Of Crossed Daggers:
The History of Riften
by
Dwennon Wyndell
Situated on the eastern banks of Lake Honrich, the city of Riften serves as a reminder of a bygone era. The once-proud streets and buildings have vanished and been replaced with a collection of wooden structures and rough stonework shrouded in a permanent fog-like mist. In order to understand how such a large city became nothing more than a glorified fortress, one need only look to the history books for answers.
Riften was a major hub of activity for trade caravans and travellers to and from Morrowind. Fishing skiffs could be seen dotting the lake at all hours of the day and the bustling city was alive with activity at night. The city guard was formidable and maintained a tight grasp on its populace, keeping them safe from harm. The marketplace in Riften was also quite a draw, containing numerous stands offering wares from across Tamriel.
In 4E 98, amidst the confusion of the Void Nights, Hosgunn Crossed-Daggers was installed as Jarl when the previous Jarl had been assassinated. Although many believe that Hosgunn was responsible, and cries of protest filled the streets of Riften, the Jarl took the throne and immediately took action to protect his station. Using the city guard, he had the streets cleared of protesters and initiated a curfew. Any caught breaking the curfew was immediately jailed without process or executed if it was a repeat offence.
For over 40 years, Hosgunn ruled Riften with a black heart and an iron fist. He imposed ridiculous taxes upon his subjects and any merchants that wished to sell their wares within the city walls. Hosgunn kept most of the coin for himself, using it to construct a massive wooden castle with unnecessarily lavish quartering within. The castle took seven years to build, and became a visual reminder of the people's oppression which earned it the nickname "Hosgunn's Folly." Towards the end of his reign, the streets of Riften became littered with refuse and it's people plagued by disease and hunger.
Then, in 4E 129, the people had finally had enough. With their numbers, they were able to temporarily overwhelm the city guard long enough to set Hosgunn's Folly on fire with the greedy Jarl still within. As the fighting recommended, the fire spread through the city unchecked. By the morning, the people had emerged victorious, but not without great cost. Most of the city was now in ruins and many had died.
It took five years to rebuild Riften into the smaller city that it is today. And even though over fifty years had passed since then, it still has yet to fully recover. Some believe it will never achieve the level of affluence it saw at the beginning of the Fourth Era, but there are a few who still hold on to the hope that Riften can return from the ashes and become a center of commerce once again.
25th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 203
The strange stronghold called Riften was just before him and he looked at its walls. They put any Orc's stronghold to shame, with buildings so high he could see them above the walls. It was so...alien, so strange to the twelve year old Orc standing on the road, hesitating to come near the city.
“Why are you hesitating?” a woman's voice sounded next to him and the Orc turned, looking up at the strange woman with four arms, holding a large eye on her chest. This time, he didn't cry out in shock or horror. This time he anticipated it.
“Because I clearly don’t belong there,” the small Orc replied. “Because I am afraid. What if they chase me out? The city is so alien to me.” He then narrowed his eyes and focused on the woman's face. Her eyes were covered by a blindfold and all he could see about her was the darkness of swampy green. “Why are you here?”
“You can consider me...curious,” she answered slowly, weighing in every word before speaking. “You keep resisting. Not only Allegiance Guide, but the Liar-King and his Grudge too. That we speak freely here is proof of that.” Her hand pointed up to the sky, which was writhing mass of black tentacles and sickly green clouds of murky. “A dream in a memory merging with reality. Allegiance Guide is trying, but ultimately you seem to control this place.”
The young Orc only shook his head and sighed. “Why do they keep trying even though I keep pushing back?”
A dry chuckle escaped Oghma's lips. “You're just a pebble along the river's way. The river will keep flowing, the river doesn't know anything else and the flow can't be stopped, certainly not by a small pebble.”
“Then maybe I should step out of the stream,” the Orc murmured, suddenly feeling his feet carrying him towards the gates, his mind finally deciding that if he couldn’t go back to Largashbur, where no one wanted him, he had to at least try Riften. He was scared, what would the people think of him, if they would even accept him, but when he looked back he saw nothing but the closed doors of his old life in the stronghold. Doors that were never meant to be opened again. There was really no other choice. He was hungry, thirsty and tired. He couldn't go back.
