisation." The heir sighed. "Watch yourselves out there. It's a dangerous world at the moment. Jauffre is considering sending squads of Blades to deal with gates, but we don't have the manpower."
"What about the Legion?" asked Ilend, unconsciously stroking his sword hilt at the mere mention of Oblivion Gates.
"Divided, and we can't easily get in touch. Chancellor Ocato is somewhat... sceptical of my birthright." Martin's face turned sour; evidently, he didn't appreciate the Chancellor effectively calling him and the Blades liars. "Local forces will have to be sufficient to repel any invasion for now. I hope they're enough."
"We have warning this time," reassured Ilend. "There won't be another Kvatch." The conviction and determination in his voice made it sound like there would not be another Kvatch because he wouldn't let it happen. "Good luck with that." He waved a hand at the Xarxes and offered a jerky, awkward bow before leaving, Aerin hurrying out in front of him.
"So, what now?" asked Aerin as they walked away from the Emperor's quarters. "I can't see much happening around here while he's working on his translation. You know how much I hate boredom."
"I'm heading back to Skingrad for a while," replied Ilend. "Could be a few good contracts to be had, though I'm not hopeful. Still, it's something to do."
"Mind if I tag along? Being stuck here in this cold fortress with a load of boring Blades isn't something I long for." Aerin sounded hopeful.
Ilend sighed. "If I said no, would you kiss me?" he asked, his voice wry.
Once again, a flush was creeping up Aerin's face. For someone so pale, she did blush easily. And brightly. "I might if ya say yes," she muttered, looking anywhere but at him.
"No paralysation, mind," grunted Ilend, finger stroking his upper lip hair – he hadn't shaved in two days – to hide his smirk. "Having that numbing sensation crush my expectations isn't something I want to feel every week." His grin was now so wide that any attempt to hide it would be futile. "I don't want to have to swig down a potion of magical resistance every time you so much look at me with-"
"All right, all right, I get it," sniggered Aerin, nudging him in the ribs. "Are ya ever gonna drop that this century?"
"No," confirmed Ilend as they entered the canteen. "I get an odd kick out of watching you squirm with embarrassment. Nice move with Martin, by the way."
"Hey, what I said was true," pointed out the Wood Elf, flopping down on a bench at a table, and wincing as it creaked under the weight of Ilend and his armour as he sat down next to her. "Are ya gonna let me come or not?"
"Well... I guess I'd have to tie you up and shove you in the basement to stop you following me anyway," muttered Ilend. Aerin nodded, a delighted, triumphant smile plastered across her face. "At least I won't get lonely on the way there." He looked sideways at her. "Besides, your massages are good. I still haven't given you one yet."
Aerin rolled her eyes and got up to head over to get lunch. Ilend scratched his itching chin and followed her. Shaving could wait. Hopefully, Ah-Malz had some work for him in Skingrad. If not... well, at least he knew how to best fill his time.
"Following the retirement of your previous Grand Champion, the esteemed Grey Prince, a void has been left which will now be filled." The announcer of the Arena was in full flow, his speech more important than normal. For three days, fighting in the Arena had been fairly normal, with fights taking places as usual, but fans had started to question why there was no incumbent Grand Champion. There had predictably been protests about Agronak's peaceful retirement – many had wanted to see his end in a Fight to End All Fights – but this battle would go some way to remove those protests.
"And now, I give you two contenders for the vaunted title of Grand Champion: The brutal, bloody, powerful Yellow Team Champion, Freezing Death!" Inwardly, the announcer grimaced over the name that he deemed completely idiotic. It had never rolled easily off his tongue. "Killer of over a hundred, can she best her opponent today? Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the agile, deadly, masterful Yellow Team Hero, The Green Tornado!" Now that was a better name. The announcer himself preferred the Argonian over the Nord; at the very least, his tongue was a lot less acidic.
Saliith stopped listening to the announcer and loosened his shortswords once again. This would probably be the last time he ever wore his yellow raiment; if he won, he could fight in his own armour as Grand Champion, and if he lost, his naked body would rot away in the sewers. Just like Branwen's had. The Argonian tightened his grip on his shortswords to stop his hands shaking from the anticipation. He couldn't stop thinking: this is it. This was the realisation of his dream, of Branwen's dream. She wouldn't share it, but at least one of them would achieve glory, immortality, in the sands of the Arena. If he could beat Hroadis.
The Hero bent and took a fistful of sand, clenching his fist around it. "This is for you, Branwen," he whispered, throwing it back to the ground. "For us." If he won this fight, then after his death in the future, he would ascend to Aetherius, and tell her that dreams truly did come true sometimes.
