A/N: It's been a long time... four and a half weeks, in fact, since my last update. I could claim excuses (getting shafted into a work placement that kills my free time, my Metro alternator seizing at Silverstone, etc.), but a four-and-a-half week wait is inexcusable in my book. I can only apologise and try not to let it happen again. Still, thanks to those who reviewed:

Orion the Awesome: The Battle of Bruma won't be Chapter 45, as you'll see in this chapter, but it will be happening soon, for sure. And as for that list... well, it depends who you define as 'important'. And besides, not many main characters have died yet anyway...

Underpaid Critic: Chapter 42 review: Ah, non-fiction... that'll explain it, as I tend not to favour short, simple sentences in most cases. Anyhow, yes, I have something planned for Paradise... something I hope will be interesting. I think it's quite obvious that Kathutet might get involved somehow...

Chapter 43 review: Those conjunctions were actually unintentional... but it seems to have worked out fine, at least. And as for shocking/revealing... well, read on. ;)

Random Reader: Indeed, magic in vanilla Oblivion doesn't translate well into the world of written fiction. 'Mighty Magick' was certainly a damn good mod... and who knows what Gorgoth will do? He knows himself, but I doubt anyone else does, except me. As for Agronak, he's half-Imperial (as explained by Gorgoth many chapters ago); half-vampires are biologically impossible, at least in the TES universe, by my application of simple logic; if vampires are dead, then it should be impossible for them to procreate. He's probably SHORTER-lived, if anything, due to his Imperial blood, but he's still a damn good fighter and relatively young... but Mazoga doesn't think like that.

Rokibfd: Aye, it seems that every chapter might turn out fillerish until the Battle of Bruma unless I can sort things out... still, here's hoping I can get it right. and yes, Gorgoth's hardly likely to let his Guild slack in this time of crisis. The Archmage is around eighty-ninety, by my estimations, so she's probably got many centuries ahead of her, and highly unlikely to commit suicide... her apparent worry over the battlemages who fought and died for her is merely due to her extreme eccentricy (though Mannimarco might have pushed her over the edge and made her half-mad). Anyhow, yes, in the BaS universe I'll agree with Bethesda in that great magical power boosts lifespans... and yes, elves will be longer-lived, though I've applied my own translation to that. Altmer are longest-lived due to their selective breeding, Dunmer and Bosmer come next (not sure exactly; Barenziah's biography reveals that she could live for many centuries, but she's high-born nobility). Orcs are the shortest-lived elven race in my book due to their 'corruption', but they'll still live for nearly two centuries; Gorgoth for much longer, if he doesn't fall in battle, due to his magical power. And finally, since corprus is effectively a ticket to immortality (lucky Nerevarine), it wouldn't surprise me if corprus experiments had had an impact on Lord Fyr's lifespan.

As for those firm breasts, I agree and removed the 'firm'... changed that dagger as well, though sometimes I think I'm so removed from ingameisms that when I do actually use them they might not be associated with the game. Ah, well. And as for the Arch-mage... her weird speech is a result of her eccentricies, and no one truly knows what she's thinking about those who died, least of all the simple Nord sent to bring her a message. She might be expanded on in future, but for now she'll be a very confusing character... Anyhow, thanks for that review, though it appears that my reply has taken up most of the A/N. Again. XD

John the Awesome: Yes, I could make fights more bloody. Will I? Only if it helps the narrative. Gore for the sake of gore isn't one of my specialities. I do have a Youtube channel, but I won't reveal the name publicly (there IS a 'DualKatanas' on Youtube, but that's not me. They just stole my name. Bastards.) My favourite pizza topping is extra cheese, but the rest of those questions are highly irrelevant and will be ignored (though I'm tempted to explain why the sky is blue).

Keep the reivews coming, people, and I'll promise that I'll do my best to be quicker next time. Now, on with this long-awaited chapter:

Chapter Forty-four: Planning

It had been a long time since the Great Hall of Cloud Ruler Temple had ever hosted what might be called a council of war; no battles had been fought near the ancient stronghold of the Blades for many years. But now that a decisive battle was drawing close, Grandmaster Steffan had summoned the commanders of the various forces sent by the Cyrodilic cities to augment the Bruma City Guard. Martin was sitting in the high seat reserved for the Emperor at the head of the long table, his arms folded on the dark wood. In his tattered blue robe, he felt he looked almost out of place amongst the chainmail and plate armour, but he knew he belonged here. He hadn't asked for this destiny – it had been thrust upon him – but he wasn't about to deny who he was. An Emperor had to lead, and lead well.

He observed each of the commanders in turn. Two of the cities had sent their foremost captains – Ulrich Leland of Cheydinhal and Dion of Skingrad – but each had submitted their command to Captain Burd for now. Other cities had sent seconds-in-command or capable subordinates, each well able to keep his or her men under control. Every one of them had lost soldiers under their command to the hordes of Oblivion, but Bruma itself had suffered no harm yet. The Imperial forces were paying for time in blood. It could not continue for long, and nor would it; Countess Carvain had grudgingly given her consent to allow a Great Gate to open near her city in order to gain a Great Sigil Stone.

So far, the Imperial forces had closed any Gates before a Great Gate could be formed; the Daedra apparently needed to open three normal Gates before a Siege Crawler could be unleashed. But while the captains all agreed on what had to be done, few agreed on how it should be done. All of them had combat experience, but none had led men in battles much bigger than skirmishes with large groups of bandits. Captain Leland had been a centurion in the field Legions before transferring to the Cheydinhal City Guard, but Steffan had whispered in Martin's ear that most of the captains would never consent to submit to his command. It was rumoured that Leland was only in Bruma so that Count Indarys could put off dealing with his blatant corruption until after the war was over.

Leaning back from the vigorous conversation, he turned his head to regard Captain Renault, standing just behind his chair. "Any word of Gorgoth?"

"Plenty. But he isn't here yet despite the insistence of our message." The Breton's mouth was set in a thin hard line under her helmet. She had taken the duty of being his personal bodyguard today, and there were at least twenty off-duty Blades in the Great Hall, but with the threat of invasion, he would never be truly safe.

"I thought he knew his priorities better," put in Steffan, sitting at Martin's right hand. "We can't wait any longer, sire. Decisions have to be made."

"But is anyone here capable of drawing up a good battle plan?" Martin shook his head. "I don't want our forces to be slaughtered because of bad leadership. I've read every military manual in the temple-"

"With respect, sire, reading a few books does not make you a general." Steffan sighed. "Even Uriel V had to learn through experience, though he learnt very quickly."

