Works of The Sage

[sageofcyrodiil]

Alright. So, I've had an idea to do a story for the longest time, but I'v never really had a good setting to post it in. I played through OB's main quest storyline, and I couldn't help but wonder, 'Wow. Where does it go from here?' So I started jotting some things down...hmm, about six months ago or so and on and off, I've been working on a story. Outlines, short clips and the like.

So, after discussing with Waalx and getting the green light to do it, I've decided to start posting some stuff here. I hope you guys like it--it hasn't been proofread, really, and it's all sort of 'rough draft', so here we go.

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Of my people, what can be said? We are of Highrock, far to the west of ‘cultured’ Cyrodiil. We share our world with Breton and Orsimer, but we are not like those in the cities. No, we are not ‘citizens’ of Orsinium or its sister town. We have not bowed and knelt unto the weight of the Colovians and Nibenese. While our brothers and sisters have become slaves to the Divines of Cyrodiil we hold true to our ancestors and to the old ways. Our magic comes from the ancestors, the warriors and chieftains and shamans who came and went long ago. When Gortwog proclaimed their ‘citizenship’ to the Septim-children and abandoned our ways, we were against it and returned to our heritage. We harbor no hatred for the followers of Gortwog: We pity them for their abandonment. Trade and prosperity we wish for both of our cultures.
Culture: What makes one cultured? Is it heritage and history? We have these in abundance, and yet we are called barbarians. Is it warfare and tactics? We are well versed in each and still you call us ‘savage’ and ‘beast’. My people are of the rock and the trees; my people come from the highest peaks of the Wrothgarian mountains and the deepest, darkest forests of High Rock. We have tamed the wildest of rivers and yet we are still beasts to many of you. We take only what we need from the wilds to survive and prosper and yet Cyrodiil has conquered and pillaged and have not yet slaked her thirst for blood. Far from the reach of Septim’s hand, we thought, but we find ourselves on lands that grow smaller with each winter. It is said that only the sons and daughters of the land may prosper here, and yet you still come. You take what you wish, through peaceful negotiation or bribery and theft or even spear and sword. I have seen it first hand: My father thought to stand against Imperial conquest.

He was quickly slain for his independence and dissent of policy.

But perhaps my father was far too trusting. I was just as naive to think that any besides those of our blood would be as bound by honor as we, the tribe of the Crow. No, it was this naiveté that was exploited and has sealed my fate. This naiveté has doomed me to a slave’s irons, stuck aboard a leaking ship to this wondrous land of yours, this ‘Cyrodiil’. Imperial greed and selfishness has branded me a murderer and traitor to your great province. My name is Haruk gro-Garoth, from the People of the Crow. I sail now to my grave.

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The sloop sailed throughout the night, assaulted by the gales of an encroaching storm. The hull creaked and groaned in protest at the stress of the coming storm while the waves crashed against the bow, foam and seaspray invading the integrity of the vessel through the open portholes. The prisoners, caged like beasts in a cosmopolitan zoo, roared and howled below decks, lamenting their current predicaments and engaged in the futile struggle against too well made Imperial steel.

There was one, however, who sat calmly on the crude bench that had been bolted to the floor, his shackles rattling softly as the boat lifted and dove, at the mercy of the tides.
“Psst! Hey! Hey you! Orc!”, The half whispered, half hissed voice came from the cell to the right. Large, green shoulders flexed and the beastman lifted his head and turned tired, bloodshot eyes onto the speaker—a Khajiit. The wiry little cat-man cast predatory eyes toward him.

“Yeah you orc! What did you do? Kill someone like I did? I knew it! Us animals are all the same to them, you know. Murderous beasts”, the Elseweyr native sneered as he spat upon the deck. “And yet THEY are the conquerors. Hypocrites and liars, all of them! The laughter that ensued was a half-hissing, half-growling sound of both mirth and derision, as much as the thing could muster. “Hey! Do you know what they do to orcs in Cyrodiil? They use them to pull the nobility around in their carriages! Carriages, carts, wagons; they do it all. They are beasts of burden, treated worse than horses and oxen! That’s what your future holds, animal; that’s what they have in store for you!” The Khajiit laughed again.

A large, green hand reached between the bars of the cage and thick, heavy fingers latched onto the back of the cat-man’s skull. Gripping flesh and fur, that Khajiit’s taunts were silenced as the feline’s head was driven unceremoniously into the bars once, twice, and then a third time. The orc’s hand released the iron grip, leaving the cat to fall limply against the bench in its own cage, blood trickling from its now broken face. The large frame of that ‘beast-man’ rose as the greenskinned creature stood, drawing himself to his full height of near seven feet and testing the limits of that cage. A soft chuckle came from his left, and the raven-haired orc quickly snapped his head to the laughing man—this time an Imperial, a native to this ‘Cyrodiil’. Soft applause resounded from the human’s cage, a small smile on the dark haired, bearded man’s face as his head bowed, a soft nod given in recognition of the large orc and his most recent accomplishment.