Forcing all thoughts of Branwen and dreams and glory from his head, Saliith's eyes hardened and he focused his entire attention on the heavily-armoured Nord in the cage opposite. Due to Hroadis's higher rank, he had been forced to use the Blue Team tunnel. It mattered not. Nothing else mattered except his blades and her mace, his speed against her strength. Agronak had helped him by giving him a few hints about the Nord's technique, but any more than some simple advice would, in Agronak's mind, violate the impartiality of the Blademaster. Agronak himself was leaning on the barrier of the gladiator viewing area, which was far more crowded than usual. Due to his ten year career, the half-Orc had kept his Raiment of Valour, and wore it even now.
The announcer finished. Saliith darted out of the cage and raced across the Arena to the roars of the audience. Hroadis had emerged slowly, in a defensive posture, shield up, mace ready, and a snarl firmly planted across her face. By the time she had plodded halfway to the centre of the Arena, Saliith had closed the distance and launched himself at her. The Nord swung her shield at him, but Saliith's jump was pinpoint-accurate, and he used the shield to launch himself further over her head, forward-flipping as he did so and swinging at her head with both shortswords. Hroadis barely ducked in time; one of his blades cut through her flaming red hair, and another cut the back of her neck, not deeply, but enough to draw blood. The Argonian landed and rolled smoothly to his feet, turning.
Hroadis, who had been stunned by the speed and agility of his attack, barely had time to turn before he was on her again, pummelling away at her shield, always threatening to dance around her. An underarmed throw of a throwing knife glanced off the bottom of her shield and almost went through her ankle. Snarling with rage, Hroadis charged shield-first at the Argonian, only for him to trip her, his shortsword stabbing the sands a hairs-breadth from her temple as she rolled back to her feet.
Swinging her mace brought her breathing space, but only momentarily, as Saliith moved in, kicking her shield aside and aiming both blades at her mace arm. Hroadis stepped back, swung her shield up then sideways, bashing the Argonian on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He was too quick for her to exploit it, however; he stepped back as her mace cut through the air inches from his chest and once again launched himself at her, his blades frenzied as they hammered away at her defence.
Throwing all caution aside and letting her Nordic rage take her, Hroadis swung at Saliith with mace and shield. The heavy steel mace was slow and lacked the reach to drive the Argonian back, so he simply sidestepped and chopped at the Nord's mace arm. Spinning, his opponent smashed her shield sideways into his shortsword, sending it spinning from his hand. Capitalising, she aimed a mace jab at his ribs, only for him to dart inside her arms and sink his remaining shortsword into her stomach. As her eyes grew wide with shock, Saliith drew a throwing knife and slashed her throat open, her hot blood spraying across his face. The Yellow Team Champion fell backwards, glazed eyes staring up at the clouds.
The hysteria of the crowd washed over him, and the announcer proclaiming him as the Grand Champion had to have been the most enthusiastic he'd been for months, but, for Saliith, it was oddly anticlimactic. Heroes and Gladiators had given him harder fights than the Champion. It was her stubbornness, he realised. She had assumed that her method of fighting, with shield and short mace, would be enough to defeat him, but in fact she had played right into his hands. She'd had neither the reach nor the speed to drive him back or break out of her defence effectively. The title of Grand Champion was not bestowed with a glorious battle, but a brief skirmish where one gladiator had been utterly outmatched by the other.
Shaking his head, Saliith let the atmosphere wash over him, driving away rational thought. For the first time in weeks, elation rose within him, and he smiled. Fame and glory was his. The crowd might not know his real name, but they didn't have to. Their fanatical chanting and waving was proof of that. He waved to them as he made his way back down to the Bloodworks.
Agronak and Ysabel were waiting for him, their postures identical; arms folded, leaning casually against the entrance to the training area from the Yellow Team tunnel. The Blademaster wore a small smile, while the Battle Matron maintained her habitual frown. "I guess congratulations are in order, Grand Champion," she said in greeting. "Though, to be honest, I'm surprised the crowds aren't ripping the Arena apart after that performance." The Imperial pursed her lips and spat. On her worse days, she used to match Owyn for spitting.
"What matters is that the Arena actually has a Grand Champion again," reminded Agronak. "Do you want a Raiment of Valour?" he asked Saliith. "As Grand Champion, you can fight in whatever you damn well please, and I doubt you'll be willing to give up that scale armour for something more flashy but not as good, no matter how well-enchanted it is."
Saliith shook his head. "The title is enough for me right now," he rasped. Ysabel opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. "Not yet. I need some time first. I'll be back soon." They both nodded, Agronak in understanding, Ysabel reluctantly. The Argonian walked passed them, through the Bloodworks, ignoring the numerous gladiators who attempted to talk to him, and out into the Arena grounds.
