A TALE OF CROSSED BLADES PART TWO, SUFFERING OF THE COMMON
There are brutal, violent and sexual themes in this text, rape also comes up. Cursing occasionally happens. You have been warned.
Dregg felt like his lungs where about to explode. An old crone living outside his home-village had once told him that running would do that to you. When he had told his father, the man had smiled and ruffed around his son's hair. "That old woman means well, but do not believe a word coming out of her mouth. She was old when your grandfather was your age, I've heard". Those words had calmed little Dregg. His fathers words always calmed him, as did his sister's smile. He had no mother, she had died putting him into the world. But now he was not only motherless, but fatherless as well. The men in blue cloths had burned it all. They had kicked down the door to their home. They had questioned his father about... Things. They had spoken of a man named Tullius, and another whom they refereed to as "The Bear Of Eastmarch". When they mentioned the bear, Dregg's father had spit on the ground, screaming "King-slayer" and "Traitor" and "whoreson". The men had plunged their blades down his neck, and he never smiled again.
Dregg found it hard to keep the pace for long, running was making his chest and throat hurt. Al around him where bushes, trees and rocks. The night was breaking, and it was getting foggy. Dregg could see a river in the distance, just close enough for it to be visible in the fog. He was now walking around a muddy little track, he had stopped running after slipping on a tree branch, "I need to eat" he said out loud, just because he desired the sound of a human voice. There where some berries growing along the riverbank, but his sister had once told him that berries where poisonous more often than not. No . He was a fool, thinking about his sister now. The way she smiled, the way she would comfort him when he had slipped and hurt his knee, which he did often. The way she would always talk about that boy, the merchant's son. They would wed, she always said, and make Dregg the youngest uncle in the village. The thought had made Dregg strangely happy, but when the blue men came, the merchant's son had been among the defenders. When he and his sister had run from the burning shell of the village they had lived in their entire lives. When they where still fleeing, the red men with dragons on their cloaks had come for them. Drunk, they had been, speaking of "The capture of the bear", or something. Dregg had a hard time to recall it. They had boosted to each other about some ambush they had taken part in. Dregg and his sister had hidden under a rock. The rock had been large, and despite his fear he had enjoyed laying there, smelling the moss and hearing his sister's warm breath. But then the red men had pulled them out, and laughed they had. They had grabbed his sister, pulling her towards their tents. Her last words to Dregg had been "Run". So he had. And now, here he was. Dregg needed to get over the river. He wanted to leave. But how? Dregg could not swim to well, but what choice did he have? There was an inn of some sort over there, too. Could he only swim...
Darius shock the covers from his body, but regretted it almost right away. Without it, it is too damn cold, and with it, I am sweating like I have some bloody fever! He cracked a smile, despite the fact that his "morning sickness" was quite bad. The innkeepers daughter had proved a fine sport, willing and well experienced between the loins. He let his gaze wander through the room, and nothing had been stolen during the night. This was good. The area around "the triple border", the lands where Hammerfell, High Rock and The Reach met, was otherwise known to be quite lawless. I suppose it is because I look like some bloody beggar. He had at least been clever enough to dress up in proper clothing, and not travel in his uniform. Many a legionnaire had lost their lives that way since the rebellion in the north had started. He got up from the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping woman.
He found his ragged tunic and grey coat under the bead, and his breeches where tossed in a corner. Darius's dagger, at least, was at a proper place, on the chair where he had left it. He went down the stairs, reaching the main room.
It was a typical tavern, built of wood and very smoky. He ordered a cup of wine from the innkeeper's wife. He got it, that and a look of disapproval. Your daughter was not exactly maiden, so it makes little sense to be angry with me. He sat down, and smelled his wine, to make sure the innkeeper's wife had not poisoned him in a fit of rage. Overprotective parents would do that, he had heard. It did not smell queerly, however, and he was very thirsty. The wine was thick, and not at all very tasty, but it served. The more I drink the less I think about her, my love, and what they did to her, so I will just drink more.
