A Discourse on Faith by Ugdorga, the King's Scribe
For generations, Orcs have believed in three constant truths: the stronghold, the grudge, and the fury of Malacath. But before Malacath, at least according to certain traditions and a few noted scholars, there was Trinimac. Today, the city of Orsinium reverberates with the intellectual debate and reverent faith of both sides of the argument: Who is the true god of the Orcs?
For traditionalists, there is no question. Malacath is lord and god. He personifies the Sworn Oath and the Bloody Curse. His portfolio includes conflict, battle, broken promises, and anguish. Everything an Orc feels concerning his or her place in the world comes from the Furious One. The Orcs see themselves as a people betrayed, and Malacath reinforces this belief. For Malacath, clans must stand powerful but alone in their ancestral strongholds. The strongest rules and weakness is cast out with extreme intolerance.
Clan chiefs such as Chief Bazrag, who oppose the idea of an Orsimer king, hold to the teachings of Malacath.
For the new Orsimer, Trinimac is the culmination of their dreams and desires. The warrior god personifies culture and civilization. He calls for unity, not discord; for strength, not malicious chaos. He stands for unifying the Orsimer. For elevating us above our baser nature and making us equal to the other races.
King Kurog and the Orsimer of Orsinium follow the teachings of Trinimac.
11th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 204
It was late evening when captain Gjalund Salt-Sage ordered his men to furl the mainsail of the Northern Maiden, allowing them to rely mostly on the ship’s momentum to slowly reach Raven Rock’s dock. The ship became a cacophony of shouts and movements as sailors immediately obeyed their captain’s order.
The main sail was pulled up and firmly tied to the main mast and the ship immediately began slowing down, now just lazily sliding over the calm sea towards the dock.
Three figures came up to the main deck from below, wrapped in their cloaks so tightly he could barely see anything of their bodies. Their gaze was set on Solstheim and with Raven Rock slowly coming closer, he heard them exchange a few whispered words, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.
Gjalund sighed and leaned against the weathered handrail. These certainly weren’t the strangest passengers he had carried across in the past few months, which only made him reflect on his past trips to Solstheim.
So much had happened there recently, which was somewhat strange for such small island. Sometimes Gjalund felt like Solstheim’s problems were much simpler than Skyrim’s, but more...important. No one would doubt that Gjalund was a true Nord, but in his opinion, a Civil War over whether Skyrim belonged to just Nords or not was just… petty. There was plenty of room for everyone, wasn’t there? Who cares if we are autonomous or part of the Empire? It’s still the same - well, except that part about Talos, but that’s a storm that’s going to pass.
The people of Raven Rock were good people, every day of their lives being a struggle since Gjalund could remember. He didn’t have to go there, especially when he was barely making any profit with all the troubles with the East Empire Company and all that bullshit, but it wasn’t about profit for him. He wanted to do it, he wanted to help those people any way he could, even if it meant being the only bloody captain sailing to Sosltheim from Skyrim.
Wasn’t the island given to the Dark Elves by some High King in the past anyway? It is our Shor-damned duty then to make sure they’re doing fine. Just by giving something to someone doesn’t mean you’re giving up the responsibility too, doesn’t work that way.
Well, yes, the whole world seemed to be in trouble these days, with dragons being back and all that, also the Thalmor meddling in everything, but Gjalund was a simple man, those weren’t things he could change. His father always told him that if he had a chance to make a difference, he should take it and this - supplying Raven Rock - was his chance.
But yes, very strange times on Solstheim. When did they start? When he had brought that skinny little Orc to Raven Rock? Hmm. No, it was before that, when he took a few people off the island, some Dunmer, it seemed to him, wearing robes, and he didn’t remember much for a few days after that. He still regretted that, because when that Altmer showed up and told him that people had died in Skyrim because of those same people, he had no response to that, he just felt dead at that moment. And so he brought that Altmer to Solstheim and in a way it was the miracle Raven Rock had been waiting for for so long.