"BY AZURA, BY AZURA, BY AZ-" Saliith had been expecting such an assault by Agronak's ex-fan, and roundhouse kicked him in the gut. He walked on, unconcerned, as the bright-haired Bosmer fell to his knees, clutching his stomach and groaning, yet still managing to gabble senseless words of praise. Hundolin looked terrified, but his two guards seemed unfazed. They'd seen it all before.
It didn't take long for more fans to intrude upon Saliith's desired privacy. He dealt with them more gently than the Bosmer, telling them that they could mob him all they liked later, but for now, he would kill anyone who got within five feet. They gradually got the message and melted away. Eventually, Saliith found himself alone in the training area that he and Branwen had once sparred in. It seemed like an Age had passed.
"I did it, Branwen," he whispered. Fame and glory were his. Wealth, as well. He regretted that his closest friend wasn't around to see it, but they'd always known that only one of them could be Grand Champion. Maybe it was even better this way. Back when they'd been fresh-faced hopefuls, training diligently every day, hoping against all odds that they'd one day be famous... he'd never envisaged it as turning out like this. At the very least, their dream had been realised. One of them had passed into immortality.
Three days after he'd made his report to Oreyn, Gorgoth entered Anvil just as the sun, barely visible from behind the thick blankets of cloud covering most of the sky, reached its zenith. Stabling the exhausted Vorguz, he made his way through the gates, returning the salutes of the guards, and headed towards the Fighter's Guild. He did not know the exact location of the Shrine of Malacath, but he figured that the Guild would contain scouts and hunters with knowledge of the local area. In the bustling plaza, he did not notice the bitter-looking Redguard caress her longsword and fall in some way behind him.
Walking into the Fighter's Guild, Gorgoth immediately noticed two Guildsmen, Sten the Ugly and Rhano, pummelling the much-dented practise dummies with all their strength. Moving past them, Gorgoth ascended both flights of stairs, returning greetings with a short nod, and walked into Azzan's office. The Redguard looked up, eyes already tired from the mounds of paperwork in front of him, and gave Gorgoth a weary smile. "What can I do for you, Protector?" he asked.
"I need the exact location of the nearby shrine to Malacath," rumbled Gorgoth, not wasting words. "Do you know of anyone in the Guildhall, or in Anvil, who knows of it?"
"You're in luck," confirmed Azzan. "Rhano often heads out alone into the wilderness up and down the coast to stay in shape. Ask him." He picked up his quill and returned to his paperwork as Gorgoth nodded and left.
Rhano was still battering away at the practise dummy with precision and skill when Gorgoth descended the stairs. Upon laying eyes on the approaching Orc, he stepped back, not even sweating, and sheathed his blade. Before Gorgoth could speak, the Redguard pre-empted him. "Were you fighting in the Arena for the Blue Team a while back?" he asked, his voice emotionless.
Gorgoth cast a critical eye over the dark-skinned warrior, and he felt like he recognised him from somewhere. "Yes," he grunted. "Your point?"
Rhano spoke slowly, blue eyes hardening. "I was not there when it happened, but rumours about the Arena spread quickly," he started. "They said that my brother, Rhesus, had been defeated by a large Orcish warrior-shaman using a summoned weapon." The Redguard sighed, but his eyes remained hard. "I always knew he would meet his end when he moved from the Kvatch Arena," he muttered. "He was an expert swordsman, but I knew that one day he'd come up against someone better."
"He was unfortunate," grunted Gorgoth. "I was only in the Arena temporarily, to get money for armour. Your brother was the last life I ever took in that blasted place." The warrior-shaman let forth a small sigh. "If it is any consolation, Rhano, he died well. With honour. I could not have asked for a better opponent." He paused. "He might have been a contender for Grand Champion, had he lived."
Rhano's eyes finally softened, and his grip on his sword hilt loosened as he grunted, fist pounding his thigh. "Always knew it would happen," he repeated. "At least he fell to someone who actually knows what respect is, unlike most of those fetching, money-grabbing fuckers fighting in the Arena." The Redguard leaned back on the training dummy. "You wanted something?" he asked, pushing his personal issues aside.
Gorgoth nodded. "There is a shrine to Malacath nearby," he said. "I need its exact location." The Orc unfolded his map.
Rhano's finger stabbed down to an area due north of Anvil, just south of the start of the delta of the Brena River, near Rihad. "There's an estate just a few miles southeast of it," he explained, going over the area in more detail. "You can't really miss it; it's on a hill, and there seem to be more trees in that area than there normally are on the northern plains of the Gold Coast."