He broke his fast on bred and boiled eggs. As he ate, he noticed some commotion in the other end of the tavern. Mercenaries, what a bloody surprise. The mercenaries were your typical triple-border ruffians, men who most likely took swords in their bellies more often than they bathed. The biggest and most intimidating of the four outlaws was an Orc, seven feet tall or more. There was a man whom looked Redguard, and the two others were Needic of blood. The three humans were all wearing boiled leather and iron half-helms. The Orc was dressed in plate-mail, but wore nothing to protect his head. Foolish, but I suppose I would do the same if I had a face so large and fearsome. His foes piss themselves, I would wager. The green-skinned man had several small horns on his forehead, and he had tusks on his, very large, under-bite. They would be trouble, that was plain. Darius moved closer to hear the talking. "My honourable friend, you must realise that this scoundrel will kill your wife, rape your daughter and slit your throat. I give you my word that we have been ordered by lord Henrik Roseblade of Evermoore, Jarl Igmund of The Reach and Prince Ahzoka of Dragontail to hunt him down." The Breton's perfume stank all the way too Darius's table, and his moustache reached all the way down to his shoulders. "Oh shut up, you bloody sword-whore! There have been scoundrels coming to this tavern since the days when you were still sucking your mothers tit, and you are as rotten as this man you are chasing!" came the innkeepers answer. Darius felt his respect for the man growing. Perhaps I should not have fucked his daughter? He does not seem like the kind of man whom handles an insult well. Darius moved closer, sensing that it was about to get ugly. He was not surprised when the Orc prepared to draw his great-axe, and the Breton moved a hand to the hilt of his sword. Darius pulled forth his dagger, wishing that he held a gladius, and not this peace of dull iron. The Orc screamed a war cry, and kicked the innkeeper straight in the belly. The innkeepers wife grabbed a cleaver, and furiously attacked the moustached Breton. The innkeeper had found an axe somewhere, and the fight started for real. Darius moved in towards the Redguard, whom was too preoccupied fighting the innkeeper to notice, and slit his throat. Suddenly, Darius held a shortsword in his hand. Some of the other patrons had joined the fight, though they where not exactly soldiers. An old man, sixty at least, charged the Orc. The Orc took the old fools head off in seconds. Darius slashed towards the Nord, a stocky man singing a longsword, but was surprised by the Breton, forcing him to parry. Too strong foes, and only some peasants, a woman and an old innkeeper to help me. He moved aside, barely dodging the Orc's axe. Darius switched focus, and managed to catch the Breton in the back. The shortsword sliced through the meat and bone and guts. The Breton's moustaches flew side to side as he screamed, the scent of his perfume being mixed with the iron stink of blood. Darius ripped his blade back out, pulling with some organs in the process. He ran at the Nord, knocking him of his feet. The innkeeper's wife slit the man's throat while he was still on his back. The Orc stood alone. But as long as he have two arms, no Orc is alone. Darius shock the thought away, and moved over to the bar.
Ghalam Gro-Ghatakk was a warrior, and he would not die in an inn like some drunk, slain by some innkeeper and his woman, or by this bloody Colovian. His companions were dead, but somewhere up in the mountains where his other brothers, and he was important. They needed him, to help lead them, for they were a company of fickle mercenaries, and someone needed to keep them loyal. And should he die, he would bring this entire bloody inn with him. The innkeeper was a strong man, but not very fast. Ghalam screamed from the top of his lungs, and swung his axe into the man's stomach. The innkeeper's wife screamed, almost as loud as if it had been herself he cut. He heard another scream from the stairs, the scream of a young girl. He moved on towards the Colovian, but there he got surprised. The man knew how to parry, that was for sure. A bloody legionnaire. Ghalam knew how to chop, however. He screamed again punching the Colovian in the belly so hard he flew right over the table. He moved in over the Colovian, preparing to chop him into pieces. For the glory of Malacath! He raised the axe, laughing. But then time stopped for a moment. When he looked down, he saw a horn coming out of his belly. Have I grown horns there as well? The big Orc collapsed on the floor.
Janella looked at the spear in her hand. She had never held one before. Yet now I put it up someone's back. But all she wanted was to get to her father, and this Orc was standing in her way. She pulled the spear out of the Orc's back, creating the revolting sound of flesh and guts being ripped apart. Janella dropped the weapon, still unable to accept that she had just done that. She stood there for a while, letting dizziness come and pass. When she opened her eyes, her mother was tending to her father in the middle of the inn. He was pale and looked feverish, his beard filled with saliva and blood. She defeated the urge to retch, and sat down. "We are not letting you die." was all her mother said. "Mother, you are no healer. How will we..." a single look from her mother quieted her. "You can not save me. I survived a bloody war, but this is enough. The Orc got me, an axe straight in the belly. I saw my brothers dying of similar wounds during the war. It is over" her father spit out. Afterwards he started coughing out blood. There truly is no hope, then.She took her mother in her arms, and together they wept.
When Janella woke the next morning he stood in front of her. Darius, he had introduced himself as. She just stared at him for a while. The smooth skin, the short black hair, the short stub of hair that grew across his chin. He was slightly taller than your typical Breton, though this was not strange since he was Colovian, and he looked lean and strong at the same time. He is truly handsome... But in the deepest part of her head, she regretted bedding him. Her father would not have been so quick to anger, had he not heard the moans from the stranger's room. Her father had always been traditional, and knowing that his daughter was being fucked by a stranger... It had not improved his mood. She shock her head. She was a grown woman, and this was not Wayrest or Chorrol or Solitude, this was the triple-border. Here life is short and bitter, and you should always take the pleasures you can get. You taught me that, father. In the end, her father had fallen victim to his own temper. She had told her mother that, and received a smile back. "That is bloody true" her father had said. Those had been his last words. She wept again. Over her father, over the Orc she had slain, over her mother, who had lost half of herself. Darius shock her shoulder gently, looking at her with pity in those cold, grey eyes. "What was his name? He saved all of our lives, and I do not even know his name." the Colovian said. "Edrik" her mother answered from the corner were she had slept. "His name was Edrik, and he was a good man." her mother got up on her feet, looking around the tavern. "We need to leave this village. There is nothing left for us here. We bury your father, burn the sword-whores, and then we leave." she said. "Where will we go?" Janella asked. "The same way as your friend. To skyrim."