The life of a sellsword is one of dirt, frost and blood. Stigmatised by polite society as unreliable and dishonourable, sellswords and mercenaries drift from one town to another in search of the gold that spills from the chaos born of a newly independent Skyrim. The ongoing dragon threat, though not nearly as great as during Alduin's reign of terror, also brought a market for those willing to risk incineration for a tidy sun. However, the life of a wandering swordsman is far from a guarantee of constant excitement, especially when a runaway Orc is sitting next to you by the campfire with bound wrists, whining about gods-knows-what.
"You know, you're a real hero, dragging me across the province for a handful of gold. And my bindings are starting to itch."
The Orc's captor paid him no mind as he continued to polish the sword across his lap. Lurbuk was no expert on the subject of weapon design or blacksmithing, but growing up in an Orc stronghold had given him some basic knowledge on forging blades, and he could confidently say that the sword he saw before him was unlike any design he was familiar with. Matching the man's armour, it was a plain-looking, undecorated piece of hardware, less embellished than even standard-issue steel swords, and the metal reflected the midday sun with a light-bluish sheen. Where most weapons in Skyrim are elaborately engraved conduits for glorious battle, this sword was quite different; this was a pragmatic tool for killing. The uncompromising utility on display before him sent a chill up Lurbuk's spine, and the memory of the merciless precision by which it was wielded last night reminded him to keep his mouth shut.
The helmeted bounty hunter reached behind him and rummaged around in his backpack, pulling out a piece of salted meat and tossing it towards his hapless captive, who just managed to catch it in his bound hands before tucking in. The bounty hunter himself, on the other hand, ate nothing, simply staring into the crudely built campfire through his ebony visor. The resentful gaze coming from Lurbuk did not bother him in the slightest. To be a sellsword of any kind in Skyrim, let alone one of his creed, was to be resented and treated with suspicion. Not to mention the fact that he was travelling to hand the poor Orc over to one of the most corrupt Jarls in the province. The price of cutting into the Black-Briar family's stranglehold on the Skooma market was steep, as Lurbuk would come to learn.
Suddenly, a nearby rustle kickstarted the warrior into a defensive stance. It came from the autumn grass across the way, and he prepared himself for an attack from below. Be it wolf or frostbite spider, nothing takes him by surprise. Yet, it was neither. Voices could be heard from the grass, unmistakably masculine, urgent whispers and warnings. Out from behind a boulder, three men emerged, clad in furs and draped in blue linens sporting the bear of Windhelm, all of them gripping axes. The bounty hunter lowered his guard only a fraction, standing between the Stormcloaks and his cowering paycheck.
"So, where're you taking this thing? Sure you didn't pluck it from a nearby cave?"
One of the Stormcloaks' remarks incited venomous sniggers from his comrades.
"To Riften. On Maven Black-Briar's orders."
"Figured as much. I've seen your type around Riften recently. Your lot have been taking jobs from the true sons and daughters of Skyrim, real Nords who would happily rid their homeland of filth without sullying their honour with gold."
None of the men made any attempt to disguise their antipathy, and the bounty hunter never lowered his blade for a moment. Yet, it was obvious that neither side aimed to spill blood. The smartmouth Stormcloak came forward, a leer coming over his unkempt face.
"Well, we wouldn't be doing our job if we let two wearing travellers wander without an escort back to town. I think we'd best stick with you two, see you up to the city gates."
"We're fine."
The warrior spoke tersely. The last thing he wanted was to be bothered and inspected by a gang of newly instated, power-high Riften guards, but the shadows were starting to lengthen and it was obvious that they weren't going to take no for an answer. The guard stalked forward and glared through the mercenary's ebony visor, close enough to cloud it with his breath.
"I don't like your kind. I don't trust anyone who doesn't show their face in battle. Even those damned elves have the good sense to look you in the eye when they croak. What kind of warrior doesn't look their enemy in the eye? Believe me when I say that you've no place in Skyrim," he drawled out, "Mandalorian."
The guard's taunts were met with silence and a vicious grin came over his face.
"Do you even have eyes under that helmet? Maybe you're just an overgrown goblin under all that fancy armour. Hey lads, what do you say we take a look at the milk-drinker's ugly mug under this bucket?"
"Try it and I'll kill you."
Mr. Smartmouth was caught off-guard by the sudden death threat and faltered, surprise and fear flickering across his face for a split-second as we looked towards his brother behind him, all of whom were enjoying the show unravelling in front of them, before recomposing himself. The Mandalorian before him stood still, expressionless and silent like a statue, or perhaps more akin to a wolf waiting for an excuse to pounce. This had gone too far and it was time to head home.
"You're not worth spilling blood over. Come with us and take your blood money elsewhere."
With the senseless confrontation finally resolved and the Stormcloaks pacified, the Mandalorian collected his belongings and stamped out the campfire before turning his gaze towards Lurbuk, who was panting from holding his breath for so long. One firm shove got him stumbling forward down the Southern dirt path, one Stormcloak guard eyeing him with disdain. After the successful insurrection by High King Ulfric's militia and the severing of Skyrim from the rest of the Tamrielic Empire, treatment of the nonhuman races had gone from bad to worse. The elven folk had been all but banished, with many Dunmer choosing to immigrate to an increasingly thriving Solstheim for a better chance at life, and the few Argonians and Khajiit in Skyrim had been effectively enslaved. Of course, the Orcs were never a people to expect widespread understanding and acceptance (they are called "pariah-folk", after all), but under Ulfric's Nordic tyranny, the Orcimer had been declassified as one of the sentient races, bringing them down to nothing more than animals in the eyes of the law. Lurbuk knew his unfortunate position all too well, and any hope had become a dream half-remembered. Skyrim truly belonged to the Nords now.