"Can I get there and back before nightfall?"
"If you ride hard. I'd recommend staying the night at the Brina Cross Inn if you get delayed, which I suspect you will." A tiny smirk appeared on Rhano's face as he leaned back. "I won't ask what business you have there. Good luck."
"To you as well, Rhano," grunted Gorgoth, folding up his map and replacing it before nodding in farewell and walking out of the Guildhall.
Within seconds, he was confronted by a Redguard in ragged-looking clothing, but with a fine iron longsword on her hip, which she looked ready to draw. "Are you the Hero of Kvatch?" she asked him in an aggressive voice, as though daring him not to answer.
Gorgoth raised an eyebrow, then realised something. She had the look of someone who had nothing to lose. The gleam in her eyes was not angry; it was fanatical. "If you intend to attack me, then you are very unwise," he grunted, keeping his voice low for now.
Her lip curled into a snarl. Throwing aside any pretence, she raised her right arm and was covered in red sparks as her summoned armour covered her body. A daedric blade appeared in her right hand, and she slashed at him, yelling praise to Dagon, ignoring the shocked screams of passers-by and the immediate alerting of the Anvil Guard. Gorgoth merely sidestepped, grabbed her sword arm, and pulled her towards him, neatly impaling her on the longsword that he'd just summoned. Sparks shimmering around her corpse, the Redguard collapsed as he let the blade fade from existence. The nearby guardsmen had barely moved.
Seeing that the danger was over, the two guardsmen sheathed their blades and slowly walked up to Gorgoth, who was examining the dead Mythic Dawn Agent lying in front of the Fighter's Guild. "Another one?" asked one of the guardsmen, sighing heavily. "There's been two found already this week. At least you took care of that one pretty quick."
The other spat at the corpse. "Fucking pirates," he growled, his voice deep and acidic. "Isolde was one of the worst. Good riddance." His gaze turned to Gorgoth. "No worries about this one, sir," he grunted, stiffening his back. "Just a corpse to haul off the streets. You're free to go."
Gorgoth nodded and walked across the plaza. Slowly, normality was returning to the crowd; the threat had been dealt with quickly and decisively; nothing to fear. Within minutes, it would only be a fact to add to the city's rumour mill. The gate guards would be more alert than normal for a few minutes, then everything would lapse into boredom again. It was something to talk about in the barracks after their shift; nothing more, nothing less. Just another Mythic Dawn sleeper agent meeting their deserved end at the hands of the Hero of Kvatch. Returning the nod of the guard, Gorgoth slipped out of the gates and left Anvil behind him.
It didn't take an experienced horseman to tell that Vorguz was exhausted; the stallion's once-fine mane was limp and his eyes were dull. Gorgoth had been driving him far too hard, and the look in the horse's eye was one of apprehension as his master approached. The warrior-shaman had no idea who had owned his horse before he'd 'borrowed' him from the refugee camp in Kvatch, but they'd certainly had a fine specimen on their hands. Laying a hand on Vorguz's head, Gorgoth let restoration magic flow from himself into his horse, and instantly Vorguz perked up, nuzzling the Orc's hand and impatiently stamping. Much more of this, and the stallion would drop dead mid-gallop, his body unable to cope with the sheer strain of overuse despite constantly being refreshed. He needed good, solid rest, and Gorgoth vowed to give him some as soon as possible.
Easing his horse out of his allotted stall, Gorgoth mounted and dug his heels in. Vorguz sprang forward and, within minutes, was leaving the Gold Road and striking out onto the long, rolling plains of tall grasses that dominated the coast. This was prime horse territory, the largely flat plains making cross-country speed easy to obtain. However, neither Gorgoth nor his horse was built for pure speed, and he was not pushing Vorguz nearly as hard as he could. The horse was named Fortune for a reason; he did not want to spit in the face of providence by killing the stallion through overwork.
Orc and horse made their way north under rolling clouds, passing abandoned forts, tiny hamlets, and sprawling Ayleid ruins. Sparse trees and scattered, low hills dotted the plain. After hours of travel, Gorgoth finally spotted what Rhano had described; a slightly thicker cluster of trees in the vicinity of a small hill. Dismounting and leading Vorguz up the slope, Gorgoth's lips twitched into a small smile as a statue of Malacath rose into view. Chiselled from rough granite, the Daedric Prince was portrayed as a thick, brutish, Orc-like creature, wielding a massive battleaxe, poised to strike. Strength emanated from the shrine.