"Enough." The heir's rising voice cut through the arguments of the captains as he rose from his seat. "Petty arguments are of no use to anyone. How many men do we have in total?"

"Four thousand trained soldiers, sire, give or take a few dozen," responded Burd, bowing his head. "Most are garrison troops from the cities, but there are at least a thousand sellswords among them of varying skill. We also have several battlemages, but..." he shook his head. "The Mages Guild hasn't moved."

"Roliand isn't back yet," Steffan told him. "Maybe he'll come back with a company of battlemages."

"Or maybe he'll-" Burd was cut off by the double doors swinging open. Gorgoth gro-Kharz marched in, bringing with him wind and snow until the doors slowly swung shut behind him. Despite his dirty, battered plate armour and a travel-stained fur cloak, he looked more of a warrior than any man at the table. His gaze swept the captains, taking in the situation before wordlessly making his way over.

"Took you long enough," remarked Renault as he eased himself down into a seat at the far end of the table. "What kept you?"

"Consolidating my rule. I would rather bring an intact Fighters Guild to the battle." The warrior-shaman took off his gauntlets before folding his arms.

"How many men have you got with you?" asked Steffan.

"Seventy Guildsmen from the Chorrol Guild, along with the twenty Guildsmen who were already in Bruma. If the other branches respond to my commands, you could have as many as four hundred."

Martin nodded. Four hundred trained fighters wouldn't go unappreciated, and now that Gorgoth was back the battle plans might actually get somewhere. "You know what we need?"

"A Great Sigil Stone. Logically, you would need a Great Gate for that." The Orc's hand rose to tap his canine. "From what I learnt from Ilend Vonius, a Great Gate can unleash hundreds of Daedra within seconds, and Dagon has learnt how to make better use of them." He gazed up and down the table. "There is going to be a battle. A big one. And we'll eventually be outnumbered no matter how many soldiers we have."

"Countess Carvain has agreed to let a Great Gate open near her city," Martin told him. "But we have no detailed plan of action. And no overall commander."

"Two essential things in any war." The warrior-shaman leaned back in his seat and looked Martin in the eyes. "I cannot command. I will be entering the Great Gate as soon as it opens. I cannot give orders from Oblivion."

"You can help us plan the battle," put in Steffan. "You have experience-"

"Experience at what, Grandmaster?" Gorgoth shook his head. "For much of the war, my father did all the planning with his experienced commanders. I was younger then. I just did as I was ordered. Apart from one battle..." A twitch at one corner of his mouth indicated what passed as a smile for the stoic Orc. "It didn't need much planning, however. My three thousand horsemen caught a Breton column of several thousand footmen on the march. Do you need plans for slaughter and butchery?"

"Even so, you're the most experienced battle commander here-"

"And I can get you someone better."

"Who?" Captain Dion was looking at the warrior-shaman with a curious expression on his face. "The Legion's field generals are beyond our reach. None of the Counts of Cyrodiil have battle experience. Who else is there?"

"My first thought would be for my father. Whatever else he is, he is one of the best generals Orsinium has ever had. But he would probably never leave our kingdom anyway. No, my recommendation is in the Imperial City. General Adamus Phillida."

Martin raised an eyebrow. He'd heard of Phillida – Jauffre had told him that he was a good general who had served in more wars than he could count – but he was old now, and soon to retire. "He didn't respond when we sent a message."

"The message you sent to Ocato. The High Chancellor forbade him to send any field legions to help Bruma. You didn't approach the General himself."

"How do you know he'll come?" asked Steffan. "He's been in the Imperial City for the last two years. He'll be retiring soon. Why would he come and help us?"

"His duty." Gorgoth stood, picking up his gauntlets and pulling them on. "Send a messenger directly to him. Mention me. He will come. I'm sure of it."

"We can't wait much longer, Orc," growled Captain Leland, glaring up at the warrior-shaman. "It's rare that a day goes by without a Gate opening. We lose men every day."

"And more men arrive to replace them. Strike only when you have every possible advantage. You can wait." The Orc paused. "Besides, you will have to. I am leaving you for a time."

Martin surged to his feet, his sharp voice cutting through the clamour of protests. "Gorgoth, you will stay here, in the Temple or in Bruma. That is an order. We can't lose you at this point."

Those cold amber eyes met the heir's gaze. "I will explain later. I know you will understand." Before the ex-priest could utter another word, the warrior-shaman was striding off in the direction of his quarters.

The Imperial watched him go. "Prepare a messenger," he told Steffan. "I'll dictate the message to Phillida myself."

"As you wish, sire. What about Gorgoth?"

"I'll talk to him later." Martin slowly sat, gazing at his interlocking fingers. No matter how much he thought he knew the Orc, he always managed to confuse him. What could possibly have managed to convince him that his place was away from where the climatic battle would be fought? The ex-priest shook his head. Gorgoth would need a good reason for leaving. A very good reason.

The warrior-shaman walked quickly and purposefully towards his chambers in the royal wing, letting no Blade distract him. He needed time to think; he would have to make sure Martin would let him go. He'd been planning what he had to do ever since he'd brought back a supply of Welkynd Stones from Miscarcand. Only when Captain Varsis stepped out in front of him was he forced to pay attention to what the Imperial was saying. "There's a man waiting for you in your quarters. Says he knows you."

"What did he look like?"

"A Breton, I think. Dark clothing, but nothing sinister. Claymore on his back. Looked like he knew how to use it."

"Why did you let him into the Temple?"

"He said he had vital information for you. I put four guards on your door, so there's no danger of his escaping."

"Very well." Captain Varsis nodded and left him. The warrior-shaman entered the Royal Wing, thinking over whom it might be. All the comrades he'd picked up in his travels around Cyrodiil were in Bruma; he'd seen most of them during his ride through the city, and besides, Glenroy would have recognised them. This might well be someone from his past, and he'd rather not let his past become common knowledge in the Temple.

Nodding to the four guards around his door, he commanded them not to let anyone enter before walking into his chambers and closing the door behind him, weaving a shield of Silence around the room to keep them private.

The Breton slowly rising from his chair was not someone the warrior-shaman recognised. He was slight of build, tall and slender, making the large claymore on his back look slightly incongruous. His clothes were fine black velvet, making his pale skin seem even paler. Lush brown hair pulled back into a ponytail gave an unobstructed view of a handsome face, and brilliant blue eyes stared at him without fear. When he spoke, the cultured tones of High Rock betrayed his birthplace. "Greetings, Gorgoth. It is good to meet you at last."