The mines were opened again, the strange magic taking hold over the island was broken and when he was leaving Raven Rock the last time, he even heard that Mogrul had been thrown into the dungeon. Well if that wasn’t the best news in Gjalund’s life - or Raven Rock’s people’s - than he didn’t know what was.
The light was scarce in this hour, the mining colony being lit only by few torches, but as the ship neared the dock, he began to discern something has changed in Raven Rock. The buildings were showing signs of repair, scaffoldings built around almost every house.
What in the blazes has happened here? Another dragon attack? he wondered, hearing surprised whispers from his sailors. He turned around, giving them a hard look. “Stop yapping and prepare for docking. Adrian, the ropes, move your arse!”
The young lad immediately grabbed the rope and jumped on the handrail, waiting for the ship to come as close to the dock as possible.
“Is everything fine, captain?” one of his three passengers asked with the jugular accent so typical of Orcs. What’s with Raven Rock and Orcs these days? Gjalund turned around, looking at the passenger. He was nearly as tall as the female Orc of his group, but much bulkier. But definitely not as big as the third one, who was nearly two heads taller than Gjalund, towering above everyone like a giant.
“I’m not sure,” the captain sighed, scanning the houses with his eyes. “Seems like there was some kind of fighting. Maybe a dragon attack, because I don’t really see anything else getting over the Bulwark.”
“Is it common here?”
“Dragon attacks?” Gjalund scratched his head, eventually shaking it. “Nah, we only had one so far, so I guess we fare much better than Skyrim in this regard. Beside that, Raven Rock’s the safest place on the island.”
The Orc stared at him from the shadow of his cape for a moment, as if he was pondering Gjalund’s words. The captain considered the trio of Orcs to be very strange, because they were too quiet for his own liking or even too quiet for...well, for Orcs. Speaking like some educated scholars or something, weighing every word they said, prone to long silences when they were looking for the best possible words to reply with.
“And other settlements?” the Orsimer asked after a moment.
The ship now reached the dock and Adrian jumped up, immediately began tying the rope around the docking column. “There’s the Skaal village in the north-east and Telvanni mushroom tower on the south-eastern end of Solstheim. You might want to brace yourself now,” he added, grabbing the handrail.
The Orc followed his example just in the moment ship abrubtly stopped accompanied by the sound of creaking wood and splashing of water. Gjalund looked over his sailors, who immediately began securing the ship and preparing the cargo. He admired their enthusiasm, but he was of no mind to unload the ship during the night. No, there was no hurry these days, so he’d give them a night off, let them play some games over who was going to spend the night in Retching Netch - he couldn’t let all his men get drunk, couldn’t he?
He looked at the Orc and frowned. “I don’t know what’s your business here, but if you plan on heading out I’d recommend spending the night in Raven Rock, leaving in the morning. The island is far from safe, especially at night.”
The head hidden under the cape nodded, the Orc even slightly bowing to Gjalund. Well, now I’ve seen it all.
“I appreciate your advice, captain Salt-Sage, and we will most likely follow it.” He then paused for a moment, tilting his head, only to nod as if he reached an agreement with himself. “Just one last question, captain, and then I will leave you to your responsibilities. When do you plan on leaving Raven Rock? In case we managed to finish our business here sooner than later.”
Gjalund tapped on his lower lip, thinking. “Well, we’ll be unloading the cargo from Skyrim tomorrow, then loading the ship with new merchandise to be sold either in Windhelm or Solitude. We could be finished by tomorrow, but we might stick around for few days. My guess? I think that by the Fifteenth we’ll be on our way back to Skyrim.”
“Thank you very much, captain Salt-Sage,” the Orc slightly bowed again and then headed to his companions, walking on the wharf and heading towards Raven Rock’s tavern most likely. Somehow, Gjalund wasn’t worried these Orcs would cause trouble, they were too different from the ones he knew. What a strange people… he wondered, turning back to his sailors with more commands.