Three Orcs were present at the shrine, regarding Gorgoth with critical gazes. One approached him as Gorgoth stopped to tie Vorguz's reins to a tree. "Greetings to you, friend Orc," he greeted, speaking in Orcish. Gorgoth nodded to him and returned the greeting in the same language. "You are welcome here. Are you here to worship?"
"I hope to summon," responded Gorgoth, straightening and looking up at the shrine, his face emotionless as always. "I will be ready to do our Lord's bidding. As always." The Orc worshipper nodded and walked away, leaving Gorgoth alone to approach the shrine.
Removing the troll fat from his belt bag, Gorgoth placed it at Malacath's feet and knelt. It did not take long for a response, the booming voice of the Daedric Prince reverberating within Gorgoth's head: "I greet you, loyal servant." Malacath seemed pleased, always a good sign. A look of reverence spread over Gorgoth's face; it was impossible not to react when in such proximity to his Lord. "It was a coward's work that brought you here, Gorgoth; workings of the weak and cowardly, too afraid to face you fairly. My will was that they should be punished. My will was enforced. They paid."
Gorgoth nodded, feeling the rare sensation of relief. He'd wondered whether Malacath would take him to task for the weakness that had brought him to Cyrodiil. Before he could think on it any further, Malacath spoke again: "I have a job for you, Gorgoth," he rumbled. "My little brothers, my ogres, have been enslaved by Lord Drad." Malacath's rage was evident; his sheer fury seared Gorgoth's head, forcing him to clench his teeth to keep from wincing. A show of weakness would not go down well here. "The poxy ash-skin claims he owns them," growled Malacath. "Works them hard in the mines, puts em in chains, makes me mad. Go to his estate. Get my ogres out of there, and Drad will get what he deserves." Malacath paused. "Do it now." His voice and presence faded from Gorgoth's mind, and the Orc straightened. His offering of troll fat was gone.
Turning, Gorgoth walked away from the statue, moving his legs carefully. When in the presence of Malacath, it was hard to avoid a slight shaking of the limbs in even the hardest and strongest of worshippers. Gorgoth made his way over to the nearest priest. "Do you know where Lord Drad's estate is?" he asked. Malacath hadn't been forthcoming with directions.
"To the southeast," replied the priest, pointing in the indicated direction. Through the trees, Gorgoth's sharp eyes could just make out the slate roof of a large house in the distance. A hill hid most of the estate from view, but Gorgoth could make out what appeared to be farmland. A curl of smoke rose from one of the chimneys. "Drad isn't appreciative of visitors," grunted the priest. A sparkle of humour appearing in his eyes indicated that he knew exactly what Gorgoth was going to do, and approved of it. Gorgoth nodded and walked down to untie Vorguz.
The stallion whinnied in protest at being forced to move again – the grass was good here – but a few words from Gorgoth and he started off without further complaint. No doubt the horse could feel the overwhelming exhaustion deep down within him, where Gorgoth's magic had buried it. Vorguz would have to be ridden gently on the way back to Cloud Ruler Temple, and damn the delay; Vorguz was a good horse, and Gorgoth wasn't about to kill him needlessly.
It didn't take long to reach Drad's estate. Stretching out in front of the house was a long, rolling belt of farmland, covering several acres. It wasn't big enough to make enough profit for Drad's kind of living, however; he had to have another source of income somewhere. Gorgoth reached the house and dismounted, tying Vorguz's reins to a fencepost. Patting the horse on the nose to soothe him, the Orc loosened his weapons and marched up to the door, his step determined and his face grim.
The entrance to the house was made through some engraved double doors, finely carved, made of high-quality wood. Gorgoth stopped before them, and, not even stopping to knock, put his boot through them. The power of his kick splintered the wood, and the doors flew open so quickly they banged off the stone walls. Moving in, the warrior-shaman marched quickly through to what appeared to be a large sitting room, where two Dunmer were rising from their seats, alarmed looks contorting their ash-grey features.
Lord Drad was slightly shorter than normal, wearing fine velvets and silk. His wife was similarly attired, in a dress so fine that it would not looked out of place at a high society ball in High Rock. All of this wealth was presumably gained from the enslavement of Malacath's ogres. Gorgoth's lip started to curl, and he savagely repressed his rising rage. Lord Drad's shock quickly turned into anger, despite the fact that the heavily-armoured warrior-shaman was towering over him.
"What is the meaning of this, Orc?" he demanded, hand going to the silver shortsword at his hip. The Dunmer was either bluffing or even more stupid that he looked; with his delicate, powdered skin, finely maintained hair, and soft demeanour, he had clearly never seen battle in his life.