Narrowing his eyes, the Orc strode closer. "I do not recognise you. Maybe you had better remove that Illusion." He was powerful in most schools of magic, but Illusion was clearly his strong point; some of the shamans had told him that he might well be the most powerful Illusionist in Tamriel. That made it easy for him to sense the powerful disguise that this Breton was wearing. "It got you past the guards, but now I would prefer to look upon your true face."

A small smile plucked at the Breton's lips. "As you wish." The handsome face melted away, replaced by a grim visage many might call hideous. Pale skin was now even paler, as white as the snow outside and stretched taut over sharp cheekbones and a gaunt face. Deep wrinkles now lined the man's face, and those brilliant blue eyes were now a deep crimson. Gorgoth made no reaction except to glance towards the window. The late morning sun was thankfully hidden behind a cloud.

"I know of only one vampire that might have business with me," he observed, walking towards his table, casting an analytical eye over the creature. That slender figure took on a new meaning, but the claymore on his back no longer looked so ridiculous; the vampire would be more than strong enough to wield an Orcish warhammer in one hand, though his size meant that a good balance would be impossible to find. "Unless I am mistaken... what do you want with me, Valtieri?"

Vicente Valtieri's smile grew slightly wider, his fangs now fully visible. "The Black Hand say that they have accepted your... proposition."

"You are no mere messenger. And if that was all, they would have sent word to me months ago. Why are you really here?"

The vampire gestured towards an armchair. "May I?" Gorgoth nodded, taking the seat opposite from the Dark Brother. "You are correct. I am not here just to deliver a message." He leaned back in his chair, resting one booted foot on the opposite knee. "The war affects us all. If Dagon succeeds, he will not need the Dark Brotherhood. We will be extinguished like everyone else. I am here to fight by your side."

"Why? You could have stayed anonymously in Bruma until the climax. Why seek me out? Why fight by my side?"

"Because of who you are, of course." A grimace twisted Vicente's features. "It could not have been easy. But I share your pain."

Gorgoth kept his face smooth, giving no hint of the confusion he was feeling. "What are you talking about?"

"The Purification, of course." The vampire sighed. "It is... a hard thing to do, even for someone with your stoicism. I had to carry one out myself, long ago, and the pain is still with me."

The warrior-shaman drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. It was possible that the Black Hand... "What Purification?"

"Your Purification of the Orsinium Sanctuary, of course." Vicente frowned. "You were forced to kill everyone in the Sanctuary to deal with suspected informers. There has never been a Sanctuary in the Orcish lands since, but... you have served Sithis in your own way since then. And served him well, I have heard."

Gorgoth shook his head. "No, Vicente." He leaned forward. "There was no Purification of the Orsinium Sanctuary. Well, I killed everyone inside it, along with every Dark Brother or Sister in Orsinium, but I was not serving Sithis. Only myself." He remembered that episode of his life well; gaining access to the Brotherhood and the Sanctuary had been easy, given his talent for murder; he had only stayed there for two weeks, learning everything he needed, before summoning Kathutet and putting them all to the sword.

"I don't understand." The vampire's frown deepened. "You were thought to have much potential. That is why the Black Hand-"

"The Black Hand lied, Vicente." It seemed unbelievable even to him, but it had to be true if the old vampire had been misled. "Why would they reveal to the Brotherhood that their Sanctuary had been infiltrated and then completely destroyed by an Orc who then prevented them from setting up another Sanctuary until they finally learnt their lesson and stopped trying?" He stood, his voice rising. "Do you really think that I, a servant of my nation no matter the cost, would let a group of assassins pose a threat to Orsinium? Do you truly believe that I would forsake Malacath for Sithis?" He glared down at the vampire. "I would never serve the Brotherhood. And to hide their shame, the Black Hand passed it off as just another Purification." Snorting, he shook his head. "But, then, what would you expect from hired knives who like to pretend they have honour?"

The vampire surged to his feet. "I will not-"

"What? Stand there and let your precious upjumped guild be insulted?" Gorgoth walked up to Vicente and glared down at him, making full use of his extra foot of height. "What will you do? Draw that sword and kill the Hero of Kvatch, the last hope of Tamriel?" He smiled; a grim, terrible smile. "I welcome you to try; I haven't had a good challenge since I smashed Azani Blackheart's chest in. Come on, bare your steel and I'll decorate my chambers with some vampire dust."

A snarl was twisting the Dark Brother's features as he stepped back from the warrior-shaman. He wordlessly raised a hand and vanished in a brief flash of pink light. A few pink sparks danced around before fading, the legacy of a teleportation spell. The Orc grunted and sat back down in his chair, wondering if the vampire would stay for the battle. It didn't matter; he was deadly with a blade and skilled with magic from what he'd heard, but he was still only one man. This would be a battle of thousands.

Afterwards, the vengeful vampire might well try to track him down, but the creatures of the night had never worried Gorgoth. And he'd deserved the truth, if nothing else. The Black Hand might be getting a few probing questions in the coming days. But right now, that was no concern. He rose and entered his bedroom, searching the wardrobe until he found what he was looking for; a cache of several Welkynd Stones. They would be needed.

The midday sun might have finally come out from behind the clouds, but Aerin was still uncomfortably cold despite her thick cloak as she watched proceedings in the courtyard of Castle Bruma while leaning on the keep's outer wall. The clash of steel on steel was the prominent sound as the guardsmen honed their skills in readiness for the battles to come, but Ilend's deep, loud voice cut the air cleanly as he explained the details of fighting Daedra to his latest batch of students. Most were guardsmen from the cities of Cyrodiil; many had seen battle and most were good fighters, but even so, they were listening avidly. None of them wanted to gamble with their lives simply because they couldn't be bothered to listen.

Of course, Ilend himself hated the teaching, but he'd confessed to Aerin in bed the night before that at least he felt like he was doing something constructive. He'd said that if even one man survived because of what he'd been told, he'd be satisfied. And at the moment, the Imperial was keeping his displeasure well-hidden behind his mask of professionalism as he explained how a Dremora might fight with the help of a training dummy and a few volunteers.

Footsteps crunching through the snow drew her attention, and she turned to find an old friend striding towards her, a smile evident on his face. "Good ta see you again, Twitch-Tail," she told the Grand Champion, enthusiastically flinging her arms around him. He chuckled and returned the hug, squeezing her so hard she gasped in complaint.