The night at the Retching Netch was slowly starting, the miners already singing and roaring with laughter. Geldis Sadri didn’t mind that, not at all. He missed those sounds, and now that Raven Rock’s mine was open again, attracting many more people to the colony, he couldn’t get enough of those sounds. It just wasn’t getting old for him.
The opening of the mine actually attracted so many people looking for a job that the Councillor had to divide them into two shifts, exchanging every two days. And what were the miners doing on their days off? They were spending their time at the Retching Netch, of course, and business was never better.
It wasn’t exactly a trait for Dunmer, but Geldis was really hopeful that things would get better now, that everything would calm down after all that had happened. The dragon attack, the army of reavers and undead, the strange magic that had been making people sleep walk. That all seemed to be over now. One could always hope.
He walked to one of the customers sitting at the bar and smiled. He was scratching with a quill on some journal, been at it for a few hours and Geldis hadn’t paid attention. The Dunmer tilted his head to the side, well, he was drawing. He narrowed his eyes to get a better look. Looked like Raven Rock, a fair sketch of the bulwark and the city, as if viewing from a boat. “That’s rather well done, sera,” he pointed out with nod.
The Elf looked up from his work. “Oh, it’s just a rough sketch.”
“Didn’t take you as one of those artist types. It’s very good, looks just like it.”
A pale pink washed the older Mer’s cheeks and he shook his head dismissively, closing the journal quickly. “I am no artist. I just draw for field notes or dabble in the occasional sketch or painting for pleasure. It is relaxing.”
“One more?” he pointed at the empty bottle of milk. Milk! No longer so scarce since the trade routes were renewed, even more things being imported to Raven Rock now. “Been keeping it extra cold, just for you.”
The Altmer shook his head, but returned Geldis’ smile and the barkeep tried very hard not to look directly at the strange runes around his neck and cheek that peeked through his silver-white beard. “Not now, Geldis, but thank you,” the Mer nodded, sliding the bottle glass towards the Dunmer. It made his eyes go towards the strange runes on his hand and forearm. He definitely didn’t have those when he arrived at Raven Rock.
The club owner picked up the bottle and forced his gaze away from those runes. “Just give me a sign when you’ll feel like continuing on your milk spree, sera. And you are free to stay as long as you like, didn’t intend to stop you from your sketching.”
“I most certainly will,” the Altmer chuckled, his eyes flickering with a fire and the journal was promptly opened again. They were definitely not Dunmer eyes, and not Altmer eyes either, though Geldis didn’t recall meeting many Altmer in his day. The Mer then reached for his coin purse.
“No, sera. That’s not nec--”
“I insist. You still have a business to run, Geldis. I do not mind paying.” Thirty Golden Hands were then carefully counted from his purse and placed on the counter and Geldis took the money. Because why argue again that milk was only four golden Hands a bottle? He had already told the Mer the price of milk and that he was overpaying on several occasions. The Altmer seemed to understand that very clearly, yet he continued overpaying. Geldis didn’t think the Mer was bad with money, he just had a generous nature, which considering his race and considering who he was, it was very strange.
Dragonborn. It was an interesting title, some people in Raven Rock even compared it to the Nerevarine. A legend reborn, only from a completely different culture, but as far as Geldis was concerned, he was only glad the Altmer came to Raven Rock. They had him to thank for most of the things that changed for the better, and Geldis could add to that the fact that the High Elf had saved Raven Rock from that terrible dragon. He would even open his own reserves of milk for the elf. The best part was that the Elf wasn’t an arsehole about it either, didn’t put Raven Rock through the same situation that Mogrul had put them through. Instead, he asked for nothing in return, even paid his room and board on time, or his woman did, and he never complained. So he took the money on the counter and the Altmer resumed his sketching, dipping his quill into the inkwell and softly humming a tune.