“Nicely done”, said the Imperial. “I was hoping someone would shut that kitten up. I would’ve done it myself, you know, but my reach isn’t as good as yours is. Well done.” The Imperial ran a hand along his unshaven face; thick stubble that would soon become a full beard if he didn’t remedy it soon enough. “I think I heard about you when I was at Fort Evermore.” The human’s hand extended through the bars casually toward the orc, chains and manacles preventing full access to the orc’s cage, but the creature returned the gesture cautiously.

“Then you know of Commander Baudan’s fate.” said the orc in a remarkably eloquent tone. Its command of the imperial tongue was remarkable! The Wrothgarian looked into the stranger’s face, dark eyes locked unerringly upon the Imperial’s. “And if you know of Baudan’s fate, then you know who I am.”

“Oh…” The other prisoner smiled a bit wider, squeezing the orc’s hand as it met his own. “I heard about you while I was in the Fort’s cells. What was your name…gro-something…” the prisoner mulled a moment, mumbling to himself before revelation sank in. “Ah yes! gro-Garoth! Your father—“

“—Was murdered.” Interjected the orc. “But not by my hands. It was Baudan, for my father’s axe; a prize for his benefactor in Cyrodiil; a Senator. I am Haruk gro-Garoth; son of Chief Sulak gro-Garoth; son of Buuol.”
“I heard about that. Terrible shame; your father was a good man.” Anyway, where are my manners? The name’s Titus Meto. Most call me a lot of other things, but just Titus will do. Being sent to the Imperial Prison in the Big City; Larceny, Burglary, and Assault on a Commanding Officer’s got me set up for a nice, long stretch in the Birdcage. That is, if I get there.” A sly grin slowly spread across the other’s face. Kicking off his sandles, he pulled them apart to reveal a set of very small picks, probes and other utensils. With a wink at the orc, he set to freeing himself of those shackles.

“But, there’s one thing they didn’t count on, and that’s Titus Meto having a world full of friends. Keep an eye out and we’ll be free men before they reach Anvil.”

Quickly, Titus worked on those shackles and after a few deft twists they fell to the floor of his cell with a thud. Setting upon the cell door’s lock with haste, he grunted as the click of the aligning tumblers heralded his freedom. With a grin, he opened the door to his cell and started out. Stopping, he turned to the orc and, just as quickly drove his lockpicks into Haruk’s door, working dilligently to free his green-skinned companion.

“Good for my word, friend; I’ll have you free in a moment, then we can head into the City. I’ve got a few friends who fancy themselves ‘collectors’ of a sort. I can pick the locks and sneak the merchandise out, if you’ll keep the security busy. What do you think, Haruk? It’s the perfect partnership!”

“I’m no thief.” The orc stated flatly. His eyes narrowed as he watched the rogue, crossing thick, chiseled arms over a wide chest. Haruk hadn’t done too many questionable things aside from killing an Imperial officer, but he wouldn’t sink to graverobbing, petty theft and burglary for anyone, for any price. A suspicious stare was cast from the towering tribesman, his arms remained crossed over his chest as the lock finally clicked and the gate swung free. The grin on the overconfident thief’s face was so wide that it threatened to burst free! Haruk stepped out as Meto stepped to the side, looking up at the bigger fugitive, nodding his head once before he attempted to remove the shackles from his wrists.

“Fair enough. If you change your mind, I’ll be in Skingrad for a few weeks laying low. I’ve got friends there, so I tell you what: Should you change your mind or maybe be in the market for honest work, ask for me at the West Weald Inn. It never hurts to have a friend, right?”

Before the orc could respond, their conversation was interrupted. The hatch to the upper decks opened up slowly and sunlight from above began to pour into the dark, damp hold. The jailor’s routine on the trip had been predictable: Every morning as the sun rose he began his morning rounds, taking a quick count and survey of the brig. Titus moved quickly into the shadows, moving behind a stack of crates, picking up a clay pitcher from a small table nearby. Readying the improvised weapon, he glanced in the orc’s direction, hissing softly to get Haruk’s attention.

“Hey! You distract him!” Haruk nodded his head, kicking the cell door shut behind him. The jailor stopped, drawing his baton from his belt and advanced slowly toward the orc. The imperial—an older, filthy-looking man who was probably a former soldier, by the way he held that weapon—advanced toward the greenskinned humanoid, licking his lips nervously. “Hey, you! Lookin’ for trouble? Outta your cell on my watch?” The man’s grip on his club tightened as he looked up at the orc, charging in on him suddenly. “I’ll split your head, orc!” In response, Haruk roared, the tribesman lifted his chained wrists high and with a surge of strength, shattered those chains and freed himself. The gusto of that jailor’s charge ebbed away quickly. Just out of the orc’s reach, when the chains were broken he stopped as quickly as he could and stood there, mouth agape in disbelief. Frightened now, that club raised high as he meant to make good on his promise. He cried out and swung, only to find that length of knobby wood caught in the outstretched hand of his intended target. A second later, the crash of that clay pitcher over the older man’s head dropped him into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness.