"It's been too long, Aerin," he rasped, pulling back and prodding her nose. "I was getting bored stuck up at the Temple with only the Blades and Gnaeus for company. He's invisible more often than not these days." He moved to stand beside her, looking into the courtyard with an arm around her shoulder. From the tension in his arm, he was clearly trying very hard not to shiver in what would be extreme cold for him. "Still, I'm guessing what he says is true. Hope you're not tiring our Imperial friend out too much."

She giggled. "Only when he asks for it," she told him slyly. The Argonian barked a laugh.

"How long is he going to be freezing his arse off in there?" he asked.

The Bosmer shrugged. "He's got quite a few more classes before his next break," she said. "A few more hours at least."

"Well, he's not about to teach us anything, so..." The Green Tornado grinned. "How about buying me a drink?"

Aerin laughed as they started to walk away from the castle. "Piss off. How much have you earned?"

"Not twenty-five hundred drakes in a single day, you lucky treehugger." He nudged her in the ribs. "Yes, Lurog informed me of that. Not a bad payment, considering all you did was sit on a few corpses with a sword through your leg."

"At least I earned it honestly instead of prancing around in a glorified sandpit, Green Tornado." The Wood Elf managed a mocking half-bow while walking along. Saliith sniggered and pushed open the door to the nearest tavern. A wave of warmth and noise washed over them as they entered. The room was full of soldiers as expected, but at least there were a few free tables; only a minority of the men in and around Bruma were spending their times in taverns and inns. Most were practising. The Argonian shouldered his way over to an empty table and claimed a chair, his scale armour only rattling slightly as he dropped into the seat.

"So, what brings you down here from those lofty heights?" Aerin asked him as he called for two ales. "Too cold? Or did ya miss my pleasurable company?" She winked.

"Well, actually, I was intending to tell you to get your arse back up there. You don't have to pay for your beds, and the company's just as good, but..." He shrugged. "Now that Ilend's got an occupation, I'm guessing you'll be staying here with him."

"Yeah, ya got that right. He warms my bed."

The Argonian laughed bitterly. "Lucky you. I've had to start sleeping in front of the fire in the Great Hall just to survive the nights lately." He shook his head, starting to wrap his arms around himself before forcing them back onto the table. "I envy you warm-bloods sometimes."

"Yeah, well..." Aerin's voice trailed off as she spotted Lurog and Mazoga deep in conversation at a nearby table. Gorgoth's lover looked somewhat dejected, repeatedly shaking her head in response to her companion's conversation. Saliith followed the Wood Elf's gaze and grunted.

"She hasn't been herself for the last few days," he observed as the Orc got to her feet and strode from the tavern, leaving Lurog rubbing his chin, deep in thought. "Can't imagine why. When I asked her if anything was wrong, she nearly took my head off."

"Could be a lover's dispute," remarked the Bosmer. Saliith turned and met her eyes for a moment before snorting with laughter. Despite knowing both Orcs reasonably well, the notion of Gorgoth being involved in a conventional romance still seemed ludicrous. "Well, ya never know."

"Stranger things have happened. I think." The Grand Champion smiled at the arrival of their ale and buried his face in his tankard. After draining half the beverage, he sighed contentedly and leaned back. "Needed that. I've been training hard every day."

Aerin rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I think you try too hard, Twitch-Tail." She sipped at her ale.

"Some people still call me a paper champion, you know." The Argonian bared his teeth. "While I don't give a rat's arse about the Arena any more, I don't appreciate people thinking I got there by convenience. I want to improve until I can at least equal Agronak."

"Saliith, no-one can equal Agronak. Even Gorgoth might have trouble with him. I know ya want to be at your best, but..." She trailed off, noticing the lizard looking at something behind her with a pleased expression on his face. Twisting around in her chair to follow his gaze, a slow smirk spread over her face. "Ah. Talk of the Daedra, and he appears."

Agronak gro-Malog swung the door shut behind him and made his way over, removing his gauntlets. The last time Aerin had seen him, he'd been Grand Champion and wearing his Raiment of Valour. Now he was Blademaster and was wearing cured furs over steel chainmail and boiled leather, though the ebony scimitar hanging from his belt and the ebony shield on his back were the same he'd been using for the last few years. His stepping down didn't seem to have changed the half-Orc himself, however; he still moved with the same deadly grace, and his golden eyes were sweeping the tavern, analysing any potential threats. He hadn't reigned as Grand Champion for a decade by being careless.

His successor didn't wait for the half-Orc to sit, instead rising and grasping his forearms in greeting. "Good to see you, Agronak," he rasped, genuine warmth in his eyes.

"And you, Saliith," replied the Blademaster, nodding in greeting to Aerin before settling himself in a chair at their table. She'd never really spoken to the Grey Prince in the past, only a few words in passing; she'd been neither high-ranked nor skilled enough to attract his attention, and his training regime had given him little free time. However, her Argonian friend had most likely spoken about her at great length at some point. "I told the Arena of your proposal."

"And?" asked Saliith eagerly, leaning forward and gripping his tankard tightly.

"Some thought I was mad. Ysabel thought that you had brainwashed me and threatened to skin you and wear you as a cloak. But as most of the fighters live in awe of me, they listened." The half-Orc smiled. "Some even acted. I've got forty-odd gladiators with me. They vary in quality, true, but it's better than nothing."

The Green Tornado clenched a triumphant fist. "Most definitely better than nothing," he chuckled. He had good reason to be pleased; forty gladiators represented at least a third of the Arena's strength, and some would be good warriors. "There are no beds to be found in the city, though, not any more. You'll have to camp outside the walls."

"Already taken care of. I've put Aronar in charge of setting up the camp. You know, that Altmeri Hero? Good with his knife-work and better with his Mysticism." Saliith nodded in recognition. Aerin had never heard of the gladiator in question, but most likely he was only known widely by his Arena name. "I doubt many will spend their nights there, though. They've got gold to spend; most likely they'll end up in the beds of whores."

"Dralasa will have a night ta remember," muttered Aerin, sniggering slightly. Agronak gave her a curious sideways glance.

"Well, the whores are certainly profiting, as is just about every armourer and innkeeper in the city," said Saliith. "Prices would be even higher, but the Countess has prevented them from profiteering too much in this time of crisis. Means the soldiers love her, and even the whores and shopkeepers have no real cause for complaint given how well they're doing."

