The Tamriel Drifter

I arrive upon the icy tundra plains of the Shatul Range to find a stronghold in a state of dismay and disarray. The clan's chief lies stricken upon his deathbed, fatally wounded defending his people from a vicious giant. Usually the clan’s warriors would keep the giants and other wild beasts at bay, but having suffered great loses of late to Winterborn raids, the chief was forced to take up the mantle himself to protect his hunters and farmers, only to find himself betrayed by old age.

The King of Orsimium had suspected disloyalty behind the reason why the Shatul clan had not sent the food that had been promised to help feed his flowering city. Kurog however sees conspiracy behind every failure and contradiction, when perhaps what he truly should be worried about are those who tell him just what he wants to hear.

The chiefs eventual death leaves two candidates vying for succession, one considered strong of body but weak of will, whilst the other, hiding behind a mask, turns out to be Chief's daughter Ushruka, returning from exile.

Traditionalists will tell you that Orcs will never follow a female, even though throughout the history of men and mer Queens have proven themselves the equal of Kings; though in truth to be considered just equal they have often had to be better. Sure, there will be some of a stubborn age who may bulk at the idea of a female clan chief, but if they want meat upon the tables through the coming winter then they had best quickly get used to the idea.

And for those Chief's joining the upcoming King's moot who would vocally oppose Ushruka’s reign, I would strongly advise them to do it from a distance.

Deep within the foothills of the Wrothgarian mountains lies a hidden Reachman lair known to the locals as the Coldperch Caverns. The remote cave system serves the Winterborn as a perfect base from which to launch raids upon the Northern roads out of Orsinium, and the hunting ranges of the Shatul tribe. But the caves are also home to another savage that even the Winterborn Reachmen fear. At its heart stands an alter belonging to a fearsome hagraven named Kraala Birdsong who is believed to have the power to transform both men and mer into birds to serve her. Indeed, her victims are not only the unlucky Orsimer who wander too close to the foothills, but also the Reachmen themselves.

It was a wood elf egg merchant back in Morkul who first tasked me to venture into these caves. He claimed that whilst he usually only deals in goose, kwama, loon, and spider eggs, the bird eggs found in Coldperch Caverns, whilst unnatural, are special and highly sought after.

I head into the caverns with the sole purpose of killing the hagraven and hopefully discovering a way to turn the birds back into people. But what of the eggs I find, even the wood elf admitted that they are an abomination? Some people believe that those who profit from a rotten deed are as culpable as the evil doer themselves. Yet the egg collector would argue that the Hagraven will do what it does whether he profits from it or not. Instead of fulfilling the merchants order, I could just leave the unnatural eggs with the Winterborn, or perhaps I could smash them all.

When every answer seems wrong, and there seems no lessor evil, I usually find it most prudent to go with the one that pays the most.

Deep in the ancient Orc ruins Ashaka discovers the entombed history of her clan’s most glorious traditions. Under today’s sun it paints her clan as brutal and savage, but in truth it was a necessary evil of the times in which they lived. The Orsimer muses whether tis better to rebury the past for good.

As Imperial recruits we were taught of the past horrors and atrocities that were inflicted during battle and war by both sides, often man upon fellow man. There is no way of going back and retrospectively removing these bloody deeds from our history, and nor should we. We should never cower behind modern sensibilities and entomb what shames us, tearing down old statues of sullied heroes, hiding and cancelling our past crimes and follies. We must acknowledge them for what they were, and move on.

Our ancestors were just ordinary people living in extraordinary circumstances, as are we; and to survive those circumstances they did what they had to do… as shall we.

Pride, so oft the spark that sets on fire the hearts of men, yet man’s pride is but a candle when compared to the volcanic hearts of the Orsimer. For the Orc’s wear their pride like the Breton knight wears a suit of armour, in battle it keeps them safe, but in other times it only weighs them down.

When the King of New Orsinium insisted on taking a Morkul daughter for his forge-wife, he passed over the chief’s strong-minded eldest in favour for her more accommodating younger sister. The king’s rejection wounded Ashaka’s pride and she headed off alone in search of Morkuldin, the ancient home of her clan, to recover an ancient relic and prove the King a fool for passing over her.

Whilst pride can indeed drive you to achieve great things it can also lead to greater mistakes. The caves of Morkul Descent, where the ruins of the legendary Morkuldin are rumoured to lay, has long since become home to a tribe of ogres, durzogs and giant spiders. But as I reach the bottom of the caverns I discover that perhaps the Orsinium King’s own pride may well have prevented him from choosing a more worthy forge-wife. For Ashaka had indeed discovered the hidden entrance to Morkuldin.