Geldis noticed movement on the stairs and three figures came down, throwing back the hoods of their cloaks to reveal the green skins of Orcs. One was a tall female, and there were two males. One of the males, the older one, was in an armor that looked as if it was made of gold, the design almost Orcish, but far more elegant, with accents in moonstone and orichalcum. But that wasn’t what left Geldis with his mouth wide open. It was the other Orc. That Orc was a monster! His skin was a shade paler than his companions’, almost grey, but his head was practically touching the ceiling. He had to be at least two heads taller than any Dunmer in the room, even taller than the Altmer who was already damn tall in Geldis’ opinion. He never saw someone as big as that Orc, who was pretty much a giant in Geldis’ eyes.
They got the attention of the other guests in the club, but nobody said anything, mostly just stared the same way Geldis was staring at that huge Orc, save the Altmer, who was more curious than anything before quickly turning his gaze from the giant Orc to the other male’s armor. Geldis could even sense a little bit of hostility in the atmosphere - just as any club owner should if he wanted to successfully run a cornerclub - with the memory of Mogrul still being very fresh.
The Orcs glanced over the crowd and then headed towards the bar, towards Geldis. The one in the armor lowered his head, but the female was glaring back at the people in the club with defiance in her eyes, while the giant just stared with an expression devoid of emotion. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Altmer quickly turn to a blank page in his journal, give another quick glance at the approaching Orc, and dip his quill into the inkwell.
“Greetings,” the one in the armor said with that guttural Orcish accent, but with very clear pronunciation, managing to sound even friendly, which most Orcs struggled with. “We have just arrived on the Northern Maiden and captain Salt-Sage told us we could spend the night here.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Geldis stammered a little, which made him take a breath and put on what he called his ‘welcoming face’. “Welcome to the Retching Netch Cornerclub, the home of the finest sujamma that will ever grace your lips,” he said with as much pride as he could muster. “If you’re looking for a room, I am sad to say that I have only one left-”
“We will take it,” the Orc in armor smiled. “If that isn’t a problem, of course. We would hate to cause you any inconvenience.”
Inconvenience? Now that was a strange word, certainly not one Geldis understood, let alone try to pronounce. “No, no, of course not. It’s just that the room is small, with only one bed, but if you want it, it is yours. How long will you be staying?”
“Just tonight.”
“My apologies for interrupting you,” the Dragonborn leaned closer, pausing from his hurried sketching and flashing an apologetic smile, “but you mentioned you had arrived with the Northern Maiden. Has the captain said when he was planning to sail back to Skyrim?”
The Orc in the armor gave the Altmer a look, almost as if he was measuring him and Geldis couldn’t help himself but notice how the Orc’s gaze lingered on the Altmer’s tattoos on his hand and his neck and the burn. Yes, the elf had a burn on his neck, a black letter, Daedric script. Geldis saw the Orc’s jaw clench slightly, but there was nothing but politeness in the voice when he spoke again. “He said that by the fifteenth he would like to be back at sea,” the Orc nodded.
“Ah, thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
The club owner cleared his throat, coughing into his feet. “Anyway, can I get you anything to eat, drink? I have a sujamma that will make you feel like you’ve just entered the paradise of your own choosing.”
“Water will suffice, thank you,” the Orc looked at him with a smile and he wondered why it was him doing all the talking. Well, the giant didn’t seem like the talking type, and when he looked at the female he was actually glad her companion was the one leading the conversation. She looked like one of those fierce Orcs just waiting for an excuse to rip someone’s arm off and then beat that someone to death with it.
Out of the corner of his eye Geldis noticed the Altmer’s companion walking out of their room, approaching the bar. The Nord woman hugged the elf around his neck, giving it a quick kiss before she noticed his sketch.
“From landscapes to portraits?”
“The subject called for it, don’t you think?” The Altmer responded, making the Nord woman glance at the Orcs, measuring them with suspicion. Then her eyes found the milk.
“Just milk? No food?” she asked.
“Not hungry,” the Altmer replied.
“You need to eat.”
“Later,” he said softly, resuming his sketching, while she slide a seat closer to him and sat down, watching him sketch. Geldis squinted to see what the Elf was drawing now. It was the Orc, the Altmer beginning outline the armor. He had a knack for that, it seemed, looked just like the Orc at the counter. The Dunmer wondered if the Orc had noticed he was being drawn yet.