“See? I told you we’d make a good team.” Titus flashed a knowing wink at Haruk and without further hesitation, snatched up the old man’s baton and dagger from his belt. Tucking them into his own belt, he nodded to the big orc and raced toward that hatch, never slowing, big greenskin right on his heels. Up the stairs they went, two and three at a time, and into the upper decks. Meto was quick to overturn a table with three guardsmen, scalding them with hot stew.

Charging up another set of stairs, the pair encountered a familiar sensation--and one they had not experienced since being shoved into those lower decks: Sunlight. The coastal breeze touseled their hair and stung their faces with salty spray, while the sun was just breaking free of the eastern horizon. The evening storm had dissipated, although the sky was still heavy with clouds that threatened rain, it did not cloud their beacon of hope: A flash of light to the west, a fire that roared; one that guided ships into the sanctuary that was the Anvil Bay: The lighthouse, Titus was quick to identify.

“We’re home free, Haruk…” He whispered, turning to the orc with a smile. He drew the dagger from his belt and moved to the ship’s rail. Both hands rested on the worn, weathered wood…and moved back quickly, just a moment before a saber’s blade bit into the rail and, had he been any slower, through the thief’s hand.
“Not quite, prisoner. You and your beast-friend will never see freedom again! Escaped prisoners wind up at the bottom of the sea.” The curved blade was yanked out of the railing and leveled at the back-peddling thief, bumping into his orc friend’s chest. The Dunmer grinned fiendishly at the pair, lining up that razor sharp blade with them. “Publically, I’ve never had a prisoner escape my brig, and I’m not about to start now. If you’d be so kind to just…jump overboard now and save us all the trouble, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Titus tossed that dagger into his left hand and drew the baton while Haruk simply snarled, clenching his fists and raising them slightly as three of the dark elf’s crew stepped in behind their leader. “The hard way is just as good”, the captain purred as one of his men stepped toward the two, only to fall to the deck, the thief’s dagger embedded in his chest. The captain growled and charged, lifting that saber and chopping viciously at the thief-turned-murderer.
Titus Meto was right, though: He and Haruk did make a good team.

As that captain tried to end his life, Titus found himself unable to respond. He saw the blade and knew that, while he was quick, it was impossible to get out of the killing arc of that curved sword. At best, he might have lost his arm and, should he have to swim to shore, he’d most likely drown. He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate, and by doing so didn’t see the intervention.

Haruk growled and took a step forward, putting a big, green foot into that dark elf’s chest. Driven into the mast, the dark elf rebounded from the force of that blow. He lowered the sword for a moment’s hesitation, but it was all the distraction that the orc needed. Haruk seized him with incredible speed, one massive hand wrapping itself around the slender, dark elven wrist and with a quick twist, snapped it. The cutlass clattered to the deck and Haruk hoisted the Dunmer into the air, high above his head and tossed him into the charging mariners who were rushing to help subdue the prisoners. Retrieving the sword, Haruk was prepared to fight, brandishing that oddly shaped weapon at the trio.

After realizing that he was not in the next world, Titus opened his eyes. Looking around at the devastation the other prisoner caused, he quickly got the Orsimer’s attention.
“Haruk! Can you swim?”

The orc turned, looking at the human and in response, gave him a simple nod, and found himself with a foot planted firmly into his backside, tumbling head over heels over the railing of that ship. Before splashing into the water, he did hear the thief’s shout.

“Then get your ass to shore!”

He followed the advice. Heading inland, it took what seemed like hours in the tribesman’s mind. His muscles ached, his body was stiff, and the fires of fatigue had ignited long ago, but still he pressed onward, still those huge arms propelled him at breakneck speeds through the water. Finally, he trudged onto the shore, moving quickly toward the hills ahead before collapsing. His eyes closed, he breathed heavily and fell to his knees, the cutlass tumbling from his fingers. Before he passed out on the beach, Haruk gro-Garoth experienced something he’d not felt since leaving his homeland.

He felt freedom, and its sweet song lulled him into much needed slumber.

[Waalx]

hola!

Sorry I took my sweet time answering on this! (well I'm working on WAC Alpha! that's my excuse )

I like what I will pm you shortly.

[sageofcyrodiil]

That's right you're sorry! Next time, you better make that response a little bit quicker, or else I'll....I'll....

Uhh...

...Bore you to death with more stories?


Anywho, I'm working on another post, as we speak.