The Morkul Stronghold is home to one of the oldest and most respected clans in all of Wrothgar. Chief Abzug leads a proudly self sufficient stronghold, with their own market, docks, stables, forges and crafting workshops. They even boast chapters of the The Fighters and Mages Guilds within their walls.

The clan though is most famed for their blacksmiths who are said to produce the finest arms and armour of any of the Orsimer tribes. They say that every child of Morkul is born with a heart shaped like an anvil. Evan King Kurog can’t deny that it is upon the flaming forges of Morkal that the fortunes of New Orsinium are wrought.

Night and day the measured beats of heavy sledge, and the hoarse howling of their bellows can be heard echoing across the Wrothgarian Mountains, whilst captains traversing the High Rock Sea at night oft report that they navigate not by the stars, but by the burning sparks from the Morkul forges that set light to the night sky like warring torchbugs.

There is a darkness within every mortal, both you and me, all of us with a heart that beats, a soul that hopes, and a mind that dreams. Most of us keep that darkness bound and buried deep within, with chains wrought of conscience, empathy, and shared morality. But all it takes to break one or more of those chains is a perception of injustice, misunderstanding, or fear. And in that unleashed darkness do the deceitful flames of bigotry burn brightest, and in flares of umbrage we begin to justify that which we once held unjustifiable. Treachery and violence however are spears pointed at both ends, and wounds us just as deeply as those who were once our friends.

A Breton fleet has run aground on the ice sheets of Eastern Wrothgar after being blown off course by a blizzard whist attempting to round the Icy Shores. A small band of survivors from the three ships have set up camp to the southwest of Fharun Stronghold after their shipwrecked fleet was quickly overrun by scavenging Riekrs. The ships passengers were on a diplomatic mission between High Rock and Wrothgar, the Daggerfall Ambassador Lady Sovelle and her entourage on-route to negotiate a potential trade agreement with new Orsinium.

The camp survivors speak highly of the now missing ambassador, telling of how she stayed behind to help survivors escape from one of the sinking ships. Of her husband Ethian however, whose father owns the fleet, their opinions were saltier then the ocean waters. Whilst the fleet’s captain, Henrisa, seems almost uncaring about the fate of the Ambassador. I’m no navel expert but I am sure the traditional maritime practice is for a captain to be the last person to leave a sinking ship?

Whilst investigating the shattered wreck of the Pride of Northpoint, I was to discover an old ally trapped beneath a pile of crates. That most noble of Orcs, Skordo the Knife, is physically in bad shape; but in an even worse mood. He claims Ethian and a mage named Coris walked away from the wreck, leaving him there to die. Every tragedy has at least one of three causes, bad luck, bad decisions, or bad intentions. Scordo firmly firmly believes that the later is to blame for the grounding of the fleet, claiming that not everyone agrees with the peace between Bretons and Orcs, on both sides. He also claims to have overheard Captain Henrisa telling the ambassador just what she thought about the Orsimer. A letter I discover seemingly from Lord Ethian's father to Captain Henrisa appears to support his accusations.

Lord Ethian may not have been fully privy to the perniciousness of this conspiracy, but still the treachery of a friend or family cuts far deeper than that of a foe.

What is a man’s worth, his past achievements? his present labours? or his ambitions? For most people as soon as they attain one ambition they see another one glittering higher still, but what if your past achievements were so extraordinary that they cannot be outshone? Is then every future ambition dulled by the shadow of your past achievement?

Near the entrance to a small cave I encounter the Dark Elf, Raynor Vanos. He explains proudly that as experts on Dwarven artifacts, he and his sister Kireth were invited by the King himself to survey the Dwarven ruins of Wrothgar. They had arrived at what he believes to be the ruins of Zthenganaz when his adventuresome sister Kireth had either slipped, fell, or jumped into the cave; he seems uncertain as to which. At the sight of the ice wraiths and dwarven automatons roaming the buried ruins, the more bookish Raynor was understandably reluctant to follow.

I was to find Kireth exploring much deeper inside the ruins, she asks that I might steal a Dwemer power core currently being guarded by a particularly large Dwarven centurion she calls ‘the Ztheng Guardian’. Apparently her brother can make use of the power core to create one of his ‘devices’ with which he hopes to impress his scholarly colleagues at either the Mages Guild or Shad Astula, or perhaps both.