“If you would be so kind and carry it to our room?” The Orc asked, bringing Geldis’ eyes up from the Altmer’s journal. “After you show us which one is it, that is,” the Orc smiled a mild smile, which on an Orc still looked somewhat dangerous, probably because of their tusks. Tusks made Geldis nervous for some reason, there was just something about sharp things sticking out of people’s mouths that made him really uneasy. “But before that, I have one last inquiry,” the Orsimer stopped Geldis when he was about to reach for the key to their room and lead them there. “My companions and I are looking for someone. An Orsimer. An owner of a tavern such as this would surely know about people passing through town?”
“Hmm,” Geldis murmured. He wasn’t sure if he should ask for gold in exchange for the information, maybe playing ‘a deaf innkeeper’ like in one of those plays he had seen in Mournhold a few years back. But he let that idea go, he didn’t practice that before like many of his other lines, and if he had to be honest with himself, the Orc was very polite and he liked polite people. “Well, there’s two. One is Mogrul, a loan shark who used to run this town, sort of, who escaped from prison and is currently nowhere to be found. And the other, that’s the little fellow who is currently in the employment of the Telvanni Magister in Tel Mithryn - which is a Telvanni settlement on the south-eastern end of the island. Hmm, now I’m not sure if he’s Neloth’s apprentice or his steward. Or a cook? Hmm, he didn’t seem like a cooking type to me though. I remember I made him a scattercraw tea when he arrived here-”
“May I ask what you want of this Orsimer?” the Altmer stepped into the conversation again, his eyes now narrowed, the quill paused.
“We have no ill intentions, I can give you my word on that,” the Orsimer slightly bowed and when he straightened he gave the female a look before focusing back on the Altmer. She bared her tusks in a grimace, but nodded. “We have been on the road for a very long time, looking for something very precious to us and we believe that the Orsimer might have it. We merely wish to have words with him,” another bow, “on my honor.”
The Altmer stared for a second and then nodded slowly. “I shall take you at your word then, Vosh Rakh.”
The female bared her tusks again at the Altmer’s words, which were words Geldis had never heard, but they must have meant something to the Orcs because even the giant’s jaw clenched just enough that it was noticeable, because he was like a statue before. The older Orc blinked, but his face didn’t change. The Nord woman drew closer to the Altmer, her eyes on the other two Orcs.
The Orc opened his mouth, but the Altmer spoke first and it didn’t take much time for Geldis to realize that he didn’t understand a damn word of what was being said. It was certainly not Dunmeris what he was speaking. It was a guttural language and he could see that the older Orc was definitely understanding what was being said. Orcs had a language? That was new for Geldis. While the Altmer spoke, he gestured broadly with his hands, as if trying to convey height or expanse. Describing something big and impressive by the Altmer’s tone. Something he seemed to like a lot. The Older Orc’s brows lowered after the Altmer’s words and it was his turn to speak. Just one word, which set the Altmer to speaking again, his eyes finding the ceiling of the corner club as if he was trying to remember something and then he made a gesture like he was leading something. He then pointed to himself and spoke some more.
“Auri-El?” The Orc then questioned and the Altmer nodded, sort of half-smiling as he raised one of his very long, thick braids for the Orc to see better. He then let it fall and chuckled.
A thoughtful smile on the Orc’s face made Geldis sigh in relief, he was almost worried that they had taken the Atlmer’s questions as a threat. The Orc bowed politely to the Altmer and spoke more words in his language, his face losing some of its prior neutrality and morphing into what Geldis could describe as maybe respect. Geldis could feel the female relax a little.
“Oh, before I forget, just a warning before you retire,” The Altmer started, returning to the common language. “The Telvanni are not fond of intruders, the Magisters in particular being ones to not act kindly towards those who… disturb them.”
“I appreciate your advice. Have a good evening, brother.”
Brother? Geldis wondered. Since when did Orcs call Altmer brothers? And he wasn’t even going to attempt to figure out what 'Vash Rack' meant.
