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A tale of a gruntled veteran, seeking not only work—mainly work—but also a family, friends, some place to stop his mindless wandering, some place to settle and call home. This tale begins with the half Dunmer, half Orsimer, Muragash.
Amongst the holds of Skyrim of which he found himself crossing the border into, he’s considered a nearly second-hand citizen, a mixture of two popularly disliked races not well regarded nor well trusted. And by Azura! It made work nearly impossible for him; three cities, though only one he considered worthy of the title, and a series of villages speckled about he’s trekked since crossing from Bruma, and why none, not simply one, has hired him long-term! It’s disgraceful , he thought. To treat newcomers in such a throw-away manner is suited of the term barbaric, not simply being an orc! But ah, nonetheless his past mattered not for now, he’s in a new city, a place full of Dunmers and even Argonians , who might not much like him, but he could care less for how they regarded of him. This place being, Windhelm. He’s seldom thought about the city much, and knew further less except small blurbs of information he’s heard from various travelers and carriage riders, but still with what he knew, he felt it was enough.
Outside the city, strong cold winds slammed against the walls, slithering between it’s lines that separate the stones, and as they exited, whistling away. Those whistles of wind would catch onto him, and as he jumped off his horse—Stomper—would push his cowl nearly off and over his head, forcing him to recover by reaching his arms high and jolting them down, even keeping them there so the cowl didn’t do such again. Walking through the snow, his feet, though covered in thick fur boots, felt rather numb, and he made sure to quickly jump inside the Stable-Owner’s house in order to feel the warmth of wood trapped in a room with a fireplace. It was rather neat. Seeing the Stable-Owner though, his mouth progressively becoming more full of venison roasted over the fire, he called for him with a wave of his hand and a shout of his voice.
“You there! Stable-Man, tie my horse up would you?”
The man was rather shaken, choking on a piece of meat nearly clearing down his throat. With a mighty cough though, he shot it out and into the fireplace, and before turning towards Muragash, watched as it burnt till black. He looked sad.
“Ay, I’ll get him in a bit… Ten septims though mister.” He replied.
“Do it now. It’s freezing out there, and my horse isn’t from such a cold environment—his fur, it’s thinner than most, he, needs it now.” Muragash stood tensely, his words coarse. Slowly, the Stable-Owner stood up, and walked to him, facing him head-off, though hesitated once he realized the difference in height between that of a Nord, and a Dunmer-Orsimer hybrid. Even the eyes of Muragash felt intimidating. Their dark red, encircled by an even more pitched black, looking straight into the Stable-Owner who now, seemed to swallow what he thought of saying before. Still though, he spoke.
“Twenty septims, son . Now don’t—don’t try any form of haggling I’m not in the mood for it, you’ve already bittered my night—”
“Fifteen septims.” Muragash grinned. The air felt rather dense between the two, they’ve only looked at another for a second as the Stable-Owner was at a lost for words, his mouth slightly agape.
“Now, you listen here and listen good! I said twenty—It’s—It’s gonna be twenty!”
“Fifteen.” He laid his hand onto the hilt of his blade, and slightly tugged at it. “Come on, let’s make this easy. I don’t plan to be here long, and I want my horse warm for the few minutes I’m gone. And, even better, my pockets still heavy. Fifteen septims, that’s it.”
The two squared up against another, but seeing as Muragash displayed his chest outwards and etched closer without fear of retaliation, the Stable-Owner caved in. A sense of embarrassment filled him, and as he gestured upwards his hand for the coin, Muragash felt a sense of… Shame.
“Ah Talos smite you, give it then.” He said.
Whilst Muragash handed over the coins though, meticulously counting each one, he couldn’t help but avoid staring at the man’s downward stare. By Azura! He’s done it again, shamed a man for his own needs, pushed perchance another close friend, someone able to share a drink with—away! How long can I keep going like this , he thought.
“Now shoo! Out with you, swine.” The man yelled at Muragash as he walked outside, his furboots feeling even thinner now, more susceptible to the snow that though welcoming by appearance, quite even beautiful to his eyes the purness of it’s—at times—glowing white, felt sharply cold. It hurt.
But nonetheless, he carried onsforth and went towards the mighty bridge neigboring the Stables; it welcoming those with either the money for passage if they be of the lesser races , and nords. The bridge itself was a mighty structure, one said to be built by Falmer slaves under the control of the oringal Five-Hundred Nords of Ysgarmors crew, and used to deter against their very own Mer.
Amongst the broad floor of the bridge, was a great deal of either refugees from the Civil War, their homes burnt and as he walked past them, their very souls destroyed. For within their eyes, he saw naught a sign of life to be lived. Past all that though, and why already at the gates, he saw a Merchant arguing with the Guardsmen. Two of them surrounded the man, and those two made sure to not let a single eye off him, for why the man seemed to be carrying a form of—well, contraband. Skooma to be exact, for as Muragash took another closer look as he slid between the massive doors, it was a Khajit. His orange lion-esque mane fully revealed as the winds pushed back his hood. They exchanged a short glance as he walked past, though Muragash felt no sense of sorrow for his predicament, only annoyance and a steaming pot of anger within his mind. Skooma, in not only Skyrim, but Windhelm? Such a hard drug had already traveled from the dessert-badlands to Cyrodil; he remembered it barely fondly.