By the time the gates of Riften opened before the pair of wanderers and their escort, night had fully descended and the twin moons illuminated the city in a ghostly hue. The guards departed after one last snide jab at the Mandalorian, and he walked towards Mistveil Keep, one despairing Orc in tow. In this final moment, he made one last ditch attempt for mercy.
"I know my voice ain't worth much right now, but please, think about what you're doing. Our kind ain't treated like people by these new bosses. There's no cage waiting for me, just a long rope or a big axe biting at my neck. There's no goodness in what you're doing to me. Besides, there are other bounties out there worth more than some small-time Skooma peddler. Just let me go, will you?"
For once, the bounty hunter paused, stopping dead in his tracks. Of course, he knew exactly what he was doing. Handing over an Orc to the Black-Briars was a death sentence, all over some petty drug deal. Even he could see there was no fairness to it, but when had that ever stopped him in the past? This was the path he had been chosen to walk, and as long as the Code held true in his heart, he would walk it dutifully, no matter the world in which the path was paved. Still, he couldn't stop a sigh from escaping.
"Move it."
Two words were all it took to crush Lurbuk's desperate pleas as he despondently stumbled up the stairs to the Jarl's hall. Pushing open the great wooden doors, the ambience that greeted them was a world away from the squalor of the city. The aroma of roast pork, cooked vegetables, freshly baked sweetrolls and a dense concoction of mead and wine hung in the candle-lit atmosphere, the rich wooden walls and carpeted floors screaming a decadent luxury only enjoyed by those who had killed, robbed and swindled to obtain it. At the long table, two lavishly dressed figures were just tucking in, one older woman in fine brown garbs and a younger man donning blue sitting next to her. Even after the ousting of the Empire from Skyrim, now ex-Jarl Laila Law-Giver was never safe from the Black-Briars, and she had paid the price for her ill-given arrogance after the war. Now, Jarl Maven governed Riften with an iron fist and a gang of Stormcloaks in her infinitely deep pocket.
"What wayward thing have you brought into my halls, mercenary?"
The words fell from the Jarl's lips like venomous snakes into tall grass. Even the Mandalorian would have to swallow his zealous pride for this one.
"Lurbuk, the Skooma-dealer. I'm here for his bounty."
"I see… someone foolhardy enough to keep my share to himself. It's a shame though. The suicidally dim-witted can be useful at times, but this one will know no such privilege."
Lurbuk shrank into his boots some more. Even the hardened warrior who held him captive had to admit, her oppressively confident aura was palpable. Best to get the transaction over with and leave. Thankfully, Jarl Maven's steward, Hemming Black-Briar, was already coming forward with a brown cloth package, the coat-of-arms of Riften crudely stitched onto it. However, upon holding it in his hand, something didn't feel right.
"Feels awfully light. The Orc's bounty was 500 septims."
In a split-second, Maven's eyes turned dark as she turned to address this mercenary with guts enough to speak before spoken to.
"You walked across a swamp and kidnapped a hapless beast from its den. 300 septims is what you've earned, or are you perhaps dissatisfied with your ample reward?"
One knows better than to talk back to the matriarch of the Black-Briar family. Silently, the Mandalorian pocketed his gold and watched as a sniffling Lurbuk was dragged away by the Riften guards, never to be seen again, but just as he turned to see himself out of this den of decadence, the Jarl's voice called out.
"Do you know why your pay was cut, Mandalorian?"
A condescending sneer could be heard in her voice, but the warrior kept his back turned as she continued.
"It's no secret that I've made some… distasteful friends to secure my power here. I count the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood among my closest business partners, and nobody can raise a finger against me now, but even I would not debase myself enough to associate with the Mandalorians. No more contemptible creed exists than one that worships coin and brigrandry. We were all better off without you and your zealots crawling around."
It was rare that a Mandalorian stood such slander against their code without spilling blood, but nothing could be done with one of the most powerful people in the province. Nonetheless, he would tolerate no more.
"We don't want your cult here. We know you have a covert in the Ratways, and a day will come when we burn you all ou-"
Maven's raised voice was cut off by the slamming of doors as the Mandalorian strode out into the city, his hand finally relaxing on the chokehold he had on his sword's grip. His helmet did well to cover the murderous expression etched into his face. He had been underpaid and insulted for his efforts, but more importantly, he had learned something: Maven knew of their underground covert, thought to be concealed and protected by their relationship with the Thieves Guild. If anything, it was most likely them that tipped Maven off. With no time to lose, the distressed mercenary made his way through the shadowy streets (with a firm grip on his wallet), down the rickety stairs leading to the waterways and through the door into the underground tunnel complex. His brothers and sisters had to be informed of their exposure, or else risk extinction. Not a second to lose now.
[Thanks for taking the time to read Chapter 2 of this little project of mine. What did you think? I understand this was a longer and less action-packed entry, but I intended this chapter to focus on a bit of world-building, establishing the state of Skyrim and the treatment of Mandalorians. Any and all feedback is welcome!]