"Shut up!" barked Gorgoth, kicking the table aside. It rolled into the wall and crashed to the floor, splintering in several places. The Orc stepped forward and shoved Drad back into his chair. Lady Drad stumbled backwards, hand rising to her mouth, and Gorgoth glanced at her, a mere look sending her falling back into her seat. Gorgoth turned back to Drad, who attempting to burrow his way into his seat, away from the approaching Orc.
"Malacath does not like it when you take what is his," said Gorgoth, his voice icy. Drad whimpered, unable to tear his gaze away from Gorgoth's cold, harsh eyes, which seemed to be boring into his skull. "You will tell me where you are keeping his ogres, or I will take you and your wife and torture you to death in your own cellar." His voice was emotionless, but his eyes were colder than the most ferocious Wrothgarian winter.
Drad sobbed in despair and buried his face in his hands, a dark wet patch spreading over his silk trousers. "I don't know any ogres of Malacath," he gasped, trembling. Gorgoth reached for him. "But... but I do have some ogres working for me in my mine," he squealed, desperately twisting his seat in order to avoid Gorgoth. It was to no avail; the Orc seized a handful of the Dunmer's shirt and dragged him out of his chair, lifting him so that they could see eye to eye.
"Where is your mine?" he asked.
"At the bottom of the fields," whispered Drad, his eyes wild with fear. "Go straight out of the door of the estate and keep walking; you can't miss the entrance." Gorgoth nodded and casually threw him aside, like he was discarding a rag used to clean his weapon. Drad few across half the room and crashed into a bookshelf. Gorgoth spared half a glance for Lady Drad on his way out. She was curled up in her chair, paralysed with fear. Exactly the reaction he'd hoped for. Those who so openly defied – insulted – Malacath deserved far worse.
Gorgoth left the house and started off through the fields, trampling the crops, hand on his mace. It took a few minutes to walk through the corn field, leaving a swathe of bent and broken stalks behind him, and eventually he was facing a rickety door – out of place, given the perfection of the estate – to Drad's mine. It was locked, but a few good kicks splintered the lock and the battered door swung open.
The mine was lit by several well-placed torches in brackets drilled into the stone walls. Their flickering light was reflected back by the armour on several of the guards who were turning to regard the intruder with suspicion and hostility. Swords rasped from sheathes, battleaxes were hefted, and the sparse furniture of the cavern went flying as Drad's guards moved swiftly to deal with Gorgoth, who was using his mace in his right hand and his dai-katana in his left.
The guards seemed well-trained, but ill-disciplined; mercenaries often were, lured only by the promise of wealth and, in some cases, glory. Working together, they would have been highly effective, but, as it happened, three took the lead, preventing the other four from reaching Gorgoth. Shouts from different throats raised the alarm, but the first seven mercenaries, ranging widely in race from Imperial to Argonian to Dunmer, were already doomed.
Gorgoth, casting without moving his hands, summoned a globe of pure light hovering above his head, bathing the cavern in its brilliant glow. Squinting in an effort to block out the sudden light, the first mercenary, an Imperial, was still struggling to see properly when Gorgoth neatly decapitated him. A Khajiit mercenary shoved the body aside and stabbed at the Orc with a short spear. Gorgoth sidestepped the lunge and smashed the mercenary sideways into his Breton companion. Both fell to the ground, the Khajiit never to rise again, shattered ribs penetrating his heart.
A Redguard roared a war cry as he swung an unwieldy battleaxe at Gorgoth's head. The warrior-shaman ducked and charged forward, butting the guard backwards, then spinning and slicing through an Imperial's chainmail to open up the flesh underneath. An Argonian attempted to stab the Orc in the back, only for Gorgoth to spin backwards and use his momentum to ram his mace up into the lizard's groin. He hit the roof of the cavern before dropping back to the floor, his pelvis and most of his spine shattered. The Redguard tried to attack again, only to find himself gaping stupidly at the dai-katana removing both his arms in a single smooth movement. His head followed a second later.
Two mercenaries were left after less than a minute of fighting. Footsteps rang on the stone floor of the cavern, indicating reinforcements, but the survivors, a Dunmer and a Breton, were exchanging nervous glances. Before they could even contemplate further, Gorgoth was between them, kicking the Breton's legs from under him while shattering the Dunmer's broadsword with a mace swing. After disembowelling the defenceless Dark Elf, the Orc turned and brought his mace down upon the head of the rising Breton, covering the silver head of his mace with blood and grey matter. Gorgoth had barely entered the mine, and already the floor was slick with blood. Bone fragments, bile, and brains littered the floor. Upon sensing reinforcements arriving, the Orc turned to face two startled mercenaries, both Imperial, who had arrived from a passageway.