I remember Raynor and Kireth were both members of the Coldharbour invasion force. The Mages guild had apparently sought them out for their aid, specifically for their dungeon-delving expertise. They were also members of the Army of Meridia, helping to guard our rear during our final assault upon the Planar Vortex, ensuring we were not flanked by the daedra. Kireth explains that after all the excitement of Coldharbour, they thought coming back to the mundane ruins of Nirn would be boring. But not only did they find their deeds opened up new opportunities for them, “it also gave us an appreciation for the simple things." She said.

By contrast, after returning from Coldharbour to my modest home in Daggerfall, I was to find no comfort, and no appreciation in ‘the simple things’. Indeed, as the restlessness of my returned soul grew day by day, I felt an abrading need to go somewhere, see something, find something. It turned out all that would fill the empty hole left by an extraordinary ambition fulfilled, was a voracious appetite for more, no matter how dulled and tawdry they seemed. As to my worth? Well we shall see, but an Orc king’s ransom doesn't sound too unreasonable for either my achievements, labours, or ambitions.

Whilst searching through the Bonerock Caverns I was to discover a lone Khajiit apparently looking for his lost cat; surprisingly it turns out that he was also a member of the Orc hunting party for whom I was searching. The young Zhasim was apparently raised by the Orc tribe after being found forsaken in caverns as a cub. As we talk I begin to suspect that perhaps it was neither a lost cat nor the viscous Riekrs that led him here, but serendipity. For we were soon to discover that these were in fact the very caverns in which he was found abandoned.

My first thought was to send the Khajiit back to the safety of the camp, but sometimes even the most stoic of us reluctantly cede to empathy, for at some point in our lives we all suffer from a conflict of identity or loyalty. For me it was in the wake of the great anchor falling upon the City Isle that I, like many Legionnaires, was forced to choose between my vows to the Ruby Throne and my loyalty to the people of the Heartlands. Whilst others I have travelled with include Bretons who, whilst living in Rivenspire, were forced by Rancer to choose between King or kin. Redguard’s whose familys must choose between Crown or Forebear, Elves of Summerset who chose between nationalism or Alliance. The point is whether human or mer at some point in our lives we all make a choice of who we are.

I recall an old tale from Skyrim of a Nord hunting party who came across an Elven toddler who had lost his parents. After some discussion, they decided to take the toddler into their village and raise him as they would one of their own. Being raised as a Nord naturally the Elf grew up mistrusting others of his own natural race. But of course he always knew he was different from the family and people that raised him and eventually, once he’d grown to maturity, he set out into he world beyond the village to discover his identity for himself. He was soon to meet with other elves and when he told them of his strange upbringing, they informed him that his parents had been killed in a Nord attack that had wiped out his entire village. Feeling angry and betrayed he was persuaded to join up with an Elven guerrilla group who used his unique knowledge of the Nord territory to raid, pillage, and raze to the ground every rural Nordic town along the coast, including the one that raised him, killing everyone there. It was only later he was to discover that he had been lied to, and that in fact his parents had been killed during a Maormer raid.

I don’t know whether this tale is true or but propaganda or bard’s baroque, but there is a Bosmer saying which goes, ‘people without the knowledge of their past are like trees without roots.’ Whatever we discover together in these caverns it will be for Zhasim, and Zhasim alone to discover, and decide, who he really is.

A band of novice hunters from a local Orc clan who wanted to prove their worth by gathering meats, and furs for their tribe before the onset of winter, have been ambushed in hills by a tribe of small Ice Goblins known as Riekr. The little goblins whom inhabit the near-by Bonerock Cavern, are thought to be particularly gifted spellcasters, and share their caverns with a group of frightfully large Orges. The young hunt leader Orgotha requests that I rescue her captured comrades and kill the Riekr chief, claiming his tribes totem so that they might save face with their clan elders.

Unlike scholarly students who are taught lessons and then given a test; hunters like Orgotha are given tests that teach them the lessons. The youthful hunters feel that the cards just turned against them today. But much like the novice player at a Tribute table, we oft learn more from being wrong then being right, and nothing from being lucky.

The cruel plains of Wrothgar

I head north-east through the rugged tundra plains towards my next destination, the Morkul Stronghold. The leathery wilderness of central Wrothgar is littered with crumbling bridges, gates and towers built in the distant past to defend settlements that have long since been forgotten. Whilst traversing along its broken roads I pass bandit camps, wandering ogres, packs of durzogs, and even the occasional lone giant. This is a picturesque land full of ugly creatures, inhospitable and cruel not just to travellers, but even for the Orc tribes that call these tundra plains their home.