"Seems fair enough. Food prices in the City are through the roof given that most farms are either deserted or burnt." The half-Orc shrugged, then grinned as thought just remembering something. "Those two fans of yours are here in Bruma. Not that fan," he added hastily as the Grand Champion started from his seat with a look of alarm on his face. "Those two Argonians. I can't really call them children any more now that they're Bloodletters."

"Bloodletters? Impressive at their age..." Saliith sighed. "But Huzei is closer to eighteen than nineteen. Neesha is barely sixteen. They've got no place on battlefields as bloody as these."

"Put the question to them. Neesha's taken to collecting ears. I think they've seen enough blood, my friend."

"In the Arena, one enemy at a time, with crowds to love them." The Green Tornado shook his head in disgust. "You know what battles is like, Agronak, I'm sure. They're not ready for that."

"You should have tried stopping them. I couldn't; they threatened to ride off on their own if I didn't take them." The Grey Prince raised his hands in defence. "And no, I wasn't about to tie them up and leave them in the sewers, or chain them to their mother's bed. They'd have found a way out. They looked determined."

Saliith sighed again and pounded his fist on the table. "Fine. Where are they? I'll need to find them places to stay; if they're here, I won't have them freezing to death before the battle's even started." Aerin grunted in sympathy; if she thought it was cold in Bruma, it would be much worse for the cold-blooded Argonians. She didn't know of any that lived in Bruma on a permanent basis for that reason, and she'd seen very few in the streets.

"Helping Aronar set up camp. A willing pair of hands, as they're one of the few gladiators not interested in prostitutes. And yes, I made sure there were braziers nearby."

The Argonian rose to his feet abruptly. "Then I'll meet them. Aerin, you're at the Snowdrift Inn, correct?" She nodded. "Good. I'll meet you there after sundown for another drink. Until then." He tossed a coin down onto the table and walked out into the streets.

Agronak called for an ale before leaning his elbows on the table and turning to regard her. "You're the girl with the enchanted bow, correct?"

"My greatest accomplishment," she remarked wryly. Around the Arena, she'd been commonly known as 'the girl with that bow' among other less polite things.

If the former Grand Champion had detected her tone, he displayed no signs of it. "That would be good when facing Dremora. I've fought some in my time, and many weapons are useless against that armour."

"Yeah, I've feathered a fair few," responded Aerin nonchalantly, taking a few more sips of ale. It was strong and crude, but she was growing to like the taste.

Agronak's mouth twitched. "Ever think about returning to the Arena?"

The Bosmer snorted. "Sometimes. Whenever I do, I call myself an idiot ta think such stupid thoughts." Her eyes met his. "The Arena got me money that I needed. But now... I don't need it any more. And soon I'll have the home I've never known since I left my father."

The Blademaster was nodding in understanding. "If you survive."

"I intend to."

Gorgoth stood on the outer wall of Cloud Ruler Temple, alone with his thoughts as he watched the sun start to dip behind the peaks to the west. He'd kept to his chambers for most of the day, thinking over what he would tell Martin. It was vital that the Emperor allow him to leave; as a Blade, he would not disobey a direct command from his Emperor no matter how much it inconvenienced him. Briefly, he thought of the oath he'd sworn to Jauffre at the old Breton's deathbed, but dismissed it; the Emperor would still have use of him until he was crowned, and until then the warrior-shaman would remain a Blade.

The sound of boots crunching through the snow turned his head slightly. An almost imperceptible shimmering appeared in the air next to him, the gravelly voice of Gnaeus Magnus emanating from empty space somewhere around the level of his chest. "You seem deep in thought, greenskin."

"Is my green skin so transparent?"

"No. It just seems to me that an elf like you wouldn't waste time watching mountains grow. So you're thinking." The old ex-hermit snorted. "I hear you might be leaving."

"We will see."

"So you'll abandon us just before the most climatic battle in this bloody war." The Imperial's voice had a hard, bitter edge to it. "And people call me callous. I never took you for a coward, Orc."

"I am no coward." Gorgoth's gaze returned to the distant mountains, their snow-capped peaks shimmering in the rays of the setting sun. "I will always do my best for the cause. Always." He turned, looking the Imperial in the eyes – or at least where he thought his eyes were – and taking a step forward. "My actions might be beyond your comprehension now, but you are a fool if you think I will abandon you."

"That's exactly what you're doing," growled Gnaeus through gritted teeth. "Sodding off alone on the eve of battle to Divines know where? A true hero would lead those who idolise him, not fuck off and leave them to get slaughtered while he finds something more important than the entire bloody realm." The Imperial spat and turned on his heel, stalking off towards the Great Hall.

The Orc turned back to watch the mountains, folding his arms. Inevitably, many would misunderstand him. Martin, however, had the Dragon Blood of the Septims; he would see more than lesser men. But would he have the wisdom to allow his champion freedom of action? Gorgoth shook his head. Only time would tell.

More footsteps turned his head once again. Baurus stepped up to stand beside him, his face still and emotionless as he surveyed the countryside. "Martin wants you. He's in the Great Hall." The Orc nodded and started off in the direction of the hall, the Redguard falling in beside him. It was likely that the young Blade was feeling something similar to Gnaeus, though he wasn't making his thoughts known. A few of the Blades huddling around the braziers shot them glances before concentrating once again on keeping warm as the sun's heat started to desert them.

Shoving the doors open, the warrior-shaman walked into the Great Hall, leaving Baurus to cut off the biting wind. Inside, Martin beckoned to him from his seat by the fire, with Grandmaster Steffan standing at his right shoulder. Also in the hall were about forty off-duty Blades trying to look inconspicuous, along with Saliith and his two young protégés. After failing to find them a warm enough place to stay in the city, the Grand Champion had persuaded Captain Varsis to let the two of them sleep with him in front of the fire.

The ex-priest was keeping his face smooth and unreadable as Gorgoth approached. "You're the Hero of Kvatch," he told the Orc. "You give hope and inspiration to our army and you're one of the most potent weapons we have. And who else has any chance of surviving a Great Gate?" He shook his head. "We need you, Gorgoth. Why would you leave?"

Stiffening his back and folding his arms, the warrior-shaman looked around the hall before answering. "We have around forty-five hundred men, with hundreds more coming soon. Good soldiers, yes, but few have seen pitched battle, and even fewer have fought Daedra. They will need experience to better stand up to a Daedric battle line." He paused, meeting Martin's eyes. "If we wait, they will again that valuable experience. Yes, some will die, but they will be replaced by the men still to come. We all know that our forces are sufficient to keep the Gates around Bruma suppressed."