During the Great War, he served as a Lieutenant in the Imperial Army, and he remebered all of his buddies, their idiocarcy yet still charming displays of courage, whether it be in battle or in the taking of unknown substances. At most times, it’d be fine, only a long hangover, but Skooma, why it was entirely different—something deserving of the utmost punishment for distritubtion. A crime, through and through, and one he’d never tolerate for the harm it caused. An old buddy of his, a man of logistics, had permanently, dumbed , himself after taking the substance. Now, he only wonders what sort of manual labor he’d up too.
Inside the city, after sliding past the already busy guards, The Candlehearth Hall stood high above Muragash. It had two entrances, divided by a slab of the structure piercing outwards, and above said slab, a mantle of an eagle. It’s beak open, screeching upwards into the sky. Amongst the sloped roof of the structure, small bits of snow were piled up, and ah—perchance they’d need someone to clean it off before it becomes an issue? Eagerly, he leaned into the door and twisted the knob, the warm embrace of the Taverns namesake; it’s fireplace topped with a eternal candle, soothing him in. Once closing the door behind him at the gesturing of the Innkeeper, the cold, whistling winds, were quickly replaced by that of chatter and song! There was a great deal of patrons, chatting about, and far in the corner, one bard; a women Dunmer playing the lute. What a great place, he thought. With a cheerful toon, and humming along to the upbeat and quite frankly,—fast paced—song played by the bard, he leaned over the counter near the Innkeeper. They themself, were a nord, and quite frankly appeared rather… distrustful when looking at Muragash. Noticing this, he made sure to not quickly ask her for any sort of work, instead to take his time and mingle with her till he had some form of trust between themselves. So, he asked for a drink.
By Azura! Did Muragash love mead, and more-so than that—Honningbrew Mead. It was such a sweet, gentle drink that first slithered down as he swallowed, but laid heavy once down into his stomach. Feeling a little tipsy after a few mugs though, he decided, in his minor drunken state and full of confidence, even proving himself a worthy patron of this tavern; not only buying drink, but keeping himself modest; he asked a simple question after a well hidden burp.
“I’m Muragash, and you?” He struck out his arm for a handshake. The lady though, didn’t recuperate and instead backed away a little. Reserving herself to the cleaning of few cups, and polishing of some bottles.
“Elda, Elda Early-Dawn.” Her eyes locked onto Muragash’s shoulders. “Say, I’ve noticed that you’re armor, the chainmail upon your shoulders… you’ve been in the Imperial Army?” He rubbed his shoulders, feeling against the twin square plots laying over his chest, and tied tightly together by a red string.
Muragash was pleasentaly suprised someone took interest into himself, and nearly allowed a long smile to sprout upon his face; his upward fangs pushing into his lips as he resisted. But, he kept his cool, and instead decided to use this new-found interest in order to gain some sort of rapport between them. In a calm, seemingly exaggerated deep voice, he spoke.
“Once… Long, long ago, probably around when you yourself were a child. You know how longs Mer can live for?”
She scoffed. “Longer than them elve’s should.” Milkdrinker , he thought. A common insult amongst the land, and one at first confusing, until putting in some thought.
“Ha!” He played along. “Yes, far longer than we should. I’m near one-hundred and twelve, yet still if I was to compare myself to you in maturity, I’d consider me to be fourty. So, relatively, we’re the same age!” She showed no amusement, a bit of jealously instead—and quickly he noticed and attempted to switch topics.
“Say though, the Great War, nearly thirty years ago I’ve served. It was rather, harsh , I don’t like talking much about it too much. Especially the battles.”
“Have you killed anyone?” She asked.
He was, well expectedly, put aback at such a question. “Ah—yes. I have.”
“Any Knife-Ears? Or, wait, did you feel any sense of, remorse to them? Some sense of being a traitor by fighting against your own?”
“They weren’t my own, I don’t serve a group because I look like them; I serve one because I act like them. And yes, I have killed my fellow Mer, or Knife-Ears , as you say. Not pleasant!”
She leaned in. Her hands pushing forward another drink, seemingly free of charge. A smile encroached upon her face. The sunken wrinkles beginning to crease.
“Say now a-days, that the wars over… and you’re here in Skyrim, even better Eastmarch and it’s capital, who do you support?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Stormcloaks, or imperials ?” He immediately felt the bitterness in her pronunciation of Imperials, and though truthfully he knew little of the war going on except the banning of the native Nord God, Talos; he leaned politically towards the Imperials. Long live the empire , was an old motto he heard echoed amongst the lines awaiting battle. And one he surely shouted just asloud. But, she need not to know such, and so he leaned closer to her too, cupping his hand.
“ Stormcloaks! ” He said.
“Ah I knew you were different! Hey, tonight I’ll give you near half off if you get a room, would be nice talking to a Dunmer for the Nords. Gain some insight.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.” He leaned back and began to rest his hands onto his waist, feeling the few dents on his iron-plate. “But, another time would be better—for now—I need work. Was wondering if anybody dropped such a thing off, any bounties, field labour, anything?”
She laughed, slapping the his right shoulder, sounding out a sort of beat with the rhythm she made on the spot, and wiped a few tears off her face.