One creature I was to encounter however that is as striking beautiful as the glacial foothills that conjure them, was the Ice Wraith. For travellers from the temperate south, these nature spirits are but creatures born of storybooks, bard's fancies or scholar's pretensions. Too often do they only discover that these mythical creatures are in-fact real at the moment they are frozen by the piercing bite of the Wraith’s icy maws. For these serpentine creatures are nigh on invisible against the snow and ice to the eyes of the unwary, and even the most experienced of Orsimer hunters have a ugly scar and tale to match, which they are usually happy to share with southern visitors for the price of a mug of Grog or a Twice-Spiked Ale.

Heading down into depths of Graystone Quarry I see no signs of the fog, except perhaps the steam from strange brass pipes that adorn the cavern walls. I do however hear a monotonous chorus of hissing steam, clicking gears, and scuttling metallic limbs. And then in the gloom I began to spot them lit up by the occasional furnace blast. Spiders, Spheres, Sentries, and Centurions, Dwemer automations of every variety. Of course, if one delves deep enough in the mountains of High Rock it is almost inevitable you will eventually uncover a lost Dwemer settlement.

It is of little surprise that the straightforward rural Orsimer hide behind wild conjecture and superstition, few are so brave that they are unaffected by the unexpected. Still, even now knowing what lies ahead in the gloom does little to douse my own smouldering fears.

Eventually as I delve deeper into the caverns I find the high elf allegedly responsible for the miner’s woes… Neramo. I had last met him at the mages guild in Sentinel where he was researching lost Dwemer settlements, I guess he found what he was searching for. I am a little disappointed not to find the enigmatic Vimy with him. He admits his offer of help came only because he believed that the lost Dwemer settlement of Mzindyne lay beneath the quarry.

The elf informs me there is a construct control centre nearby which may enable him to take command of the constructs. He babbles something about a giant Orb, kinetic resonators, lenses and rings. To be honest I don’t understand any of it, but when he tells me I need to start hitting things until they go ping, we are suddenly on the same page.

With Mzindyne's defences under his control Neramo offers the constructs to the Tumnosh Clan to help meet Orsinium’s demand. Forge-Wife Kharza is understandably unforgiving and is obstinate that it would be dishonourable if the stone were extracted by any other way but how Malacath expected, ‘With Orc sweat and Orc muscle!’

Kharza would have the machines destroyed or banished to Orsinium, which is essentially the same thing as Dwemer automations mostly cease to function away from their home. Yet I need to restore the Graystone Quarry to full working order before Chief Ramash will agree to attend Kurog’s Great Moot. Sometimes to survive in this world one must suffer necessary evils, even if it is just until ones need subsides, or overtime the evil becomes somewhat tolerable… or even palatable.

The principle source of stone during the rebuilding of Orsinium has come from Clan Tumnosh’s Graystone Quarry located to the south-west of the capitol. The quarry however has reportedly fallen well behind in their expected shipments of late. Indeed, by the time I arrive there is no work in the quarry going on at all.

According to Forge-wife Kharza their problems started when demand from Orsinium began to outweigh their production and they hired a High Elf who claimed he could improve their yield. Not long after the elf entered a mine-shaft a fog was said to have rolled out into the quarry, screams of the miners were heard and many never reappeared through the mists. Chief Ramash himself went down into the quarry to look for his workers but he came back alone, covered in blood. Now the rest of the clan refuse to go anywhere near the quarry.

Mining is amongst the most dangerous of all occupations, and miners have developed a stoic bravery that would put many warriors to shame. I myself have pierced the callous heart of Coldharbour, and endured the lunacy of the Shivering Isles, yet the idea of entering that dark mine shaft gives me pause. There are three things in that mine-shaft that all wise men fear, silence, darkness and the unknown; yet when else can a man truly prove his courage, then when he is afraid.

When the first earthquakes of the Soulburst shook the heartlands to its core, ripping the town of Chorrol in two; nobody at that time knew the cause. But I recall a blind old woman who would often beg for food outside our barracks who claimed it was but nature fighting back in her revenge ‘gainst the thousands of years that men and mer had tilled the land, mined the mountains, fished the seas, hunted the beasts and cut down the forests. For the record, no-one believed her, for she also claimed to have lost her sight reading a scroll. And I don’t believe that nature is taking her revenge here in this quarry either. I do believe however, just as that accursed elf Mannimarco was to blame for the Soulburst, whomever this blasted elf is, is to blame for this tragedy.

The longer I live the more convinced I am that it will not be the cruelty of daedra that will eventually end us all, it will be the ambition of Elves.