“Just tell me. Why are we here?” he asked Oghma and the woman was silent for a while before answering, her voice unsure.
“I don't know. When Allegiance Guide takes over, he creates the perfect world, but this...This is far from perfect, little Orc. Instead of a paradise, you keep going back to these memories. I think you created this place using Allegiance Guide's power.”
The Orc frowned. “And why did I do that?”
“I think that's what we have to find out,” Oghma replied.
“And what's in it for you?”
“As I said, I'm curious.”
The Orc shrugged. As good reason as any other.
He was slowly nearing the gate with two men standing in front of it, leaning against their spears. They were clad in ringmail armor with purple cloth over it, and their masks were made out of bronze and gold, with narrow visors instead of eyes and tentacles of bronze metal hiding their lower faces.
They noticed him, a twelve year old Orc in furs; a dirty and skinny creature and Grulmar could hear the one on the left say to his companion: “What do we have here? A stunted green piggy?”
“Here in his shrine,” the other guard replied, laughing in amusement. “That they have forgotten.”
“Please. If this is a kid, then I have to say they are more ugly then the grown-ups. Just look at him, he looks almost feral,” the first guard replied and when Grulmar reached the gate, he stopped him with a raised hand. “What do you want, pig-face?”
“I…” Grulmar stammered, looking at Oghma for a second before turning back towards the guard. “I'm looking for shelter,” he murmured.
“Here do we toil,” the other guard smirked, making the first one chuckle in response.
“Yeah. If you want shelter, little pig, you’ll have to pay the toll. Do you have anything valuable on you, hmm?”
Grulmar didn't understand what a toll was, but he imagined it was something that had to be given to be allowed entrance to the stronghold. Orcs had something similar. An outsider first had to prove his worth before being allowed in. Sometimes a worthy gift showing respect was enough, but other times there was a task to be completed, to reveal whether one was worthy or not.
The only thing Grulmar considered to be of any value was his orichalcum dagger, because life in stronghold certainly didn't prepare him for the greed and lust of men that came with gold and coins. So he pulled out the dagger and offered it to the first guard.
“That we might remember,” the second guard made fun of his friend who growled something Grulmar didn't understand, and then took the dagger from the Orc.
“And how is this valuable?” The guard muttered, annoyed. “Oh, what do I care?” He snapped. “Just go in, little pig. If you have nothing valuable you'll fit right in.” He opened the gate only just enough to let Grulmar squeeze through and beckoned him to enter. As Grulmar passed around him, the guard extended his leg under Grulmar's feet and the Orc fell on the ground face forward. “Watch where you step, piggy,” the guard laughed followed by the other guard's dry chuckle.
Grulmar suppressed the tears that were trying to crawl to his face and picked himself up, wiping his face of the mud. He then entered Riften. It wasn't exactly new to him, this behavior. The strong, making fun of him, bullying him. The stronghold was similar in that regard.
The Orc then took in his surroundings, his eyes nearly popping out at the sight of so much strangeness. The ground was paved with stones, wet and muddy and the buildings all around him were so big, much bigger than Largashbur's Longhouse, and even taller. It was a mixture of timber and stone that stretched much farther than any stronghold he had seen. The young Orc wondered why they needed such high ceilings, having very little understanding of floors and other things associated with Man's architecture. The town was standing on a lake, with water flowing under it and between the buildings in a series of canals. The water there was a sickly, stagnant water, full of floating mud, debris, and the smell of decaying fish and mud floated to his nostrils. It was completely different than the stronghold he was used to. Much more...filthy.
He began walking towards the centre of Riften, his eyes darting all around, trying to take in every detail; the various people and races moving through the streets. He noticed that some were wearing much nicer, but slightly funny clothes than the others, and more importantly, they were clean and all that. The others, on the other hand were dirty, wearing ragged clothes and Grulmar realized he wasn't looking much different.
