"By Malacath," The disbelief on the old orc's turned him pale. Tusks hung freely from his open maw, trembling at the sight of Zhrahl. "So it is true. You're back."

"It seems that I am, Gorbash," Zhrahl put his hands on his hips, looking the Orc up and down. He smiled, "Did you miss me?"

"Come here you half-breed sack of shit," Gorbash rushed him. Big and bulky as he was with his steel armor, nothing could stop him from embracing his old friend. His burly arms scooped the leaner yet much taller Half-Orc into the air. He squeezed him tightly, making sure that this wasn't some illusion and it was really the little squirt. All the other men in the Legion Camp looked at them strangely, but warmly. This was a reunion between army brothers. Some aren't so lucky to have such reunions.

"I missed you too," He cheekily admitted as he pushed briefly patted his friends' head. Zhrahl got a good look at Gorbash gro-Dushnik as he was set down after a full ten seconds of the embrace. It was still certainly Gorbash. He had his horns, though they seemed more aged than before. His skin, distinct from others of his green-skinned race with his dark, human-like color, seemed to grow more sallow and wrinkled.

Gorbash was mature when he entered into the service of the Empire before the Great War. Orcs didn't live long, but aged slowly as they got older like other Mer. Or more accurately and more insultingly, like dogs. Elder Orcs remained strong until their journey for a good death. Zhrahl silently mourned as he realized Gorbash was nearing the time when he needed to start his journey.

Damn. It really has been eleven years.

"So, pipsqueak, where have you been all this time?" Gorbash put a hand on Zhrahl's shoulder affectionately. Gorbash treated him like a little brother since he first joined the Legion. Back then, he was shorter. Scrawny, for an Orc, but soon he outgrew most of his kinsmen. Gorbash was tall for an Orc but Zhrahl was taller. Still, he could help but notice that his friend has shrunk, if only for an inch.

"On the sea." He answered with a sly smirk.

"Last I've heard you were working with the Imperial Navy to extract the last of our kin from the fight Argonia…"

"That I was,"

"And that took eleven years?" Gorbash cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes, apparently," Zhrahl moved Gorbash's hand off him and placed in it a tusk with markings all over it. "From Bulgrok."

"He didn't… he didn't come back with you?"

Zhrahl shook his head. "We were attacked on the sea by… well, Intelligence is still trying to figure out what exactly we were attacked by. Bulgrok got pulled overboard during the fight along with half the crew and men."

"Then he died in a good fight. Malacath will take him."

"Malacath will take him." He repeated back as he stared off, "After the fight, we sailed back with our losses. When we were on the waters for a few months but when we came ashore on Leyawin's docks, ten years had passed. Afterwards, was sent up here as the year passed."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"You didn't expect to come back to this, didn't you?" He said, looking around the Legion encampment. "Your homeland. Our homeland. In flames over a bloody civil war."

"I think I did, actually," Zhrahl said as he averted his eyes. "I grew up in the Reach, remember?"

"Ah, right. You were part of the militia, weren't you?" The old Orc chuckled, "You were…. Thirteen, then, right?"

Zhrahl nodded and continued to stare off into nowhere. Gorbash seemed to soften at the thought. An old story between Malacath, or Orkey, and Shor was that they both cut the lifespans of their respective people in pettiness. Both halves of Zhrahl. Orcs age fast but slow down as they get older. He was taller than even most Nords by the time he was thirteen. Orcs reached adulthood somewhere then, though he could never be sure as a half-breed.

"You were smaller then than when I first met you, I'd guess. We orcs grow up in strongholds and we fight all our lives, but I hadn't picked up weapons for a proper skirmish till I was in my late teens."

"It was bloody, to say the least, but I pulled through. Besides, I joined the Legion when I was fourteen. Not much of a difference."

"Still, you've seen more blood than most people your age have, even among Orcs," That remark unsettled Zhrahl, though he knew it was true. The most disturbing part about it was that it came from a Great War veteran. Back in those border forts in Morrowind, the more violent Argonian clans didn't stop until their blood cooled the waters."

Zhrahl nodded as his mind tried to wrap around that time. It seemed almost like yesterday to him, leaving those forts. He remembers the last time he washed his hands clean of Argonian blood. It was massacre after massacre, manning those forts.

"It was quite the training," And that was, mostly, what it all was. Training. The Empire, after the war, went on a recruiting spree. More and more Imperials, Nords, and Orcs found themselves filling the ranks of the Empire. But mass enlistees with little battle-training weren't going to hold up against the mages of the Dominion. But the Argonians started riling up again on the southern borders of Morrowind, and the Empire offered it's hand once more. Cheaply, too, as they wanted to make reparations. Stretching the legions thin wasn't something favorable, but they weren't too far from the southern Cyrodil match up with the rest of the legions.

They filled up those forts, holding them until called upon once more. They beat down attempts to dig further into the ash grave that was Morrowind. Sometimes, they had to go on the offense and delve into their territory. Zhrahl had been on more of those than most. He made good friends with their Orma Ranger until his head had gotten sliced off by an Argonian Jungle Fighter. Without him, casualties were on an increasing rise.

In the end, he'd guess it was worth it for the Empire. It was an experience, manning those forts, but there were many experiences there he'd not give up for anything. Mostly with the auxiliaries. Some died, most lived, and in spite of some rough nights, he felt more at ease on the border to those swamps than anywhere else in the world.

"Yes, it was," Gorbash smiled while his eyebrows furrowed. Good times, bad times, and everything in between, they had in those forts. Now, Zhrahl didn't know what they had. Only what he knew he had to do.

"So," Zhrahl looked him up and down. He was wearing steel armor but not imperial steel armor. "You aren't in uniform."

"Neither are you," Gorbash smiled back. "I'm done, Zhrahl. I was granted my citizenship almost half a decade ago now. The fighting has gone up to my end of the world, and I need to go back to the stronghold. At least I have to check up on how they're doing, cause couriers aren't going anywhere near them."

"Retiring, huh?" Zhrahl said more breathily than he wanted to. A croak came out as he breathed. Was he crying? He checked his eyes, and they were a little wet. No tears yet.

"Yes," He wasn't sure if Gorbash. "More than anything else, I'm homesick. Aren't you? Isn't that why you're leaving?"

"No," Zhrahl wasn't quite sure what the answer was, but it certainly wasn't homesickness. "I'm heading back South."

"Hm, why?"

"Orders. Was recommended not to wear Imperial Armor since there was a movement of Stormcloaks spotted somewhere near."

"Oh, is that why the Commander called you?"

"Yes, important business." He said, and Gorbash nodded slowly. Slowly. He knew what that meant. It meant he could trust him to let it be.

"Well then, I won't hold you. Off with your important business, Zhrahl,"

"Goodbye, Gorbash,"

"I'd say I'd be seeing you, but I'm guessing I won't be,"

"Probably not,"

Zhrahl would walk for more through the snowy mountains, preparing himself for the trek through the mountains he was named after. It was only then that he turned back to see the lights of the camp. They had already sent out a search party. They were slower than he anticipated.

It had been an hour and half give or take, he'd guess, that it took them to realize that he killed the commander.