Ulysses
The sun was low in the sky, when he returned to the camp with the last load of troll meat on the two pole sled he fashioned for the job, with the remains of a hunter's snare which had caught the troll, before it died.
The tribe at large was still busy working on the previous cuts, stripping the remains of the many eyed, bear like creature. The Orcs as they were known, were a frugal and resourceful people. Not one part of the animal would go to waste, he could tell.
The priestess needed its fat for the ritual. Everyone else needed the abundant meat of the creature. The furs would make new clothes, and tools would be fashioned out of the heavy bones that remained.
He let the sled down, and braced it against a well that marked the center of the open yard. When he was done, he leaned against the wall of the longhouse to rest for a moment.
From where he stood, he watched the camp buzz with activity after leaving the contents of the sled to the green skinned tribals. They who had grown weak from a lack of food drew strength at its sight, and raced to relieve the sled of its load.
Soon enough the priestess walked by.
"Should be enough there," Ulysses spoke low to to Atub, who merely nodded.
"It is, and thank you stranger," stated the orc shaman. "Now you must come with me, you've become part of this. You must be present at the ritual." She turned and made for him to follow.
He did just that. She opened the door to the longhouse and slid through the doorway. Behind her, Ulysses deftly caught the door as it swung outwards and followed her into the center room.
Against the wall in front of him, was a hearth that jutted into the room in a half circle. By its base, a warrior sat facing the fire. He was clad head to toe in heavy plate armor that was colored a sickly green. Its rough craftsmanship reminded him vaguely of the many armor armor sets the marked men wrought in an effort to preserve their identity.
He stood, and turned to face them. Under the baggy eyes of the armored chief was a scowl meant for him.
"It is time Yamarz," Atub braced for his rebuke.
The orc chief shook his head. "You bring an outsider here, and now insist that I call on Malacath for help, when he has clearly forsaken me? You try my patience Atub."
"Doing nothing will not grant relief from his curse. We must try."
"Fine," the word came out in a growl. "Let's get this over with." Though the chief didn't trust him, he clearly felt that he was out of options.
They left the longhouse following Atub's lead. She brought them to the large stone in the courtyard.
It was an altar beyond doubt. On the smooth, flat stone, the arms and armor of some warrior was laid. On one end, a post beside the rocks held a skull with a large rack of antlers.
Atub placed the fat of the troll and what looked to be a heart onto the altar.
"Lord Malacath, we beseech you," she cried out in her gritty voice. "Please aid us in our time of need. We beg of you to lift this curse that you have placed on us."
"Why are we bothering with this," the orc chief whined at Atub.
Before he could reply, an angry voice came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
"You pathetic weakling!"
"what's that?" Asked the chief.
"Malacath has heard my pleas," Explained Atub. "He speaks to us."
"You dare summon me Yamarz?"
"What?" This chief had a talent for ignoring that which he would rather not hear.
"You don't deserve to call yourself an orc. You're weak, small, and most of all, an Embarrassment! You let giants, GIANTS overrun my shrine. Bring me their leader's club as an offering, and I might consider lifting this curse."
The angry voice died down, and silence filled the void for a moment.
"Then so it will be," Atub spoke for the chief. Across the altar, she addressed Yamarz. "Malacath has spoken. Your path is clear."
"Very well," Yamarz conceded. "You, outsider, come here. I want a word."
He shot a glance at the black robed priestess. Atub had simply turned away with the end of the audience.
"Look at the mess you have brought! "
"Was a mess when I came here." Ulysses spoke in a low growl and made eye contact with Yamarz.
The proud chief, scowled at him like an angry child. "This is all your fault you know. I'm stuck fighting a giant thanks to you. You are going to help me. You," he pointed at Ulysses, "are coming with me in the morning. You will make sure that I don't have any trouble reaching that giant."
Ulysses crossed his arms and took a step forward. He kept his eyes on Yamarz.
The false bravado began to crack. "Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while." He raised his hands until they were at height with his shoulders.
Ulysses snorted in contempt. "Seen the warriors here. Not half as weak as they look, and eager to prove themselves. This is their fight. Their curse."
