@reportsduemonday
Never before had Borkul thought heâd be so driven to learn about his family. The bandits had been his family, and then the Forsworn, and now Senna on top of that - who cared about some long forgotten orcs, whoâd probably been taken by the cold or disease or some other pathetic kind of death?
When Borkulâs father - his bandit father - had asked Borkul to visit for the first time in years, though, that long-dormant curiosity and loneliness rushed back to the surface.
When the bandits had found him, heâd been nothing more than a baby, the sole survivor of whatever had killed off his tribe. His mother had been holding him when she died.
Why did that affect him so much?
Whatever the reason, it drove him as far as taking a friend to accompany him. Well, the only person he was even remotely close with who could make the trip. The very undercover cop who Borkul had been screwing around with for the past few months, long enough for something stronger to, slowly, come into existence.
The trip had taken them all day, over Skyrimâs countryside and halfway up a mountain. Borkulâs chest tightened with anticipation when he spotted the bones of the stronghold - his stronghold - long abandoned, blanketed in snow and frost, turned scarlet and pink by the sunset that reflected off of the falling snow.
Here they were.