He heard laughter and he turned around to see five kids running through the street. Before he could move out of their way they were at him, one big kid pushed him aside into the mud as the bunch continued running.
Grulmar landed in the mud and the kid, a human with thick, black hair, triumphantly cheered, shouting back at his friends: “Look who I pushed into the mud. A green pig!” His friends laughed and came back towards him, now pointing at Grulmar and laughing even more. “Bjorn, search him. Maybe he has something valuable.”
“Don't call me that!” the one called Bjorn growled, his unkempt blond hair falling onto his face as he lowered his head. “I'm Dirge, remember?”
“Sure, sure. If you're Dirge, then I'm Maul,” the black haired boy chuckled and resumed pointing at Grulmar. “Now search him.” Those two boys were maybe four years older than Grulmar, much bigger, but that nothing new. The so-called Dirge began searching through his clothes, and even though Grulmar didn't have anything valuable on him, he grew up in an Orc stronghold. He learned to let slide a lot of things, mostly because he didn't have the muscle to settle the dispute, but it was right then that he learned one ugly truth about the world he was living in.
People treated other people like trash if they were somehow different, even slightly. Maybe it was just Grulmar, something in him made other people treat him like that, but deep down, he knew that it wasn't his fault. It was theirs. People were mean.
And he demanded a blood-price for it.
As the boy's hand searched his clothes, he grabbed it and pulled towards himself, opening his mouth. He then clenched his jaw. Hard. Hot blood flooded his mouth, his tusks burying deep into the boy's flesh and the one called Dirge screamed in pain while the Orc's teeth went deep into his forearm.
“Shit!” Dirge screamed in pain and the other boys took a step back in surprise and Grulmar used that to get back on his feet, his fist hitting the much taller boy into his crotch, which immediately stopped his screams as Dirge leaned forward, the pain taking away his breath. When he was finally within Grulmar's reach, his forehead hit the side of Dirge's head, sending him to the ground.
The others just stared in surprise and Grulmar raised his clenched fists, baring his bloodied tusks at them. The one called Maul looked at Dirge and then at the Orc. “You fucking animal,” he growled. “Get him!” he ordered the other boys and they all immediately jumped on Grulmar.
He managed to dish out few blows, hitting at least one crotch with his fist, and at least one knee with his heel, but they outnumbered him four to one. A fist landed between his eyes, then a smaller boy punched him in his ribs with a stone, sending him to the ground. Their feet now did the work of their hands, kicking and stomping. All he could do was try to protect his head with his hands and his belly with his knees.
“What in Shor's beard is going on here?!” he heard someone shout and the feet suddenly disappeared, the boys scattering in all directions like rats, leaving Grulmar and Dirge on the ground. The Orc wasn't able to see out of his left eye and the right one was covered with mud, but he saw the purple colors of a guard and his bronze mask with tentacles. He looked at the Orc and then at the human boy, kneeling beside him and giving him a proper slap.
“Wh-what?” Dirge murmured with his eyes swimming. “He started it,” the boy said, holding his hand and then his eyes found Grulmar. “He fucking bit me! Just look at that!” he shoved the bit marks under the guard's nose. The helmet's visors looked at the wound and then at the Orc lying in the mud, barely conscious.
The Orc looked up at Oghma, who was watching all that from the corner of a house, and smirked. “This is where the fun begins. Perfect world…”
“Here do we toil,” the guard murmured. “Grelod the Kind will deal with that brat.”
Grulmar's vision became blurry, being slowly swallowed by the darkness and he closed them. Opening them again only made him realise he was lying in his bed at Tel Mithryn. He sat on the bed, his body still stiff, as if he had felt the blows all over again. He buried his head in his hands and groaned softly in the night.
“At least I'm not workin' on that tuskin’ stone,” he murmured, letting a smirk form.
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Yeesh, Grulmar had to have had one of the bleakest childhoods around.
Yeesh, Grulmar had to have had one of the bleakest childhoods around.