“Ah for you! Of course, you should’ve asked from the beginning, I’d have given you one. Just, give me some time to look about, some of the Highking’s men and other’s left a few papers about. Good work by them, and though they can be untrustworthy of, you know, I believe I can put in good word—tell them whom you believe skyrim really belongs too!”
He very much doubted her words about asking upfront. Even still, he remembered her untrusting gaze. Yet, by Azura! Who cares, an opportunity for work was just granted, and a chance to have a solid name in this already new and unwelcoming place. Good news, greatly good news to him. So, as she bent downward to reach for stained, crumbled papers, he raised his mug and shouted at the fellow patrons.
“Skyrim is for the nords!”
Without even looking at him, most shouted along; the few who did look though, seemed rather hesitant, but the fervour in his shout raised theirs as well, and for a few seconds the whole tavern chanted until quickly dying back down into an unintelligible rabble.
Things were looking up—”Ahem!” A loud cough came from behind Muragash. At first, he paid no mind to it, could be directed at anyone, or why, could even be an accident, a thing uncontrolled—”Ahem! You, my Dear Muragash, is that truly you?” This wasn’t no accident. Called upon, but not wanting to appear obedient, he took his time to turn around, as if to assert his presence within this tavern of which he just elevated himself somewhat. So, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, he lifted upwards his head and responded.
“And who may you be—” By Azura! Muragash couldn’t believe his eyes; infront of him standing, breathing in the living flesh and incredibly wrinklier than he’d remembered from before, Depodus! Short-Foot was his given nickname, for then—and even now, he had a awkward limp, leaning himself more-so on the left foot. The old Imperial walked forward, splitting from the crowd of patrons and revealing a pair of Bosmer twins behind him. The two Wood-Elves made sure not to etch too closer, neither stray too far, for no matter what drunken fool came infront of them, they’d find a way to push or move out of the way; always an eye stayed stuck on Depodus. Who, now limping directly infront of Muragash, would speak.
“For the nords? Since when’d you betray the Empire, Dear Muragash? Did the banning of Talos bother you that much—” Suddenly, Muragash stood tall and brought the Imperial in, embracing him with a tight, aching hug. Before Depodus could even think of returning the favor—or calling forward his Bosmers—his ear was cupped by Muragash, and quickly whispered into.
“You’re gonna lose me a job, old friend.” Backing up though, he continued. “Ah, but Depodus, by Azura! How have you been?”
The Imperial slowly backed away, rubbing his ear. “Rather fine. Past thirty years have been harsh for veterans though, I expect you’d know too—with this desperate talk of throwing your beliefs under for a job—”
“You jest!” He interrupted, quietly shushing him with a half raised finger.
Behind him, the Innkeeper was beginning to ease up, seemingly having had the pleasure of easedropping into the conversation and deciding to offer her few words. “ We don’t welcome liars into Windhelm, outsider .” A slight tinge of regret for ever engaging in conversation with Depodus, struck into Muragash’s heart. The Innkeeper only now ignored him, and attended other patrons. Downstrucken, Muragash stood chest to chest with Depodus, his Bosmer’s in the back seemingly grasping something from the sides; a blade maybe.
“You’ve just lost me work. Desperately needed work Depodus—now, why do that? Are you seeking something from me.”
The Imperial waved at his Bosmer’s to calm themselves, and so they let go of their hilts. Slowly, he walked past Muragash and called for the now, suspicious, Innkeeper. She took her time, making sure to attend their party last, and once there—quickly forgot about any of her angered whims for Depodus dropped a fat wad of coins onto the table. Eyeing them, Muragash nearly counted eighty. A somewhat normal sum elsewhere, but an extrandinoray amount to just throw away at a Tavern.
Now, with the two bearing a ensemble of drinks, Honingbrew Mead even, much to Muragash’s delight and now helping heal his angered sorrow, Depodus began to speak.
“I do have something for you. A job, Dear Muragash—one important to me, nearly essential. And as you can see, I have the funds to pay you heavily.”
Somewhat suspecting of Depodus’s intentions, Muragash threw a few important questions.
“How much, how many people do I have to fight—or first of all, what type of labour is it? Fieldwork or fistwork.”
“Fist. Alot of fist, though you can swindle them if you believe yourself so confident. ”
“Hm. What even am I getting though, and who do you want me to fight? Has to be fair, I’m no thug—you know this Depodus.”
“Indeed I do, which is why I’ve decided to call upon you… Innkeeper, one more for my friend please!” The Imperial waved closer the Innkeeper, and asked quickly for two mugs, one to be filled more than the other, and that one given to Muragash. It was more Honningbrew Mead. His tongue began to trickle with drool, and quickly he began drinking away. Continuing though, the Imperial spoke furthermore. “It’s, well… a heirloom of sorts, mine of course, and recently it’s been stolen by an old acquaintance of mine you could say. We were buddies, after the war I crashed at his place for some time, he has a beautiful manor; filled with large farm plots, pens of animals, and a whole array of horses. Though, a hard famine hit the region, and a good amount of that was lost and I suspect—that be the reason he stole it from me!”
Muragash scratched his eyebrow, he was rather confused. “What is it?”