"Yes, we can hold back the Daedric tide for a while yet," interrupted Steffan, his face hard behind his helmet's cheek guards. "That doesn't answer the Emperor's question."

"No, it does not. I am merely telling you that our forces will not collapse in my absence, and that waiting would be beneficiary. As for me..." The Orc pulled a Welkynd Stone from his belt back. Martin quirked an eyebrow as he took in the glowing blue crystal. "I brought several of these back from Miscarcand. You know of their uses?"

"I do," responded the heir, looking thoughtful. "One can fully restore your magical pool, but with sufficient expertise, they can be used in complex spells as well..."

"Yes. One such use would be to briefly increase your magicka reserves past normal levels." A steel-clad finger tapped the crystal. "Tell me, Martin, do you know of the Mark and Recall spells?"

"I've read about them," replied the Imperial, frowning. "They're rare, however. I don't know them myself..." He leaned forward slightly in his seat. "You have a Mark?"

"I have been unable to Recall to it since I left Orsinium. The magical power required was beyond even me. But with this..." The corner of Gorgoth's mouth twitched. "Martin, I intend to go home." Home. It was almost a foreign concept to him at times.

"Orsinium?" Steffan's face twisted into a grimace. "Your fight is here, Gorgoth, not thousands of miles away."

"I know. I will return." The Orc's hard eyes bored into Martin's. "I would not be going if I did not think it vital."

"What do you think you'll find there?" asked Captain Renault, previously unnoticed from her position near the fire. "King Gortwog has his forces mostly mobilised, but many of them are abroad helping the Bretons. He has controlled the Crisis in Orsinium, true, but he will not weaken his kingdom, not for you."

Gorgoth turned to meet her gaze and smiled. She visibly repressed a shudder. "And that, Knight Captain, is where you are wrong." He turned back to the Emperor. "Redguards can claim to be whatever they want, but Orcs are the best soldiers in Tamriel. Our forces here are competent, but few are elite. I can bring you back several hundred of the best warriors in the world. I know it."

Steffan looked sideways at his Emperor. "We could use a few shock troops," he muttered.

Martin rose to his feet, meeting the Orc's golden gaze. "How long would it take you?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"If everything goes as I have planned it, little more than a week. I will return through Skyrim. Orcish cavalry can move very quickly if we take the right measures." Memories rose unbidden in his head, memories of long dashes across rolling plains with a strong warhorse between his legs. "But if it is a week, two weeks, a month... I will return. I swear it. I will not abandon this cause. It is worth fighting for." He nodded grimly. "It is worth dying for."

"That's the first sensible thing you've said since entering this hall, greenskin," snorted Gnaeus, having entered the Great Hall unnoticed. He harrumphed as various Blades looked around, trying to locate the source of his disembodied voice. "You bugger off to Orsinium and come back with a few hundred Orcs... what of it? The time to strike is now." He moved forward, his footsteps and the shimmering of the enchantment betraying his presence as he stepped up to confront the Orc. "You've been a whirlwind since I first met you, never wasting time, never turning aside... well, now that we can finally make a move, you want to delay." He spat. "You forgot about the Dragonfires?"

Martin nodded. "He has a point. Every hour the Dragonfires are dark is another hour where the magical seals have weakened. Can you justify any delay?"

"Yes. If we rush into this battle without being fully prepared, we will die, and Tamriel will die with us." He looked around the Great Hall, meeting the eyes of his comrades. "We are forty-five hundred men, without a clear plan of action and without any significant number of battlemages. Wait a week, and we will have battlemages, we will have an experienced general, we will have far more experience... and then, maybe then, we will be ready to face the numberless hordes that Dagon can throw at us." His unwavering gaze returned to the Emperor. "I don't know how long I will be in the Great Gate. This army will have to survive until I get the Great Sigil Stone or all is doomed." He shook his head. "At the moment, I am not confident in victory, and no intelligent man would be. Martin, you must let me go."

The ex-priest turned away and stared into the fire. Silence fell in the Great Hall. Gorgoth folded his arms and waited patiently as the man he had sworn an oath to unconsciously stroked his chin, deep in thought. After a few minutes, the heir turned and fixed the Orc with his piercing blue gaze. "Swear that you will be back within ten days."

Gorgoth nodded without hesitation. "I swear on my honour that I will do my utmost to return within ten days." Those words were steel to him; some would consider their oath something to be broken if faced with hardship, but Gorgoth was nothing without his honour. If he ever broke his word he would have no choice but to fall on his sword. He would get back within ten days or die trying.

"Then go." The Imperial moved forward to stand directly in front of him, the drop in tension palpable as the watching Blades realised that their Emperor and their Hero were not about to disagree. "Go and return with whatever aid you can find. Go with my blessing. And... good luck." A wry smile plucked at Martin's lips. "I know what you're going to face back in Orsinium."

The warrior-shaman grunted. He was right; while nothing would distract the Orc from his mission, he wouldn't pass up the chance to see a certain man about a certain price on his head. "The sooner I leave, the better," he claimed, holding up the Welkynd Stone.

Nodding, Martin motioned to Baurus, who saluted and moved to stand at his right shoulder. "I'll want a few words first. In private." Without waiting for a response, he started off in the direction of his chambers, his bodyguard shadowing his every step. Gorgoth took a lingering look around the Great Hall before following. Renault stepped out of the dispersing crowd to block his way, placing a hand on his arm.

"Be careful, Gorgoth," she warned him, a worried look visible from behind her helmet's cheek guards. "I know what you'll be walking into when you go home."

He shook his head. "No," he said, his voice quiet. "You don't." He removed her arm and continued after Martin, ignoring her frustrated grunt. Her spy network might have given her more information than he was comfortable with, but she would never know what it felt like to be at war with her own father.

The ex-priest didn't stop until he reached the door to his chambers, telling Baurus to wait outside and guard the entrance as he invited Gorgoth in, closing the door behind them. Folding his arms, the warrior-shaman looked around the spacious antechamber, which had changed little from his last visit. Papers and books about Daedra were strewn across the large table, and Volendrung was leaning against the wall next to the doorway to the Emperor's bedchamber. Goldbrand was being used to pin down several maps, showing no signs of the battles it had been in over the past few months.

Martin stepped over to his window, watching the setting sun intently for a few seconds before turning back to the Orc. "How do you feel about the Divines?" he asked bluntly.