“Likewise, brother.”
The Older Orc turned to Geldis, but then paused and turned again to face the Altmer. “If you are awake and wish it, we may speak again?” the Orc offered.
“I would like that very much, Vosh Rakh,” the Altmer replied.
The older Orc then looked at Geldis and nodded. “Shall we?”
“Oh, yes, most certainly,” the club owner nodded, handing the Orc the key to their room and pointing towards the door directly opposite to the bar. “That door and it’s the room on the left. I will be there shortly with the water.” He smiled, and the Orc smiled back, then they headed towards their room.
Geldis smile disappeared, his facial muscles feeling a little stiff as he went for that water. Has the bag with Orcs ripped open recently or something? he wondered. The strangest Orcs I’ve ever met.
“Makes you wonder what kind of trouble the bungler has gotten himself into this time,” he heard the Nord woman murmur into the Altmer’s ear, who released a soft chuckle.
“Nothing he cannot handle, I am sure. With little heads up maybe.”
“You’re going to warn him, aren’t you?”
“He would do the same for me, especially since he now knows how the shards work.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about him.”
“I am sure.” Geldis could hear a kiss and then the chair being pushed away from the bar. “I will be in our room. Do not stay too long.”
“Want me to buy some food?” the woman volunteered.
“No, not hungry,” The Altmer left and Geldis stopped pretending he was doing something and actually started doing something, filling the pitcher with water, and grabbing the three cleanest glasses he could find. He rose and found the Nord woman staring at him. For a moment her eyes flashed with a vile orange light that nearly made Geldis jump out of his pants. Then she flashed a charming smile and Geldis felt so much better, gazing into her beautiful green eyes. She followed the Altmer back to her room and Geldis couldn’t help but think how lucky the Mer was to have such a woman.
The club owner shook his head and began dancing in between the tables with the water jug and glasses, heading towards the room he just rented to the Orcs. They were already inside and so he knocked, the door opening in a short moment. Luckily, it was that Orc in the armor and Geldis forced a smile on his face, handing him the jug and the glasses which the Orc dexterously took from him.
“If you’ll need anything else, you know where to find me,” he said. “Feel at home here, and don’t be afraid to ask if something peaks your curiosity.”
“Yes,” a voice thundered and the giant Orc now stepped towards the door, looking down at Geldis who loudly gulped. “What’s a Netch? And why is it retching?”
Veleth decided to take the morning shift at the Bulwark, quite enjoying the quiet that came with the early hours, when the sun was clawing its way over the horizon - that is, if it could be seen over the ash, which this morning, luckily, wasn’t falling.
He walked over the Bulwark, his eyes tracing over the marks in the stone, the scars of the battle he liked to call them. The battle was still in his mind, replaying over and over again, because he felt like he had failed. What did it matter that he didn’t have enough mer to protect the town from such a big force? Was he supposed to tell that to Redoran Council, that they sent him too few Redoran guards to protect Raven Rock from an army?
They were lucky the Skaal, led by their new shaman, and the Nord woman - Serana was her name - came to their aid, and he still was trying to wrap his head around that. If it was the other way, he knew he wouldn’t take the Redoran to help the Skaal. But things were changing, the trade between the two settlements now becoming so common that a day wouldn’t pass without Skaal hunters showing in Raven Rock, trading their meat and furs for whatever caught their eye.
They could all thank the Altmer for that. Äelberon of Dusk. He was a good mer, with his heart in the right place, and Veleth respected and admired him for having the determination to protect the people. He would make a damn fine Redoran, even if he believed in false gods and all that business, but what mattered to Veleth was that he could rely on him to do the right thing. And now he could rely on the Councillor too. It made Veleth feel good to know that Morvayn had offered the Altmer apologies for his treatment under Mogrul.
He then noticed three figures heading into the Bulwark’s tunnel and narrowed his eyes. They must have been on Gjalund’s ship when it came in, he sighed. Solstheim was little bit safer these days, but he still felt obliged to warn them, and at least get information on when they planned on returning to Raven Rock in case they became overdue.