“Apologies, I’ve been talking about a ring. One ever so beautiful. It’s a Glass ring, real Elven work, been passed down for generations in my family.”
Drunk, yet confused, Muragash sat quiet for a bit, thinking. Never, in his entire time serving with him closer together, has he heard of such a thing or saw it sparkling on his finger. So on his drunken state, he slurred some words and asked.
“A—I never seen you with a ring… Never. Are you sure you’re thinking this right?” Before responding, Depodus called forth another drink, which eagerly Muragash gulped down.
“I wouldn’t lie to you Dear Muragash. So please, I beg of you old friend, to help me not only for work, but a favour after so long of knowing another.”
“F—Fine, how much pa—pay?” He was nearly losing control of his head now, and began to bend over but was helped upwards by Depodus who whispered a price into his ear.
—
“By Azura! That much—are you sure?”
The Imperial only laughed off Muragash’s shock, and began rambling in his satchel to show the coin. Slowly, he unbuttoned it. Within, each of the two’s eyes were caught in a yellow-orange glimmer.
“Nearly all of this can be yours if you help Dear Muragash. So, I expect you’ll ride out soon?”
Muragash wasted no time standing, jolting the twin Bosmer in the crowd to lean forward, for in only a moment did he pull upwards Depodus, using little of his strength yet still making the short Imperial seem as if flying; and tightly he hugged him. “Right this very second, old friend. Expect the next time you hear of me to be here, and with your ring!” In fast pace he ran out to the door, his body against it and before fully twisting the handle, he realized he forgot to ask where and who to go too. So, with some embarrassed strides, he sat next to Depodus again, and began to throw about some questions.
—
Hangover made it impossible to enjoy the change of scenery. Giving him a minor headache. Finally out of town, and near the border of the Eastmarch region after nearly a day of riding, Muragash was nearing his destination. The Old Nord’s Manor; Sivur’s Manor. The winds were more calm in the open plains, and finally less north, the grass actually shone a resilient green, as if trying not to wither away from the harsh temperatures, and using what life it has to the fullest. Far off the stone trail though, littered with bushes, were great mountains ranges. One such a notable mountain—piercing through the clouds above themself—The Throat of the World. Even when crossing the border into Skyrim, he remembers seeing it from so-afar.
The breeze though still cold, was warm enough for him to not need his cowl anymore, so gently as his horse—Stomper—strolled down the winding trail; leading somewhat more to the Hold of Whiterun, the most bustling city of Skyrim and one he planned to visit if the work north doesn’t work; he took it off and stuffed it into his satchel. The road carried on for some more time, and various travelers he rode by, some faster than others out of a sense of precaution. Specifically another Orsimer—an Orc olden with age—and wielding a two-handed blade as if ready to fight, but still holding a welcoming face. A clear sign of a man seeking glory in death. An even clearer sign to steer right by, and never look back. This fast pace assumed after though, would bring upon great progress to his trip as he arrived on the road outside the Manor, but also bring upon great harm to him physically for his mind began to bulge outwards of it’s skull, and his stomach churn until finally—he threw up. Attempting to hide this, he jumped off his horse on the side not facing the home and swiftly wiped off any excrement on his face, and did a quick breath check. Ultimately, deciding it not worthy enough and so he swigged down some water stored away on Stomper, and spat it back out. Should be slightly better , he thought.
The Manor itself wasn’t all he had expected. Though he remembered how Depodus mentioned it began to wither away after a harsh famine, he hadn’t thought of it as this cruel . For amongst the house itself; walls were poking with various holes, the roof was teeming with poorly bundled together thatch, the pens outside were filled with only two cows, each incredibly thin, and finally, alas’, the only attraction—the barn of horses, was completely empty. A pitiful sight , he thought.
And this mindset was further reinforced when he realized hidden between the tall, uncut and poorly maintained grass, was a two foot tall fence. Easily scaleable, and only made him question what it was meant to deter against? In one movement, he hopped over, and began his advance towards the door, seeing even a few peaks from the hatches of the window, which somewhat made him nervous. For, in his mind, what if the Old Man knew of this, thought ahead! Bandits are frequent nowadays in Skyrim, and probably willing to do anything for easy pay. Scum , he thought.
At the door, he knocked thrice. And twice more-so after when met with a quiet response. And, when nothing rang except the few creaks of the wood underneath him at the porch, he banged the door once. No answers. Suddenly, feeling more-so nervous, etching on the line of paranoid, he rested his hand upon his blade and began looking around himself; scared that he’d be flanked. Over the hills he looked, past piles of rock, and even the bushes behind him, but nothing and so he dragged his eyes back to the door and—”Who are you?”
“Gah!” Muragash screamed, throwing a quick hook at the man answering the door. The Old Nord would collapse instantly. His head banging against the frame as his body went limp, but most importantly in the moment, on his hand a flicker of light came down with him. The ring! Depodus’s heirloom alas , he thought. And so, feeling quite wrong in the situation for knocking the thief ever so quickly without even questioning him, he snabbed the jewlery off his hand and ran down the porch and through the tall grass where Stomper stood across. His hooves banging against the stone road in anticipation.