One of Gorgoth's eyebrows twitched. "I respect the power that they can wield, but they will never be my gods."

The heir chuckled, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Ironic, then, that the Nine have chosen you to be their champion. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it first-hand. The Nine do move in mysterious ways sometimes."

Gorgoth snorted. "Gods are confusing to all of us sometimes, but I doubt I would be the champion of the same Divines who have every reason to hate me." He would have called himself the champion of Malacath, but that Daedric Lord was as unpredictable as any god, even for a follower as devout as Gorgoth.

"I was confused at first as well," admitted Martin. "When I was praying for hours in the Chapel of Akatosh during the Battle of Kvatch, I had never imagined what form our saviour might take. I might have even suspected that the divine intervention would be direct and obvious." He shook his head with a rueful smile. "But the gods are more subtle than that. They sent us you, a devotee of Malacath. A hard, cruel Orc, considered by many to be someone to be hated and feared rather than respected. But you are the answer to the prayers that everyone offers up to the Nine." He moved closer, meeting the Orc's gaze, his voice strong with conviction. "Who else could you be? Dagon, a Daedric Lord, is invading Nirn, the realm of the Divines. They have to respond; normally they could watch mortal affairs from afar and take action only if it pleased them, but now the very existence of what they created is under threat. So they sent us a champion in our hour of need. You."

The warrior-shaman returned the Emperor's intense stare, tapping a canine. He was speaking sense, unlike many of the priests of the Divines that the Orc had come across in the past. And the Imperial had never been prone to religious delusion in the past, instead seeming to be a man who could well be the makings of a good Emperor. "You might be right," he grunted. "But what is your point? I will not betray Malacath merely because I could be the champion of your gods."

"Renault gave me the idea that you'll need all the help you can get in Orsinium," replied Martin, grimacing. "Whatever else I am now, I used to be a priest, and I can still give you the blessing of the Nine. It might give you a vital edge-" he cut off as Gorgoth held up a fist.

"No. I do not doubt the power of the Divines, but I am not so desperate for help that I would accept their blessing. Malacath would frown on it." He shook his head and overrode the heir's protest. "I will not bend on this. Your gods are not my gods. Leave it at that."

Martin nodded reluctantly. "I thought you'd refuse." He sighed. "Is there anything you need before you leave? Any messages...?"

"No. There is nothing I need to say." The Orc's fist clenched around the glowing Welkynd Stone. "Ten days. I will return."

The Emperor's smile was grim. "I hope so." He stepped back, returning to the window. "Don't let me keep you. I know how much you value time..."

Gorgoth nodded and focused on the crystal in his hand, pushing Martin from his mind as he concentrated on the spell. Recall was simple enough for someone of his expertise, but drawing power through a Welkynd Stone was something he had never done before. He reached out in his mind to the magical power pulsing in his grasp, delicately starting to siphon the ancient Ayleid magic into the spell that was starting to form in his right hand. Connecting the spell to his Mark, back in his house thousands of miles away in Orsinium, he started to add his own considerable magical reserves to the spell, feeling the sheer cost of the long-distance magic starting to drain him dry. The crystal grew brighter in his hand, the light growing in intensity until it outshone the setting sun. Martin winced and turned away as the warrior-shaman forced his last reserves of magicka into the spell.

The Welkynd Stone shattered, spraying shards of blue crystal everywhere, but the Orc had already disappeared, momentarily racked by the extreme discomfort of teleportation before reappearing in a shower of pink sparks. He staggered, putting a hand out to steady himself against the cold stone walls. As expected, the massive drain of magicka had exhausted him, but he kept himself upright through sheer force of will, closing his eyes until the sense of disorientation eased. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and slowly looked around, forcing his breathing back to normal.

He was standing in the centre of a tiny room, bare of anything but stone walls, an oak door, and crystals embedded in the ceiling to provide some light. The change in temperature – it was significantly colder here than it had been in Martin's chambers – had immediately told him that the spell had been successful, but it was still good to see the inside of his teleportation room. To prevent him accidentally teleporting into anything, he had laid the room aside purely for the purpose of teleportation when his house was built. Some had called it drastic, but those people would not have heard of the Telvanni who had killed himself and one of his servants, who had happened to be standing on one of the wizard's Marks.

Forcing himself to stand straight, the warrior-shaman stepped up to the door and pushed it open, stepping out into the ground floor of his house. While most of the buildings in the city of Orsinium were nothing but basic mud huts, Gorgoth had helped plan the building of his own home, a three-floor stone building located halfway between the Palace and the South Wall. It had cost him most of his money at the time, but he had everything he would ever require from a place of residence, including an expansive training yard. Right now, however, all he desired was the security and rest offered by his large reinforced bed.

He moved down the corridor and entered the long entrance hall, which consisted of the two large doors that was the main entrance, along with a spiral stairwell allowing access to all three levels. Everything was stone or wood, simple and stark in design; there was none of the elaborate and pointless ornamentation that might be found in the homes of most Bretons. The warrior-shaman stepped up to one of the few windows and looked out; the sun was slightly higher in the sky than it would be back in Bruma, giving light enough to show him that what he could see of the city was largely unchanged. Satisfied, he turned and left the hall; the inevitable barrage of letters lying outside his locked door could wait until he was rested.

Entering the larger sitting room, he gazed around, noting the good condition of the large, strong, well-padded armchairs and the sparse mantel that lined the wall above the large fireplace. The Orc noted with approval that the bare stone floor was clean and the ashes in the fireplace were no more than a week old. Yagorz was keeping the place well-maintained, even in his master's absence. The unheated air was cold, colder than anything the Orsimer had experienced since leaving his homeland; while the well-insulated walls would keep the worst of the winter chill out, lesser men would be shivering violently.

A rustling in another doorway caught Gorgoth's attention, and he turned to nod in approval as one of his resident skeletons marched through the door, mace and shield held ready to deal with any intruder. Upon recognising the man who had reanimated it, the undead warrior lowered its weapon and made a jerky half-bow. The warrior-shaman had four such skeletons guarding his property; all had been strong Orcs in life, and his reanimation had been careful, preserving their strength while adding magical forces that would make them an even greater threat. Steel plate armour and well-forged weapons, along with their restless spirit and undying energy, made them excellent guards and the source of several tales told by nearby mothers to keep children away from his residence.

