Dragonborn Ascendant (27)

He hated the snow, it felt like an insult to the Ashpit. For the Orcs that worshipped Mauloch there was nog greater honour than to be accepted to the Ashen Forge and its promised gifts for those who were deemed worthy. Immortality and eternal battle, revelry in abundant food and drink. Somewhere where every orc is a chief, every chief has a thousand wives, and every wife has a thousand slaves to cater to their every need.

The snow, pure and white, reminded him of the ash, a mockery, and it reminded him of the cruel and harsh reality, that even as a chief he had little if almost nothing.

Three dozen orcs in his tribe, most of them his own brothers and sisters while only a couple his own children.

It didn’t matter anyway, they would all die soon enough and hopefully be one of Mauloch’s chosen.

Larak left his house, the chief’s house, armoured in traditional orcish armour. His mines were rich with orichalcum, and that allowed him and his tribesmen to equip themselves with the equipment his kind were known for. Orichalcum was inferior only to Dwemer metal and ebony, although they were of comparable quality to the Dwemer.

Larak was thankful for that.

“Where are they?” He asked, his voice gruff as he joined Gremoz on the wooden watchtower placed right next to his gates. He squinted his eyes, trying to pierce the thin veil of mist in the distance, but failing.

He was no hunter, he was a warrior, and that didn’t require him to have the sharpest eyes.

“They are shambling,” his brother told him. “Moving slowly on the edge of the tree line,” he was told, and Larak turned his eyes one more time. He focused on the distance, and for a moment, he thought he could see figures, small humanoid shadows moving in the penumbral darkness of the trees. “I think they are being controlled by someone. A necromancer.”

“That’s obvious,” Larak grunted, a frown tugging on his lips. But who could be doing it? He asked himself, and the answer he came up with made his mouth bitter. Anyone could be behind it. It was no secret that his kind was disliked by most, more so the Altmer that by and large hated the Orsimer.

It wouldn’t surprise him if it was an Altmer necromancer targeting his people, though if it really was one, then it was likely a mage from the Aldemeri Dominion.

A curse crossed Larak’s mind. Fucking Thalmor, he thought to himself, clicking his tongue.

“Keep your eyes on them,” he told Gremoz. “If they start walking to our fortress then sound the horn- if they so much as leave the tree line, then you sound the horn.” Larak ordered.

He didn’t wait for his brother’s nod before leaving to return to his house in preparation.

The mood in Mor Khazgur was sombre, although most of the orcs felt anticipation as they waited for the inevitable battle to come. The possibility of joining Mauloch excited them, truthfully, it excited even Larak too.

Hours passed, the winter sun was weak, and its light did nothing to warm him and his people. The watchers changed every few minutes to stay some time by the fire and warm themselves. They did not drink, they ate little and spoke even less as they waited. When the sun started to dip in the horizon and shadows started to stretch, the Orsimer started to feel restless. Would they fight? Would the undead remain outside of their walls or were they gathering a larger force? Should they go out and hunt them down?

No, Larak shook the possibility out of his head. He did feel inclined to do it, and he knew some of his siblings and children shared his opinion, but it was a poor tactical decision not even children would make.

They would have to wait.

Night fell, and the fields were illuminated only by the pale reflection of the moonlight on the snow. “Stay alert.” Larak ordered one more time before retiring to sleep.

And just as his mind drifts between sleep and wakefulness the blaring of a horn startles him and snaps his eyes open. Larak grunts, getting up from his bed as he picks his helmet and greatsword.

“Grab your helmet!” He barks to his daughter before rushing outside, knowing she would soon be following behind him. “Where are they?!” The orc chief demands from his watchmann, Orguz.

“They’re coming!” The orc shouts back. “I think… I think I see a mage with them.”

Then it really was a necromancer, Larak curses in his mind. He clicks his tongue, feeling anger burning in his veins. “Can you-!” A fireball explodes on the watch, launching Orguz back to the ground.

Larak bites a curse, not bothering to check on his brother before he starts hollering orders to the rest of his orcs.

“Man the walls! Don’t let them surround us!” He ordered his archers and the two mages he had. “The rest of you, with me!”

He had about twenty orcs at fighting capacity and Larak planned to use them. He opened the gate to his stronghold, finding himself facing an undead horde the likes he had never seen or heard before. A shiver ran down his spine, though if it was fear or excitement it was hard to see, except that he roared, jumping forward with his sword to decapitate two undead with a single swing.

His orcs followed behind, perpetuating the slaughter.

On a cold night of winter, Larak and his people battled and they joined Mauloch in his promised vision.

-x-X-x-

A/N: Now, this interlude is admittedly a much shorter chapter than the usual ones, but that's because this an interlude and a sort of foreshadow of what is happening in Hjaalmarch right now before Magnus and co. arrive.

Also, we can say bye bye to canon from this point onwards, and this is just the beginning.