"You are in this deeper than they are," replied the orc.
He was beginning to understand the chief's motives and the more he understood, the more he dispised the green man before him.
For chiefs of many tribes, the greatest threats were from within.
Flokir
He entered the Riverwood Trader to find the owners in an argument.
"Well one of us has to do something!" The speaker was a pretty dark haired lass whose appearance did not fit in with the sleepy village.
With a plain counter and moderately stocked shelves behind it, the store itself looked like any other village dry goods store.
"I have, and we are done talking about this." A fair skinned imperial countered her from behind the store counter. Flokir knew who to talk to.
The woman was not satisfied with his answer. "Well what have you done then, huh? Let's hear it!"
"I said no!" Lucan Valerius lost his patience and slammed his fist on the birch surface of the counter. "No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"
At that moment, he noticed the visitor. "Oh, a customer. Sorry you had to hear that."
Flokir allowed a slight smile, and held up the notice he found posted on the board that stood outside The Sleeping Giant."No need to worry, I'm here about the notice."
The trader's eyes lit up at the mention of the village notice board, and shot the woman a look of smug satisfaction. "If you can get the claw get, I have some coin coming in from my next shipment. It's yours if you can bring it back."
"You might say I have a talent for recovering stolen goods," he tried to keep his expression neutral.
Though his time in the guild had left him with many talents, it would not do to boast of them. His involvement did not end on the best of terms and less so now that Maven Black-Briar was out to get him.
"So this is your plan, Lucan?"
"Yes," Lucan nodded. "So now you don't have to go, do you?"
She looked him over for a moment before answering. "Oh really? Well I think your new helper here needs a guide."
For a moment, the man's eyes bulged as wide as septims. "Wh- no... I... Oh, by the Eight, fine." Lucan bowed his head and heaved a sigh. "But only to the edge of town!"
Edge of town, Flokir furrowed his eyebrows. "It sounds almost as if you know where the claw is."
"I made some inquiries at the Sleeping Giant, so I have an idea." Lucan shrugged.
The woman moved for the door and motioned for him to follow. Once outside, she gave him more to go on.
"We have to go through town and across the bridge to get to Bleak Falls Barrow. You can see it from here, though. The mountain just over the buildings."
"Bandits now, and did you say we?" Flokir purred. She was a comely wench, and he wouldn't mind a quiet rut with her sometime after the job.
Blood rushed to her face, and colored her cheeks a light rosy pink. "Well, I'll get you through town, you don't look like you're from around here."
And maybe ward off some unwanted attention, he didn't say. "Neither are you," Flokir decided to probe her as they walked down the road past the smithy and the inn.
"I came here from Skingrad over in the Imperial Province, to work with my brother Lucan. It got bad back in Cyrodil." Her voice then went from cheerful to bitter. "The war with the Thalmor ruined everything. I came to Skyrim looking for a better life. So what did I get? Another war. I just want to find a good husband, and start a family of my own."
Flokir who had been indulging the clingy woman suddenly felt uncomfortable next to her. "What should I know about Bleak Falls?" Flokir changed the subject.
"Those old crypts are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else. Those thieves must be mad, hiding out there."
Flokir shrugged. "Crypts do tend to be out of the way of prying eyes."
"I wonder why they only stole Lucan's golden claw. I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin."
A Claw, and a barrow? Flokir considered the connection that was starting to make sense.
"How did Lucan come across the claw?" Flokir asked now that he thought about it. There were a few stories that he had heard ever since his time in Honorhall about claws that could open up ancient Nordic Tombs where ancient and powerful treasures were guarded by cursed garrisons of Draugr.
Camila was silent for a moment, as if lost in thought. "He found the claw about a year after he opened the store. He never quite explained where he got it. He's a tricky one."
"I suppose this is it for you?" Flokir questioned her as they neared the stone bridge.
She nodded. "This is the bridge out of town. The path up the mountain to the northwest leads to Bleak Falls Barrow. I guess I should get back to my brother. He'll throw a fit if I take too long. Such a child..."
