There’s a phrase I remember from my stronghold days. It went like this: ‘’ Put down that damn quill, Muresh. Pick up your sword. No orc chief wants a poet for a wife!’’
They tried to rub it out of me. They told me that writing poetry was for the weak, and it would be the surest way to anger Malacath.
I remember precious bottles of ink brutally smashed, I remember quill pens snapped, and I remember writing in the dirt with a twig.
If anyone tried to get in my way of writing, I punched and cursed them.
Soon, I learned to hide my writing materials. I hated that. I hated being a filthy sneak, but I couldn’t help it. I was obsessed. Words became both a master and something to be mastered.
I became an expert archer. This didn’t please anyone at my stronghold either. Even if archery could kill a few birds and bring back a bit of meat, it wasn’t honorable.
What I didn’t tell anyone was that it wasn’t so much for the meat, as for the feathers. The meat went to the stronghold and became our food, but some of the feathers became my quills. After all, I thought, what orc is going to notice and care if a few feathers are missing? So, I made my quills, and no one seemed to be the wiser.
I feared Malacath. I feared that what I was doing was wrong in his eyes. I also knew that he was the god of the spurned, and was I not twice spurned? First, in the outside world, for my Orsimer blood, and second, within these walls for my desire to be a poet?
For this reason, I had hope.
I prayed and worshiped Malacath, just as any other orc did, even while fearing his disfavor and wrath. Then, one day he spoke.
He did not tell me that I must not be a poet, only that I must be ready to fight, to bleed and to kill for my art.
He left. He has not yet spoken to me again, but I have always remembered that day, and it has given me strength.
I began to take my weapons training very seriously, and practice for the day when I would kill for art. Then, the day arrived.
I watched an old enemy named Murkgrol stride out into the open, with several sheathes of paper that had my writing on them. I recognized those pages immediately; they were mine, to be part of a great epic. He had found my hiding spot.
‘’ Hey, look what I found!’’ he shouted, as he waved them in the air. ‘’ How ‘bout I tear these to little shreds?’’ I glared at Murkgrol. Over the years, his was the face that I had punched the most.
‘’ Don’t,’’ I said.
He began to rip anyway, and I saw it as a sign that it was time to kill for art.
I spoke and said, ‘’ I, Muresh, challenge you, Murkgrol, to a death match.’’
‘’ What?’’ he asked. His eyes grew wide. Was he so shocked?
‘’ You heard me,’’ I said. ‘’ A death match. You can’t just walk away. Your honor demands that you fight me. Think about what people how would say that you were to afraid to fight a poet.’’
I pointed to the sheaves of paper. ‘’ Those pieces of paper, they are the prize
. If I die, you get to tear them up, but if you die, I will raise them over your dead corpse, and then sing a song.’’
He put my writings on a wood table, and said,’’ I’m so glad to kill you. This’ll be over in seconds.’’
We both armed ourselves, he with his war hammer, and me with my sword and shield.
We circled, and he began by boasting. ‘’ You’ll never get the best of me, you poetess scum!''
‘’You know,’’ I said, ‘’ Malacath’s on my side.’’
‘’ You’re a traitor to your race!’’
Maybe I’ll never be as tough, as muscular Murkgrol was, but I have something that he didn’t. I have a beat in my blood, and a rhythm in my veins.
I was careful, because the most important thing that archery had taught me was simply this; to focus.
Many in the stronghold had heard us shouting, and gathered to watch us fight. As they watched, they chanted Murkgrol’s name, and I grimly thought that this crowd was gaining him no favor with the Lord of the Spurned.
I was always a second ahead, hitting him a moment before he could block. I was wearing him down, and he was expending needless energy boasting and bragging, while I, the poet, was silent
In moment, he acted a fool, listening to the admiration of the crowd, rather than paying attention to my sword
I struck him through the heart, and he fell.
I cut off his head, and got my writings.
I stood above his corpse. In my left hand I held his head by its hair, and in the right my poem.
Before the crowd, I cried,’’ This orc has stolen, and he has paid blood price. The poet has conquered!’’
Then I sang a song which went like this:
I praise you, O Malacath
O, great god of the spurned,
for you have seen, and heard me
this day.
Your hand was with me this day
and I have struck my foe;
my enemy now has fallen
and will not return to this land.
Your great strong hand was
with me this day
as it is with all who stand
all who like mountains are not shaken.
All praise to Malacath!
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