For all their lack of discipline, the guards were brave. They didn't hesitate in drawing their longswords and moving towards Gorgoth, splitting up to come at him from both directions. The warrior-shaman had other ideas, and leapt at the nearer mercenary, swinging both weapons. His opponent blocked the dai-katana, but his shoulder was shattered by Gorgoth's mace. He fell to the ground, screaming in agony, clutching his shoulder. Gorgoth twisted to face the other guard, but too late; the Imperial's sword sliced across his back. The attack was too weak, and the sword too lacking in penetrative power, for it to break through the steel plate, but it left a significant dent. Gorgoth cursed. He was not wearing his Orcish battle plate; his normal fighting style would be exposing vulnerabilities in his lower-quality armour.
Three more mercenaries – two Dunmer and a Redguard – had joined the Imperial, but all looked shaken at the sheer amount of devastation that had been wrought by this lone intruder. Licking his lips, the Imperial opened his mouth to speak, possibly to bargain for their lives, but Gorgoth struck, dai-katana lashing out like a viper, slicing the Imperial's face in two at the nose. As his body fell, the Redguard vaulted over it, aiming a swing at Gorgoth's neck with his war axe. The Orc threw his dai-katana at one of the Dunmer, not even looking to see if his aim was true, and grabbed the Redguard's arm with his left hand, slamming him down to the cavern floor with enough force to crack his unprotected skull.
The two Dunmer slowly backed away from Gorgoth, throwing their weapons down, looks of terror in their crimson eyes as they surrendered. Gorgoth snorted contemptuously, raised his left hand, and sent lightning coursing through both of them. Surrender was a sign of weakness. As the blackened, burnt corpses collapsed, Gorgoth turned to the sole survivor, the Imperial with the destroyed shoulder, who was frantically crawling towards the exit. A boot firmly planted in his back halted his progress, and he moaned, sobbing in fear.
"Where are the ogres kept?" asked Gorgoth. His mace was bloody, and he ripped a strip of cloth from the Argonian's tunic to clean it.
"In two cages... one down each passage..." panted the guard. "Captain... has keys... please..." Gorgoth grunted and knelt, grabbing a fistful of hair, wrenching the Imperial's head up. His breath coming in short gasps, the wretched mercenary continued to plead for his life. Moving in front of him to get a clear view, Gorgoth placed his mace carefully on the ground and began gouging the Imperial's eyes out. The convulsions of the screeching Imperial almost jerked him out of Gorgoth's grasp, but the Orc was relentless, ignoring the agony of his victim. After digging the eyes fully out, he twisted them to sever the optic nerves, and carelessly tossed them aside. Blood from the Imperial's gaping eye sockets splattered his gauntlets as the Orc dragged the Imperial to his feet and healed his shoulder.
"Leave this place, and forever bear these scars to show others the penalty for defying Malacath," ordered Gorgoth, his voice cold, harsh. The mercenary may only have been working for Drad's gold, but that was no excuse for participating in the enslavement of ogres. Giving the groaning Imperial a push in the direction of the door, Gorgoth picked up his mace and dai-katana, washing blood off the latter, and sheathed them both. A search of the belts of the dead guards revealed a set of keys on the body of one of the Imperials, presumably the captain.
Walking down one of the passageways led to a small cavern, cut in half by a wall of steel bars, each one several inches thick. Squeezed into the small cell were three ogres, their thick grey hides bearing the scars of whips, their hands black from intensive mine work. They grunted in pain and shielded their eyes from Gorgoth's light. He immediately dimmed it; there was enough light to see from the torches. Moving quickly, he unlocked the barred gate and ushered the ogres out. With gleeful expressions, the massive creatures hurried out of the cell, each clapping the Orc on the shoulder with enough force to stagger him, thanking him in grunts. Gorgoth responded with a few words of encouragement in Orcish, but he doubted that they would understand.
Moving back to the entrance cavern, Gorgoth did not follow the ogres as they loped out of the mine into the waiting daylight. Instead, he turned and took another fork, leading to a prison identical to the other. Another three ogres were miserably contemplating another day's labour on the other side, and they staggered Gorgoth in their eagerness to rush past him and join their freed brethren outside. The Orc followed more slowly, and by the time he had left the mine, he could already hear the screaming from the house. His lips twitched into a grim, horrific smile. Drad was finally getting what he deserved. Walking up to untie Vorguz's reins, Gorgoth looked up as a window smashed. Drad had actually thrown himself out of a window in a desperate bid to escape, but an ogre had a firm grip on his belt, and dragged the howling Dunmer back into the room. Gorgoth grunted with satisfaction and mounted Vorguz.