"Goodbye then," he nodded on cue.
"Farewell," she replied with a voice that sounded only a little wistful.
Flokir did not look back when he crossed the bridge. For some reason, his eyes were on the road sign that stood at edge of the bridge before the fork in the road ahead.
On the left, was an old trail that would climb the mountain on which Bleak Falls was perched. On the right, was Whiterun only hours away.
Hadvar had asked Flokir to petition Jarl Balgraaf for aid sometime tomorrow. He could not have known that the request was somewhat more reasonable than joining the legion.
The last time he had been in Whiterun, the guards brought him to Dragonsreach in chains. Jarl Baalgruf the Greater had sentenced him to spend two turns of the moon in the dungeon.
Without hesitation, Flokir took the path on his left.
A visit to Whiterun really would not matter. After combing the notice board for jobs, he spent some time in the village inn around mid afternoon. Over a mug of cheap ale, he listened to the talk of the village. A handful of survivors from Helgen came and told their stories in between sobs to all who would hear.
Flokir heard the stories with interest. Most of the inhabitants as it happened, survived the return of dragons.
Tullius had survived Helgen with the bulk of his force and hid in some glen west of Helgen. He stayed long enough for his enterprising scouts to rescue the pockets of survivors left to fend for themselves. When they reported in, only then did Tullius lead his ragged host west for Falkreath.
Ulfric Stormcloak had also escaped according to other rumors which were probably true. Where he was, none could say, but with the Imperial army command in chaos, he would probably return to Windhelm without hindrance.
To his relief, only the survivors with ties to Whiterun Hold and the unaware like Hadvar, had chosen to take this path.
He had also learned that another survivor of Helgen had already made way to Whiterun and stood a good chance of sending word by nightfall.
Soon the undefended village would be swarming with Balgruuf's sworn bannermen and their levies as early as tomorrow. Though they had no chance of fending off the dragon who destroyed Helgen, no jarl in Skyrim would leave their towns and villages undefended. Especially now, with a full scale rebellion against the Emperor's authority now inevitable.
Life had taken a turn for the better, Flokir decided with a grim smile. The war would bring chaos and with chaos would come opportunity.
He would disappear like a hunted animal in a rainstorm. He would take a new name, and with the coin from a few lucrative contracts, he would make a new life for himself in Markarth. Though he had never been there before, its reputation preceded it.
Flokir followed the ancient road that went up Bleak Mountain. The sun was still high enough that he could see fairly fresh tracks along the dirt. The impressions were made by hide shoes, the poorly crafted kind that had to be replaced at least once every moon's turn. It was clear that the road itself was seldom traveled by anyone but bandits.
Flokir felt unconcerned though. The chances of meeting a bandit this far from camp at dusk was none too high. Still he was just a little more alert for any signs of life as he climbed the winding road.
The sun was setting over the mountain when he came upon an ancient stone tower. From behind a pile of stones beside a road he observed the state of the tower.
The watch tower had been there for hundreds if not thousands of years. The merciless winds of Skyrim had eroded the stone walls until it looked smooth as a maiden's skin. Its entrance from the road was marked by a stone bridge that arched over a gully.
Facing the rocky mountainside, he could see a fairly new but, poorly made staircase built with fresh timbers linking the higher floors with the ground. Though he could not see anyone, Flokir knew a bandit hideout hideout when he saw one. They often camped in places like this.
He surveyed the trail from where he was to the bridge that marked the tower's entrance. Between the rock formations and the pine trees, it had enough cover for him to go halfway to the bridge without being spotted. After that, he would be be in the open and could close the distance before anyone could so much as nock an arrow.
A light breeze blew to the North. With it, he could smell something meaty being cooked from within the tower.
With luck, their minds would be on food and not on the approach.
He drew a short sword that he had looted from Helgen, and moved along his cover, with his upper body leaning forward and his steps slow and calculated. At the edge of his cover, he took a deep breath before breaking into a run.
Flokir sprinted to the front entrance of the tower, and crossed the bridge before before anyone was the wiser.