He went down the stairs into the dark tunnel and froze in place when he noticed that all three of them were Orcs. More Boethiah-cursed Orcs! He wasn’t sure if he could ever trust those green-skinned beasts after Mogrul, because that was all he could see when he looked at them. Another possible Mogrul. He gritted his teeth and walked towards them.
“What do you want?” he barked, unable to help himself but sound angry.
The Orc in golden armor, with a long sword at his hip and shield on his arm, looked at him and slightly bowed. “Merely wish to leave the town, sir. We are heading to Tel Mithryn, planning to return in few days. We would like to catch captain Gjalund’s ship before he leaves.”
Now that was too polite for Veleth’s liking, which caught him off guard. He narrowed his eyes and rested his hand on the hilt of his daedric sword. “What kind of business do you have with the Magister?”
“Not with the magister,” the green-skin shook his head. “With his apprentice - or steward, no one seems to be sure what his actual position is. We hope to speak with him about something very important to us.”
“Hmph,” Veleth grunted, taking a good look at them. They seemed well-prepared for the wilderness, even well-equipped. He certainly wouldn’t prevent them from leaving, no. And if they died out there, it would be three less green-skins in the world. And if they returned...well, they said they had wanted to leave with Salt-Sage, didn’t they? And if they were lying, he would find out soon enough. “Very well,” he murmured, knocking on the side door in the tunnel to let the guard know he should open the gate. “Watch out for Reavers, there are still a few of them out there. And Ash Spawn too.”
“We will, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Sir… He watched them leave, shaking his head. Cursed Orcs…
It was a boring day, because Mahti had nothing to do. His god sent him away, telling him to find something to keep himself busy, though Mahti understood only half of it. Sometimes the Godspeak talked too fast for Mahti’s little head to understand and used so many strange and beautifully godly words the Riekling had no other option but to nod and look as devoted as possible so that Godspeak wouldn’t think he was unworthy of him.
His god was also arguing a lot with the grey demon in the big mushroom, and Mahti always wondered why his god even listened to that demon. The Shiny was much nicer.
Then he finally figured it out. Every god needed an adversary, someone so evil it made Rieklings tremble and pee themselves. They really didn’t have such an evil god back from where he came from - which was strange to remember, but he remembered it was warm and dark there, like a cave - but most of the times their adversaries were the grey demons and the Froo, Nords was how Mahti’s god called them. But now he understood, the grey demon was someone Godspeak was supposed to fight against with mighty and clever words, proving the Riekling of his miraculous power.
But the green god was acting strange today, mostly keeping to himself, not interested even a little in Mahti’s worship of him by bringing him shiny things. No, Godspeak locked himself in the smaller mushroom next to the bigger mushroom, but not the mushroom he was sleeping in or the mushroom where another grey demon made delicious fish. No, it was the other mushroom, where yet another grey demon, who always sounded angry, was brewing awful dizzydrinks, which made Mahti only fart and not make him dizzy. Yes, Godspeak was there for most of the day and so Mahti was picking shells along the shore of the big salty puddle.
He already had his arms full of shells and he noticed one more and decided he would pick that one up too. And as he did so, the armload of shells began rattling and Mahti tried to catch them all, only for a big wave to wash over him, making him drop all his precious shells.
“Mtterrrrtuskrrrr!” he cursed angrily, just as he once heard Godspeak curse. He tossed one of the shells into the big salty puddle in frustration, pouting.
He knew he was clumsy. And dumb. Not like the chief of his tribe, Chief Burrgrmakrooh. Mahti used to idolize him because Chief Burrgrmakrooh was so clever and smart. He could speak the language of the Godspeak so well, which Mahti sadly couldn’t, but he was learning.
Mahti’s tribe never liked him because of how clumsy he was. When he met Godspeak the first time he was out there in the woods because he accidentally forgot to tie Birglemuck in his pen and that stupid boar ran away, which made Chief much, much angry. He told Mahti to not return back without Birglemuck. So Mahti had to look for a stupid boar in the woods, all by himself.