The first victim

In the aftermath of the the Malacath fanatics attack on the Temple of Ire, King Kurog has summoned me back to Scarp Keep. As I enter two huge wooden doors of his throne room, I see his figure slumped in contemplative silence upon his throne at the opposite end of the cavernous hall. They tell me that the throne room can fit a hundred Orsimer heroes at feast, but now it is empty. Is this why the Orsinium King relies upon outsiders to champion his cause. Is there not an Orc in Wrothgar he can trust beyond his wives and mother?

As I approach his dais the only sound in the throne room are those of my heavy footsteps echoing like a heartbeat around the stone walls. As I stand under the piercing and cold eyes of the King, flanked by his minatory shield wives, he finally speaks, growling about Chief Bazrag’s supposed guilt in the attack upon the Temple. Despite his accusations I sense there is a grudging respect for Bazrag, I do wonder whether the King truly believes he was behind the attack. Rulers who wish to unleash war upon, or unite a country, have oft been known to procure or invent a first victim.

He proposes a Great Moot to rally the tribes to his cause. He wants me to perform favours in his name for those rural clans who were not convinced or were perhaps indifferent to the news of his ‘first victim’. Is it not typical of the Orsimer to send a soldier as a diplomat? Am I to offer my open hand to shake whilst my other remains balled in a fist?

The Temple of Ire in Orsimium has been attacked by fanatics claiming to be devotees of Malacath. They have barricaded the outer doors and taken the priests inside hostage. Unable to get past the front doors Eveli Sharp-Arrow aids me in finding a another entrance. It is curious how this little Bosmer is turning up wherever there is trouble; first at the ambushed caravan, then at Frostbreak Fortress, and now here. I’m not insinuating anything… it is just curious.

It appears the dedication of the Orsinium Temple to Trinimac is in opposition to the more traditional "Pariah Folk" who still venerate Malacath as their primary god. It matters not to me who the King sitting upon the throne bends his knees to. Let him believe that either Malacath beget from Trinimac, or that they are sperate deities, both can be true and neither for all I know. What matters is to prevent a brutal civil war from soaking the soils of Wrofhgar with Orismer blood.

Once inside I am forced to sneak like a Khajiit around the temple in fear of any raising the alarm which could lead to the slaughter of the hostages. Inside the rectory however I must find the remaining priests as soon as possible and thus slay any fanatic that gets in my way. My only concern is to rescue the High Priestess Solgra, she of the most illimitable eyes that captured me so. As I charge through the rectory I swear an oath to both Malacath and Trinimac, that if any have laid their filthy hands upon the High Priestess, I shall not sleep again until I have wrought such vengeance against them that would cause a daedric prince to shield their eyes and blush.

A friendless reign

The King of Orsinium is constantly surrounded by his forge-mother and wives. Whilst never far from his throne can be found his priests, nobles, guild masters, and soldiers… yet his reign is somehow friendless. For a friend might remind his King that when he begins to see his subjects as shadows, treason in every dissent, and greets division with tyranny, then he is in danger of becoming a traitor to his own throne.

It is not strange how some civilians who are neither stirred by blood-lust nor greed are drawn back to battlefields again and again by the threads of fate? Often to perform most meaningful deeds making them heroes in their own right, but never sung of in taverns or remembered in the spinners' yarns. The truth is that of the four of us that broke into Frostbreak Fortress, only King Kurog will be remembered.

We found the Alchemist, the only survivor of his squad, cowering behind a rock near the entrance. I remember Alinon from Camlorn, a friend of Darien’s who brewed a cure for Lycanthropy that helped us to liberate the city. When we discover a sapling growing out of a corpse the alchemist assures us he can brew a solution to destroy the tree upon which he believes the Reachmen’s briarhearts are being grown.

As the tree burns the Winterborn arrive in number but fall as quickly as they come. It is time to deal with Ice-heart himself. Kurog is obsessed with claiming his barbaric blade as a prize, believing the trophy will convince the clan chiefs to finally accept him as the rightful king of all the Orsimer. But back in the siege camp I spoke briefly to the other tribe leaders who told me that it is new ideas that frighten the fiercely traditional tribes; ‘And Kurog is full of new ideas’ they said. By new ideas I presume they mean a new city, new alliances… and a new God.

No tribe, army, or kingdom can stand long against new ideas, they wash over a land like a tsunami and those that set their sails against these tides of change risk being swept away. But is it not also those who weigh their anchors with their faith and principles who keep a nation's customs and traditions alive for future generations?