It didn't take long to reach Malacath's shrine, and Gorgoth was soon once again ascending the hill to summon his Lord. The priests seemed slightly surprised to see him return so quickly, but greeted his recounting with harsh laughter and comments about Drad's unenviable predicament. Gorgoth continued on to kneel before Malacath.
"Good job!" barked Malacath, his mighty voice painfully exploding in Gorgoth's head. "No-one owns ogres but ME! Now that maggot is paying for his insolence!" Malacath laughed, the harsh sound sending waves of pain and ecstasy crashing through Gorgoth's mind. He kept his composure with some difficulty. "You always have been an effective servant, Gorgoth," continued Malacath. "Take this present. Keep up the good work. Stay strong." With that, the Daedric Prince faded, his presence leaving Gorgoth's head. The Orc forced himself to his feet, refusing to clutch at the shrine for support. His legs wobbled, and he forced them to straighten.
Lying on the shrine at Malacath's feet was a massive warhammer. Dwemer in design, Volendrung was an ancient, mighty weapon. The enormous head, forged from the finest steel available to the Dwemer, was heavy and designed to be the perfect shape to smash through any armour and crush bone and flesh. Two wicked spikes on each end of the head provided extra penetration. The haft was also steel, with grooves and engravings providing not only pleasing aesthetics but a good grip. Gorgoth placed both hands reverently on the haft and, in one movement, swung it onto his back, slotting it into the same belt that held his dai-katana in place. Despite his appreciation of the legendary weapon, Gorgoth could tell that he wouldn't suit it; it was far too heavy for him to effectively use in one hand, and he disliked weapons that could only really be used in two hands. They limited offensive opportunities. Besides, this weapon had a greater purpose; it would save Tamriel.
"My master wishes to convey his apologies that he could not attend this meeting in person; he has... business to take care of over the border."
Do'kazirr was relieved when Burzukh gro-Ghash nodded, accepting the explanation. "Time is a luxury," growled the scarred Orc, who was wearing full Orcish plate armour, a massive battleaxe strapped to his back. "It is inevitable that a leader cannot be everywhere at once. I understand your plight." The Khajiit and the Orc were standing in the middle of a large, high-roofed cavern, one of several that dotted the Blackwood. Several of Burzukh's followers, all Orcs, were active, dragging large, heavy chests to the centre of the cavern. Do'kazirr's sole companion was Jo'danirr, who was wearing a robe with extensive tribal symbols emblazoned on every square inch of the cloth. Do'kazirr himself wore his usual leathers, which gave limited protection while not sacrificing any mobility or obstructing his claws. Those who knew him would know that the war axe at his hip was just for show.
"This one is... interested to see what intrigues my master so much," observed the Khajiit as two of Burzukh's burly Orcs dragged another chest across the cavern floor. That made six now, and all were heavy, given the amount of effort the Orcs were putting into moving them.
"I find that simple matters work best," replied Burzukh, his thick Orsinium accent making some of his words hard to understand. His followers straightened, and each took a handle, ready to throw each chest open. "This is more simple than most." The Orc motioned for the chests to be opened.
Do'kazirr managed to keep from shouting in surprise, but he could almost hear Jo'danirr's jaw hitting the floor next to him. Shooting the mage a warning glance, the Khajiit warrior took several steps forward. Each crate was full to the brim with gold, both in bars and septims. No wonder the Orcs had struggled. "This... this is a king's ransom," stammered Do'kazirr. "How much is here?"
"Sixty thousand drakes," Burzukh told him, voice flat. "Thirty more if you bring me proof of the death of Gorgoth gro-Kharz. Double that if you bring him to me alive."
"Where is all of this coming from?" asked Do'kazirr, somewhat incredulous that someone would spend so much to capture or kill just one Orc. There was no possibility that all the money was Burzukh's; he was a soldier, a bandit, not a rich man.
The Orc smiled. "Let's just say that Gorgoth has enemies both high and low in Orsinium." He extended a gauntleted hand. "Do we have an agreement?"
Do'kazirr smiled. His master would be ecstatic.
A/N: Well, there it is. Hope it was worth the wait. Don't forget to review. Hopefully, I can get the next chapter up quicker than this one, but nothing's definite, and the extreme levels of coursework at the moment are slowly burying me. As a result, I feel that I could have written some of these sections a bit better... but tell me what YOU think by reviewing. Don't make me remind you again...
One more thing: it irks me somewhat when people alert this story, even put it on their Favourites list, without leaving a review. You've read the bloody thing and are interested enough to put it on a list, so WHY NOT REVIEW? I don't understand some people...