At the base of the tower, he saw the first one busy with the cooking spit. From the spit hung a bowl filled with what looked to be goat roast. A metal cauldron below the spit held burning charcoal.
The cook's back was turned, and he did not even see the thrust that killed him. His body shuddered, and he tried to scream, but could not find the energy to do so.
Instead, he collapsed and fell beside the cauldron, with a thump.
Flokir strained his ears to see if he could hear noises above him, whist he climbed the staircase of hewn stone. He was not disappointed.
"Wizards... now that's power.. bet they got that secret magic, turn wood into gold. Yeah, wish I could turn wood into gold."
Flokir suppressed a chuckle. Once he had thought the same thing, but that was before he had been to Winterhold.
He had attended a semester at the College, the spring before last as part of a job for the guild. Flokir had hoped once that if he could turn worthless things into gold, he would not need to depend on the guild and their sponsors.
After he had barely passed the Novice exams for the school of alteration, his enthusiasm had dampened somewhat. Though he did not in truth consider himself a skilled mage, he left the College with novice level training in the Restoration, Destruction and Alteration school of magic to show for five months of rigorous schooling.
He climbed the rickety stairs as quiet as he could, but as he reached the top, a board creaked.
"What was that?"
Flokir knew he had been detected, and rounded the corner into view of two bandits. With his free hand, he unleashed a quick, wild stream of frost hoping to slow his opponents.
The attack was successful, and Flokir drove his steel through the gullet of the first before he could could grab the ax on his hip.
"Fucking wizard," the other man screamed, as he drew his his sword. It was an ugly old thing covered in rust that barely looked strong enough to cut butter, let alone Nordic flesh. He charged with the rusted iron blade leveled low for Flokir's bowels.
Flokir stepped up to meet him, and parried the dull weapon with ease. The man starred at him in horror, unable to move his sword in time for Flokir to swing his sword in an arc that included his exposed gullet.
The Legion steel parted the skin on his throat and blood gushed out the opening. The swordsman dropped his weapon, and clutched his throat. Flokir stood back and watched him suffer for a moment trying in vain to breathe, before closing in with his sword to finish the job with a thrust through the heart.
Before sheathing the blade, he removed a hide shoe from one of them, and wiped it clean of blood. After taking a few moments to collect himself, he began looting the corpses of the fallen.
Between the three, he collected a paltry thirty five septims before dumping their bodies from the tower. Aside from that and some light food stores, they had nothing of interest.
He decided to help himself to the goat roast that was cooking below and ate in view of the road to Bleak Falls Barrow. The cooking of the meat was uneven due to an unforeseen interruption, but good nonetheless.
As the evening sky grew dark, he decided to call it a day here.
Veronica
They were nearing Freeside's East Gate marching ahead of the caravan teamsters when Veronica asked the question on her mind.
"What would I find there?"
Cass took a moment to chew on the question. Upon closer inspection, the coordinates given to Cass were different from the ones she had received. Those had pointed to somewhere outside of Goodsprings. "Could be anything. He was always hiding something."
"No shit Cass," Veronica snorted.
The caravaneer didn't respond, and was looking elsewhere. It took Veronica a moment to register that she was focused on the entrance to the Crimson Caravan compound as they passed by.
After long stare, she turned back to the conversation. "Look, he's probably just trying to protect you," answered Cass.
"I can take care of myself thank you very much," retorted Veronica.
Cass turned back to face her. "That's what I mean V, protection from yourself."
Somehow, Veronica didn't buy that. She said as much to Cass.
"Wish I could say, but I can't," she shrugged. "Maybe it's guilt."
"David is House's stooge," seethed Veronica. "He's manipulated all of us into helping that reclusive creep maintain power."
"Cut it out Veronica, will you. Law is coming to the Mojave V, and if the Brotherhood has a problem with it, then tough shit. Did you think NCR would be nicer to you're people than House?"
Was this the friend she remembered? Veronica could not help but wonder. "Since when did you become so concerned with order Cass? Was it when you made your fortune?"