"Have there been any intruders in my absence?" asked the warrior-shaman. While the skeletons could not speak, they could understand Orcish speech, and could make rudimentary responses with signs.

The undead warrior shook its head, but then pointed behind Gorgoth into the hallway and mimed writing. He'd been left a lot of letters outside the door, but that was to be expected.

"Where is Yagorz?" he inquired. His slave would know to feed himself and maintain the house, but Gorgoth had never left for so long without notice before. The skeleton pointed to the doorway it had come from, then mimed shovelling food into its mouth. Nodding, the warrior-shaman waved a hand, dismissing his minion to go about his duties while he went to check on his slave.

Yagorz was, as reported, in the kitchen, slowly chewing and swallowing a small roll of cheese. The large, heavily-built Orc's grey woollen tunic was soiled and stained, but at least he seemed well-fed and in good health. His dull yellow eyes stared blankly ahead as he mechanically ate, not reacting to his master until Gorgoth stepped up beside him to pull open one of the cupboards to retrieve a hunk of bread.

The Orcish slave was over a decade younger than his master – Gorgoth did not know his true age – but he looked older. His black hair was lank and matted, hanging loosely to his shoulder blades, and his dull eyes were deep-set in a face that was more yellow than green. He turned to regard his master with an expression devoid of any feeling or intelligence, swallowing the remainder of his cheese.

"Go and fetch the letters outside the front door," the Orsimer commanded him. "Take them to my bedchamber, but lock the front doors behind you again first." Yagorz nodded mutely, mechanically wiping away the slight trickle of drool running down his chin as he turned to obey. His master watched him go, gnawing on his hunk of bread. It was almost stale; he'd have to get more supplies soon enough.

He'd first met Yagorz three years ago, shortly after taking Blood King from his own father. The Orc had been a young boy alone on the road, abandoned after his parents had been killed by bandits. Gorgoth had been on the way back to the cities with some of his mercenaries, and Lurog had suggested they take him in and train him as a warrior, while Burzukh had recommended that they kill him as a mercy, but instead the warrior-shaman had taken Yagorz back to Orsinium and into his newly-built house.

He had never bothered to lean anything more than the young Orc's name, and Yagorz had not volunteered anything else before the warrior-shaman had begun his experimentation. Over the days that followed, Gorgoth had tested out numerous theories and spells on the boy's mind, warping and twisting it beyond recognition until he had lost all power of free will and speech, among other things. Realising his value as an utterly loyal servant incapable of betrayal, Gorgoth had kept him alive instead of killing him out of hand, and had turned him into a slave capable of obeying most of what his master told him to do, but little else. He could survive for a long time provided he had a supply of food and drink, but his master had not let him out of the house since he had first entered; the world was no place for him now. Slavery was illegal in Orsinium, but making him a paid servant would be pointless.

Stuffing the last of his bread into his mouth, the Orc started off in the direction of his basement, nodding in greeting to another of his skeletons on the way there. The underground part of his house was used almost entirely for storage, including something he had been desiring ever since he had been freed from the Imperial prison. That desire had been easily suppressed by both his discipline and the impossibility of retrieving it, but now that he was back in his home, there was nothing to stop Gorgoth gro-Kharz once again armouring himself like a true warrior of Orsinium.

Prior to the fateful events that had seen him defeated by deceit and taken from Orsinium, the warrior-shaman had maintained two identical suits of armour. Some had wondered over his decision to have an expensive spare forged, but now he was vindicated; his first suit had been captured by the Imperials and broken up for scrap. While it was an undignified end for such an impressive suit, Gorgoth doubted there had been much choice in the matter; few Imperials would be able to wear his armour, let alone move in it.

He manoeuvred around the barrels of food that reached the ceiling of his basement and walked up to the armour stands, noting with approval that Yagorz hadn't let any part of it grow dusty. Like many Orcs, Gorgoth's armour had three layers; the first was thick boiled leather that would fit between his clothing and his armour, preventing any chafing and providing some protection from what few attacks would penetrate the outer layers. On top of that, he would wear heavy steel chainmail, offering formidable protection by itself. Lurog had been wearing similar chainmail during all his time in Cyrodiil, and had yet to take a serious wound.

The outermost layer, which would take the most punishment, was thick steel plate over two inches thick. It was forged by master armourers using steel created from the finest iron of the Wrothgarian mountains, giving the metal a grey hue that was so dark that most people mistook it for black at first glance. Unlike his leather and chainmail, which were simple in design, Gorgoth had overseen the design of his plate armour himself. He had instructed the armourers to make it as efficient and sturdy as they could, but had also told them to make it as terrifying to behold as possible. They had succeeded.

His armour was without ornamentation, with no sigil or symbol, and the only enchantment was on the helmet, but he needed no magic for it to be effective. The jagged angles and multiple straight lines of folded steel running down his breastplate made him appear even taller, and the wicked spikes protruding from the pauldrons and elbows made the effect even more intimidating. His gauntlets bore no spikes, but the force of his punch combined with the heavy steel and sharp edges would make any blow with his fist devastating nonetheless. The helmet was similar, with the straight lines creating an ominous visage, reinforced by the two eye holes that seemed to be drawn down in a silent glare. A crown of tall spikes topped the helm, adding several inches to his height. Two holes in the back of the helmet would allow his war braids to flow freely down his back, but they and the eye holes were the only openings in the complete suit. To augment the slightly limited vision, the warrior-shaman had enchanted the helm with a powerful detect life spell that was refined enough to let him know exactly what he was fighting even if he couldn't see much of them.

Gazing upon his armour, Gorgoth felt a small smile curl the corner of his mouth. He would no longer have to put his trust in the unreliable and relatively light plate armours he had made use of in Cyrodiil. Now he could know with confidence that he could shrug off sword-strokes, allowing him to focus almost entirely on his attack. He started stripping off the steel he had acquired at Cloud Ruler Temple, dropping the various parts on the floor until he was clad only in his old, ragged furs. Tomorrow, he would go to the palace and deal with the fate of Tamriel, but tonight he would rest and know that he would once again be armoured as a proud warrior of Orsinium.

A/N: If you're having trouble visualising Gorgoth's armour, it's a bit like Sauron's armour in the LOTR films (that's what I meant by the straight lines and folded metal, etc.)(and note that Gorgoth's armour is a lot darker grey than Sauron's). Of course, it's sometimes hard to find the words to describe what your eyes can see so simply... anyhow, be sure to tell me what you think in a review, and I'll be sure to try and speed up my writing again. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.