And then he met Godspeak. The most glorious day in his life. He went back to his tribe, to tell them that he had met Koolawasa, but no one believed him, even throwing spears at him to chase him away.
They were dumb, not Mahti. Mahti was clever and smart, because why else would Godspeak choose him? He was worthy of Godspeak, trying to prove it every day.
Shells would make his god happy, he was sure about that, so he began picking them up again, and it was then when he noticed big things walking at the edge of the big salty puddle, towards Mahti. They were big, one even bigger than the white not Froo who yelled funny things such as ‘Prrrruzaaaa’ which was still making Mahti giggle every time he thought about it.
“Oooooo,” he suddenly exclaimed, slapping his forehead with his palm. He blinked, that hurt, then he shook his head. Godspeak gave him a task. He was supposed to watch if anyone was coming towards the mushrooms, and if they were… if they were, he was supposed to do something. What did Godspeak want of him to do? Was it screaming? Or maybe he was supposed to ask them for fish, just like his god kept teaching him. It was so difficult to remember everything Godspeak said, so many words, so many wisdoms.
“Telll,” the Riekling finally recalled after hard thinking that made his head hurt different. “Maahtiii telll!” he said happily, dancing like he used to around tribe-fire - but now he didn’t have to worry about falling into tribe-fire. “Maaahtiii telll!” he repeated, running towards the mushroom where Godspeak was brewing foul-smelling dizzydrinks.
He flew into the mushroom, only tripping twice on the way, and began pulling Godspeak’s sleeve. “Mahti tell, Mahti tell, Mahti tell!”
“What?” Godspeak looked at him with love, his voice filled with godly patience and gentleness. “What are ya yappin’ about now, shrimp? What do ya want to tell me?”
“Godspeeek saaay Mahti tell,” the Riekling jumped up and down. “Mahti tell, Mahti tell!”
“Mahti tell? What in the-” Mahti’s god started and then frowned. “Someone is comin’ here? That’s what y’are tryin’ to say? For tusk’s sake, shrimp, why can’t ya just say 'people comin’' or somethin’ like that? We’ve got to teach ya what 'people’ means. How many of them did ya see?”
Mahti blinked few times. He didn’t understand. Did Godspeak want him to pee? He didn’t want to pee now.
“How many?” Godspeak asked again, pointing at his fingers, tapping on each one of them. Now Mahti understood. It was like when the grey demon in the cooking mushroom asked him how many fish he wanted. He always said ‘two’.
“Twooo,” he said and showed his hand with all of his five fingers raised.
Mahti’s god sighed and headed for the door. “Lovely. Remind me to teach ya to count too. At least to tuskin’ five...” Mahti followed him outside and they could see those so-called ‘people’ now approaching the grey demon’s mushrooms.
Mahti looked at Godspeak, than at the people, then back at Godspeak and again at the people. They looked like Godspeak! Were they gods too? Were they of Godspeak’s tribe? He had no idea that Godspeak had a tribe.
He heard his god take a deep breath as he stepped forward, ready to welcome his family. “This is Tel Mithryn, so unless ya want to be torn to bits by a pissed-off Telvanni, ya better state yer business.” It was such heartwarming speech, they surely had to hug now, that’s what a tribe would do after such warm welcome.
“It is you,” one of the other gods spoke, a god with big breasts for milking. She had to be Godspeak’s mother, it had to be her cave Godspeak came out of. “We have been looking for you for so long.” Then she and the others dropped on their knees, their heads bowed. “We are yours, Prophet.”
Profit? Mahti didn’t know what profit meant. But they were kneeling! Godspeak’s tribe was kneeling! Mahti then understood. Godspeak was the chief of their tribe and they worshipped him too! And Mahti was his chosen follower, Mahti was so lucky!
There was a moment of silence, almost as if they were waiting for something.
Then Godspeak roared with laughter.
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Can I have a Mahti plushie? I want a Mah... more
Can I have a Mahti plushie? I want a Mahti plushie!