In one fell movement, he jumped over the fence and began to pull himself up to the horse, but as he did, beginning to throw one leg—to be followed by another, his pointed ears would catch a sound. A cry. Hobbled over the Old Nord, was a young boy, barely beginning his adolescence and far too short to even till a yard, and a older women. Her hands, though wrinkled with the overlapping skin able to be seen from so-afar by Muragash, gently caressed the old man, and attempted to calm the young boy. They were grieving over him. By Azura! Depodus mentioned anything about a family! , he thought, beginning to feel more and more pity the longer he stared until finally, he forced his eyes downward. The hooves of horse still striking against the road. He couldn’t stay for long, he knew that; lingering serves no man, mer, or beastfolk any good! Except that of trapping themselves into inaction. So, he kicked his horse on the side, and as it began to ride off, he looked one last time.
Each of their eyes were staring at him. Watching as he left. The old boy, he seemed filled with fury; an unrelenting desire to grab him and punish him far harder than what he’s done. The old women though, she only had a pitiful gaze that could hardly hold when locked with Muragash’s, and so she averted it to something else; the ring.
And just as she did that, her eyes went upwards once-more, and struck into Muragash’s. It wasn’t filled with anger nor sorrow. Only a confused plea, seeking for help and answers.
—
Stomper’s hooves banged against the stone roads. In quick succession, he galloped and heaved hard breathes in and out as Muragash constantly striked against his side—faster! Faster and even more-so he wanted, to keep going and never stop! Little pebbles would be thrown about, few insects squashed, and some passerby’s seamlessly thrown out the way and nearly trampled. He’d trek, without break without time to reflect—for, by Azura! He wanted no such thing, no answers he could make up and frighten himself, he wanted the truth, and he needed it now.
Quickly, Muragash would pass through the flat plains filled with hard grass southwards of Eastmarch, passing the middlezone where warmth and cold collided, until reaching the Northern snowy point, where the Capital itself; Windhelm, was sat. Alas’, he let his horse stop. In one swift move, he jumped off, the horse practically collapsing behind him and laying on it’s side. As if to sleep, but the exhaustion made him unable too, for even the steed’s every breath required an awaken effort.
“Stable-Man!” Muragash yelled out.
The Stable-Owner, sitting on his chair and filling himself with a type of unmarked beverage, glistening a bit orange, would sigh. Slowly, he put the down the cup and at first walked over, until starting a slight jog.
“You’re aiming to hassle me again, or are ye’ gonna pay standard?”
“Extra.”
Before the Stable-Owner could reply, Muragash gathered a clump of coins into an extra bag at his waist, and chucked it to the man. It’d jingle in the air, until at once descending where-as the Stable-Owner attempted to jump for it—but missed. The bag planting in the snow. Slightly bending himself over as to not disrupt his stomach, he’d pick it up and open the bag, a light glistening inside, a bright yellow-orange never seen so pushed tightly together before, in his very own hands. Enough coin to make him forget the troubles Muragash caused earlier, and so he looked up as if to give thanks. But, no-one was there to give it too. Only Stomper, and so, he jogged over and began to slowly lead the horse into the stables with the utmost care.
Now on the Wide Bridge into Windhelm; the day now night and the cold with it’s constant winds, even harsher, he walked with intent. Every step planned, and every man, mer, or beast-folk in his way, pushed off. Some few would resist as he made his way through them all, but they quickly forgot their problems once he flashed a stare. The black-red of his eyes, piercing into theirs. And his mouth stuck in a frown, pushing his fangs tightly against his lips, leaving slight marks.
At the gate, he watched as another caravan of Khajit were being questioned, their furry manes protruding outwards their cowls. These possible criminals, scum in his mind, were no different than him anymore. Each of them indirectly, or more-so now directly with force by Muragash, hurted innocent people and couldn’t even had bothered to stay for the afflictions they’d impose. Cowards, that’s what we lot are , Muragash thought. He’d slip through the gate, and be welcomed once more by the Candlehearth Hall. It’s slanted roof now cleaned of the before-so snow. Before entering the Tavern though, he’d hold his hand tightly onto his blade, and with a flick of wrist, cast an incantation he learned far ago from a Dunmer within his Company during the war; a spell to summon a fireball. Slowly, the starting flame flickered against his finger tips, waiting to be ignited.
Crack! The door was rather loud as opposed to before, as if the Tavern lost traction in the short time Muragash was gone—or’d been shut down. Inside, it was rather quiet. Not the usual crowd of patrons as before, no, instead there’d been no-one, not even the Inn-Keeper, Elda, was some-where to be seen. This felt strange, a tingling sensation would overcome Muragash; first over the whole of his back, pointed at the door, and then towards each of his shoulders. He knew this feeling, it used to be a second sense during the War, one as frequent as his touch, smell, hearing or sight—-this was an ambush!
Just then, an arrow springed through the air, going directly to his right shoulder and in an instant he drew his blade—flicking it away. Another! To his left the sound of rope snapping through the air as a different, more sharper arrow, flew at him. He’d attempt to raise his sword, but the arrow cut threw his mere iron blade and forced him to fall onto the ground in order to fully resist it’s force.
“Ahem!” A cough ever-so familiar.
“Twins! Calm yourself, I wish to speak to him first… No need to hide in the shadows, you two can reveal yourselves, I wish to gain his full trust from now on. We’d tried tricks enough, they don’t work on the Dear Muragash. Isn’t that right, old friend?”