Her flushed cheeks became a shade redder. "It became my problem the Van Graffs turned my hands to ash! We can't live in anarchy now with California and Arizona free to use the Mojave as their own sandbox."
She had gone too far, and she knew it.
"I'm sorry Cass," she let out a deep breath. "Its just that I was too trusting. I didn't listen to the radio much, but I heard the Rangers are snooping around Hidden Valley. Pretty sure it happened well after that service in Freeside. One of us told the NCR, but I know it wasn't you. It had to be David."
"That would be just like him," Cass remarked dryly. "Always trying to be discrete when he yells 'fuck you'."
They approached the gate, and a small clique of Kings and other capless toughs made way for them and the caravans behind them. Beyond the gate they were flanked by the Old Mormon Fort on their left.
"Meaning hard to read?" She ventured.
To her surprise, Cass let out a bark of laughter.
"When I found out that McLafferty hired the Van Graffs to kill my people, I wanted to destroy them and stamp the Cassidy brand on their corpses."
"So why didn't you?" Veronica knew most of the story, but not all of it.
"I didn't know it at the time, but David wanted no dealings with either. He demanded that we get evidence before starting a caravan war."
"How did you get it?"
"He never told me how he came upon the documents, but we had evidence all along really." Cass continued her story. "Neither the Van Graffs or Crimson Caravan bothered to hide their dead, or even strip them of anything that could be used to identify them. David wasn't satisfied."
"He got them by himself?" This story was getting strange.
Cass shrugged. "I didn't feel we needed anything more so when I refused, he begged me for one night to get more evidence. I agreed of course, and spent the night in the gilded cage. He had what he promised next morning."
Veronica nodded, "what happened next."
"Turns out he had plans of his own, and told me then and there that the securitrons would not allow me to leave the strip."
"Whoa," Veronica tried to clarify what she had just heard. "You mean he actually threatened you?" Did anyone else know about this?
"Not at first. He obviously hoped I would be on board with his ideas."
She raised an eyebrow. "Which were?"
"He didn't want to deal with them directly. He hoped to drive those murderers to ruin. He planned to gut the Caravan's shareholders, and undercut the Van Graff's influence without getting his hands dirty."
"And then their caravans started disappearing." Veronica quickly connected the dots.
"It was a good idea looking back," Cass remarked with a tone of grudging praise. "Even David's terrified of the New Reno families."
That was news to Veronica. Until now, she had believed that House was the one responsible for keeping New Vegas a violence free zone in the trade war that followed the revelations. Revelations of course, that left her in disbelief.
David Kelly had enemies far more dangerous and much closer than a New Reno crime syndicate and NCR merchant company. Enemies he often faced head on with extreme prejudice.
What does he really fear? She almost asked. Instead she chose to hear the rest of the story.
"So what did you do?"
"I went drinking and dicing up and down the strip for the next two days and nights." She recounted her story with not one hint of shame. "Then something happened. I got in this poker game with some Happy Trails big shot from Sac-Town who was about as drunk as I was. After a few hours of cards, I found myself holding a quarter of his company."
Despite herself it was Veronica's turn to laugh. "A poker game, really?"
"That's right," Cass flashed a grin. "As soon as I sobered up, I was the new head of the New Vegas branch. David staked a caravan for me and I took it to Zion. I got back a couple weeks ago."
"You're not angry at him?" She was astonished.
"I am," the caravaneer admitted. "I'm also smart enough to let it go. Besides V, he cares about you, but he'd also break your legs if he thought you were going to jump off Hoover Dam."
She crossed her arms "That's very caring of him."
"Miss Cassidy!" A man in a cruiser outfit called her over.
The caravaneer, turned to look at the man and grimaced. "God, I miss working for myself."
She turned back to face Veronica. "Looks like I'll be busy for a few hours. You should go talk to Arcade, he's been asking about you lately."
Author's Note: Sorry I haven't been on the ball lately, things in RL are pretty busy and show no sign of slowing down.
Also, the incorporation of notice boards is inspired by a mod I found, which in turn takes inspiration from the Witcher franchise. Expect the occasional nod to mods and other games.