It was exactly who Muragash thought it’d be; Depodus. The short, limped Imperial, hobbled over to him until stopping at just near swords reach, but also far enough to ablely step out. Muragash held a nervous grin, his eyes dashing between the two Bosmer’s who’d reveal themselves. Their tall, slick elven bows, towering their own short height. Though, compared to all three of them truthfully, Muragash appeared as if a giant. Which calmed him, and helped stir his anger back to where it rightfully was-so before this failed ambush.
“By Azura, Depodus! Why would you try to have just killed me, and why, I swear tell me the truth and only the truth, did you send me after a man with a family! You know I don’t do dirty work—”
“Ah! But you just did.” The Imperial snorted.
“Not by my own will! I had no idea… Depodus, I thought we were friends; someone I could trust. Why must you lie to me? And betray me after too, you just rub salt into my already opened wound!”
“You’ve answered your own question, Dear Muragash. I’d, ah it was foolish! I betrayed you because I knew you’d find out it was a lie, I, I apologize I was desperate for this! I needed that ring. Which, say you have it no? I’d assumed such if you came back, especially so mad—”
Muragash stomped forward, the Bosmers mimicking his steps. His fangs were now pointed at Depodus as he stared downwards to the short-man, and shouted.
“I killed a father! An innocent farmer, a husband, a father! All for the hope of helping my only friend that I’ve made so-far in this wretched place littered with snow! And still, as your life sits in my hands,” He lifted it, the Bosmers blades drawn so fast that the sound of it whistled throughout the Tavern half-a-second after. In the air, right near Depodus’s neck, he’d hold himself back from strangling the Imperial, until slamming it against his own thigh.
“Depodus! You fool! You underestimate me, you, you’ve gone too far—the ring is mine now. I won’t give you even the sight of it—nothing! Either you leave here by my own command, or by my hands, I ask you only once old friend!”
Depodus only shook his head, and rubbed it against his palm as he laid it down. Slowly, he stepped back—and whistled. At once the Bosmers ran towards Muragash; each of their Elven Blades, engraved with symbols of eagles and hilts resembling wings, pointed at him; all whilst Depodus disappeared back into the shadows, his face barely lit. To defend against the two blades heading each at him, he decided on a good offense and finally focused the fingers and inner withins of his left palm, aiming it at one of the Twins. In only a second, a fireball was launched at the Bosmer, and so quickly that in his attempt to leap out of the way, his entire right side was burnt through. Leaving him laying on the ground in agony, his cries distracting his twin who stood now in shock, looking over at their partner. Taking advantage, Muragash held his blade high and struck strong—but was deflected! The remaining Bosmer, snapped out of their rushed grief, and began to release a whirlwind of strikes at Muragash who could barely reflect the strikes, until being stricken on his chest; the iron-plate barely obstructing it. The barrage would go on, and Muragash knew that he couldn’t hold against it for longer, but as he began to wither his grip, he caught sight of Depodus. The Imperial held a sneering grin. And, quite frankly, it angered Muragash to such a point that he cared not for the blade aimed at him, he cared not to walk back and block it no further, for instead he struck harder, faster—reversed the barrage with his own, harder blows to the Wood Elve’s shock.
Slowly, the Bosmer began to grow weaker, his breathing becoming more tired, more loud and faster than it could afford in the moment, his body falling over itself and quickly jumping back upwards—again and again until—slash! A dirty sound, the separation of flesh and muscle, and even the very bone beneath it all. The Bosmer was decaptiated. His head dropping at Muragash’s feet, who still in a rage, spoke no words and only grabbed it by it’s long ponied hair, and threw it at Depodus.
The Imperial only stood in shock, not even bothering to dodge as it struck against his leg. He didn’t even move away. With a quiver of his lips, he spoke up.
“Dear Muragash… Thank you! Ah, you’ve saved me so much, just a great deal of trouble—I was so afraid!”
Muragash only looked in confusion, his body leaning against his blade now planted into the wooden floor as he panted, attempting to regain his energy.
“Afraid of what?” He asked.
The Imperial slowly rised. “Of the twins! They’ve set me up to this; I only hired them for protection in these dangerous times… But, I couldn’t afford payment after some bad drinking decisions in this here tavern. To be truthful, us running into together was a miracle and one I’m sorry for taking advantage of—”
“What a bunch of horse-shit.”
At once, Muragash walked over to Depodus, and as the Imperial slowly hobbled away until his back was stuck against a wall, he grabbed his neck. Tightly, did he grip and pull him upwards; his feet hanging in the air.
“Where’s the coin from earlier?” He asked.
“Ah! That, that—yes, I’ve no idea. I’m sorry dear Muragash—” His grip tightened, and the Imperial struggled to breath.
“Tell me.”
“Fine! It’s in the upper-room but you need a combination to open the chest it’s in, one only I know!” The words came out, desperate, and fast as if connected all together. Muragash only grinned at the realization.
“I’ve no need for you anymore.”
“But the combination! Only I know it!”
“I’ll break it.”
The blood from the Imperial’s face seemed to have drained all at once. Tighter, did Muragash’s grip get and he for a moment contemplated on ending the pitiful man’s life right now, for it did lay in his hands—but by Azura! Out of a sense of nostalgia, and pity for his old friend, he only dropped him out of the air. Loudly he crashed onto the wooden floor. Before being able to run away though, Muragash held him lightly, and whispered one last remark.
“If I ever see you again, conning another man or coming at my head in a such a pitiful way,” He pointed at his good leg. “I’ll make you a cripple. A beggar outside the town’s walls forced to only raise your hands for hand-outs, that’s what you’ll become. So leave, and never show yourself again.”
Depodus didn’t respond. His eyes didn’t even meet Muragash out of a sense of what he thought first to be fear, but as he scurried away out the door, he realized it to be shame. Ah, by Azura! He’s done it again, shamed a potential friend—but atleast this time, it was the other party who’d threaten him first. For once, losing a friend didn’t feel so bad for Muragash, and with an ugly smile showing each of his fangs now proudly that he was alone, he headed upwards to the chest.
Not feeling much respect for the Inn-Keeper nor her tavern due to her pass digressions; he kicked the door down. It flew off it’s hinges, and crashed into some well-decorated cabinets behind it. Compared to the various taverns he’s been in before, this one appeared quite, lavish . The walls themself were decorated in few paintings of the landscape here and the Sea-of-Ghost north of the city, with a great deal of detailed Icebergs and sunken ships. The bed itself, was rather simple but it’s simplicity gave a sense of worth for though there was only two pillows, the quality made up for the lack of quantity. Slowly, he walked towards them and laid his fingertips across, feeling the soft sheepskin. Ah, but not to distract himself for too long, he searched the only place he’d expect to find the chest; peaking under the bed.
By Azura! There it was, full plated metal and slightly smaller than he’d expect. More-so a lockbox than anything else. He felt around first, the sweat of his skin forming with the grease of it’s iron, and though he found no ways to physically crack it open—he thought of such a way, magically . With a remembering of incantations he was taught by the same former Dunmer he served with, he mumbled a few words under his breath and after intense concentration, placed his hand on the combination, and began to slowly melt it. He wasn’t fully protected from the heat his hand began to emit, and even he himself was starting to sweat and burn, but nonetheless he committed towards it until alas’, the lock melted.
Thud! It fell hard onto the ground, and began to form a molten puddle around itself. Eagerly though, Marugash opened the chest and at once his black-red eyes were alit a tinge of yellow and orange. His smile only grew bigger that night.
—
The next morning, seeking some sense of forgiveness, he’d began to head back towards the Old Nord’s manor. Slower he went this time, to give Stomper much needed slack due to the near-abuse he was forced to face yesterday. Muragash could’ve swore that now everytime he stood behind his horse, it’d stomp harder as if contemplating to kick him as a way of pay-back.
Now though, the sun barely shining and the two moons far-gone as last night had long passed; so long infact that it’d begin to make it’s way back; he and his horse arrived outside the Manor. There, the family seemed to have already finished most of their mourning, though still on their faces were scars of the emotions yesterday, waiting to be reignited, yet still they toiled away at their land. The Old Women herself, repairing a few holes in the house and grabbing out the weeds near the porch, and the Younger Boy using a sickle to tall for him in order to harvest the few crops they had. Carefully, Muragash having gotten off the side of his horse opposite of the Manor, as to somewhat conceal himself, would walk behind his horse and slowly pat it’s soft—yet thick fur, and now facing the two working in the field, he raised a hand. With one wave, and a shout, he gathered their attention.
“You there! The two of you! I’ve came to apologized for what I’ve done, and make up for it, I’ve even brought upon a bundle of—”
“Ah!” The Old Women screamed and dropped a clump of weeds in her hand, hurrying inside the house and locking the door behind her.
“You bandit! I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done!” The Young Boy shouted, charging at Muragash with the sickle held high, slightly putting him off-balance with his steps. Quickly, Muragash walked back and held up his arms.
“I’ve no mean to harm you, calm yourself!”
But the boy never slowed. Nor would he calm himself, and in only a few seconds his sickle, long and rusty, was held in the air and aimed for Muragash’s head. In the air it stayed though, for Muragash, quite tall amongst all folk’s and especially a younger boy, held the sickle by it’s handle. Still though, the boy continued his assault and let go of the tool and began to release a barrage of fist into his Iron-Plate. Which was rather, foolish. And in the end the boy only backed away and held his knuckles, now seething in pain. Hot did they burn, and to amend his struggles Muragash walked towards his horse and pulled from his satchel a potion meant to heal any afflictions, and one he bought not so long ago.
Hesitantly, the boy swiped away when offered.
“Take it. Now.” Muragash demanded.
Untrusting still, the boy snagged it from his hand, and backed away quite some steps until popping the lid off and letting down a few drips onto his tongue. In only a short moment, he seemed to had felt greatly better—and even began to chug down the whole bottle until grabbed on the shoulder by Muragash.
“Don’t waste it, come on! Those are pricy.”
“You’ve hurt my father.”
“Ah. Yes, that is true… and, that also be the reason I’ve come here. I wanted to make amends for what I’ve done to your old-man—what I’ve done to all of you.”
The boy only raised a brow, and began to chug away at the rest of the potion.
“You’re weird.” He said. Muragash didn’t dare respond, but the boy still reached out a hand, and slowly guided him to the door. The overgrown grass grazing against their legs.
Infront of the door now, and elevated amongst the grass’n such else, the boy knocked twice. First lightly, and secondly more hard. As if demanding an answer.
“Mother, it’s me! Could you answer the door, it’s hot out here!”
Slowly the door creaked. Inside; there was single bedroom, instinctively Muragash guessed it to be the boy’s due to the various amount of wooden swords hung about, and besides that there was a single common-room acting as a kitchen and living space for the parents. Which, to Muragash’s surprise as the Old Women carefully allowed him in—the Old Nord was alive! By Azura! The way he fell over, would’ve thought he’d be gone , he thought.
“I thought I killed you!” He yelled.
The family looked at him awkwardly, and the Old Women herself approached him, as if trying to intimidate. “Why would you think that, thief ? Did you come back to finish the job?”
“No, no, no! Exact opposite; I’ve came to make amends, help even.” He pointed at the Old Nord. “Is he… able to speak at the moment?”
“Yes,” She said, her head down in annoyance. “But, he’s rather tired and I’d prefer he be let to rest—so for now, you speak to me.”
“Alrighty.”
The two headed towards a table, and sat down across from eachother. Muragash more tense than he’d expect to be, because for once, he was at the opposite end of being stared down and felt rather pressured by the Old Women.
“So, how can you, ‘Make amends’, as you say?”
“Septims, a whole lot of them. To be truthful, the whole reason I’ve punched your, husband I presume?”
“Aye.”
“Well, it was because…”
—
After a lengthy explanation of the events past; firstmost his desperation for a job, his meeting with Depodus, then his drunkenness, and finally his fight after finding the truth, he took a swig of some Mead offered to him, and let out a hearty yawn. Night had fallen now, the two moons of Nirn shining even brighter in the countryside. Some silence had fallen between the two, until finally, she spoke.
“Depodus… we’ve never met a Depodus but we’ve met an Imperial by the same, uh, image that you’ve told. He was a farm-hand for a few hard winters, and one we worked till completion and even treated like our own… But, by Talos! I’ve never expect someone we treated so generously before to act so harsh.”
“Tell me about it!” He bellowed, laughing at the end. No-one followed along.
“But say, where’s the ‘payment’.” She etched forward, her stare even harder.
Sweating now, Muragash rolled his shoulders and grabbed a heavy pouch that’d been clinging the whole ride over here. Clag! He slammed it onto the table, and a great deal of it’s contents would come rolling out. The Old Women eyes, and even the Young Boy who’d look-over, were in shock.
“Talos bless us all! You truly mean to give us—that? All of it?”
Muragash sighed. “Yes, yes I do.”
“Why, bless you then!”
At once she snabbed it closer towards her, and whistled at the boy to come near. He, hastily ran over and just as fast vanished from the room, the slight sound of locks and then the grand slam of a chest, shaking Muragash slightly, being heard away. It also though, seemed to have awaken someone. A hard cough came out, and looking over his shoulder, Muragash saw the Old Nord; fully awake, and somewhat nimble in standing. Quietly, he yawned and sat at the table.
“Why’d you invite him in? He hit me.”
His wife gestured at the room, with him first rejecting the very idea of walking there, but after some shakes and an angrier tone by the Old Women, he succumbed and walked towards—and by Azura! He came running out, his face full with glee, and suddenly he jumped onto Muragash. This whole situation made him terribly uncomfortable.
“You! You bloody bandit, you’ve mean to give us your spoils! And—my ring—you’ve given us it too!”
Muragash slightly pushed the Old Man off him, and then stood, beginning to etch himself towards the door, unable to show his face fully.
“I’m no bandit. And, I’m happy to see you doing well, and truthfully I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “I, well, I thought I killed you—”
“Ha! You only punched me! It’d take far more than to kill a nord.”
“Ah, I guess so. But, still, I’ve mean to leave, not to bother you, or your family, much anymore. Apologies, and good blessings upon you all!”
Muragash began to put his weight against the old, creaky door, and slowly as he opened it, he stopped. A feeling of embarrassment overcame him, but nonetheless he knew the question important. So, he turned around in the middle of the doorway, the Old Nord responding first, sitting more comfortably by his wife; each of them now beginning to pour eachother a drink.
“Is something wrong? No take-backsy’s, just making sure you know.”
“No, no, it’s not that…”
“Then what?”
He sighed, and lowered his head when preparing himself to ask.
“Do you, by chance, know of any work I could do? Any friends you know?”
The Old Nord laughed slightly, and hit his wife’s shoulder as if to jest—but she hit harder in return, and so he became more serious.
“Actually, we’ve been needing some. Take a look at our place; it’s a dump, not hard to realize. And, with the coin you’ve given, we can finally renovate the place and pay for the materials—but workers, that’s a whole ‘nother fee! So, if you’re ampt for some minor pay, and a place to stay, we’ve got a sort of ‘guest room’ in the stables—you can stay. Only till the winter we’ll need ye’! So, what do you say?”
Muragash smiled hard. His fangs, he cared not for how they shown and shined slightly in the mix of torch and sun light, and so he responded.
“I’d be happy too.”