17th of Sun’s Dawn, 4e 26, Orcrest
Revenge would be sweet, thought Äelberon as he strode towards Inyel’s stall and small farm at the corner of the Market Plaza of Orcrest, his head held high, his armor cleaned and the deep ebony-black of it glistening in the afternoon sun. His hair was plaited close to his scalp into several thick braids that hung to mid-back, his leather intricately woven into the central braid. He passed the various Khajiit, Bosmer, Imperial, and even Orc vendors that lined the narrow avenues of Orcrest’s simple, but bustling Market Plaza, the colorful tents and awnings of their stalls advertising their various wares – skins, earthenware, spices, moon sugar, dried meats, and other items – but Äelberon was on a mission and he, for the most part, ignored them, save giving them the occasional polite nod as was his custom as a Knight-Paladin. They nodded back and then they stared, their mouths agape. It made him blush, feeling all the bigger and more conspicuous, hearing whispers of “White Orc” and “Goblin Slayer” behind his back, and he hastened his steps through the market to reach the corner stall closest to the small patch of land against the beige sandstone walls. He saw the young, dusky-skinned Altmer rise and wave, for they knew each other quite well after five days. The thriving plants behind the lad quivering in the desert winds, heavy with those ripe, red fruits. The familiar smell from that particular patch of earth turning Äelberon’s stomach a little.
Cursed things… even he loathed them now. Though he imagined he would get over that loathing pretty quick.
Revenge. In a moment of intense bonding and solidarity, putting aside their prior conflicts and issues that would not be resolved until they reached Corinthe anyway, the four of them had verily sworn vengeance against the things. They swore it as they sat together, huddled from exhaustion, at a worn, dirty wooden table at the local, cheapest caravanserai they could find and afford, Elenwen selling a gold ring from her own hand to pay for their first night. One room for the lot of them to share, including the two Khajiit and after seven days of desert, they were grateful, even Lillandril.
They sat in their bedraggled, dust-encrusted clothes. Landril in plain, ill-fitting rough spun shirt and breeches from one of the Khajiit head hunters, Äelberon’s own clothing now so worn under his armor that the armor’s metal now chaffed his skin, and the robes of the Thalmor were threadbare and riddled with holes. But they survived. They triumphed over the deadly Ne-Quin-Al and reached Orcrest. They sat, Äelberon, still covered in many unhealed cuts and bruises, his body impossibly sore, his ribs throbbing, his left eye still nearly swollen shut and black and blue from having earned the respect of the eldest of Tribe Nolonag, winning their “dispute”. They then traveled with the Orcs in the desert for two more days to reach Orcrest, helping them fend off more Ra’gasha goblins and a pack of Khajiit zombies, his sun spells only barely working, before merging with another Orc hunting party, bearing many sandcrawler carcasses. He watched as a just as bruised Krogonk, his right eye and cheek badly swollen and a tusk chipped, spoke to a young Orc in the moonlight the night before they arrived. The Orc youth nodding in silence, his brow furrowing when he was told of his brother’s death, but then he turned to give Äelberon a nod of respect.
They survived. Only to learn that there was, as of yet, no clear message from Dune. Only that the twins were still bickering away, Ri’Nuruj maintaining a stubborn resistance, despite Ri’Felor’s Elenwen-obtained advantage. Already over twelve days of fighting, and refugees were now entering Orcrest, Rimmen, and Riverhold in a steady stream.
They survived. Only for a new trial to be thrown in their path, on their first day in the city no less. But empowered by their survival, which seemed to impress the Orcs a great deal, they refused to be beaten and they vowed vengeance against their new foe then and there in true Altmeri fashion. They joined their hands together that first night, invoking Auri-El in their oath before they each spit into their respective steaming dinner bowls, finalizing their promise of revenge. J’Fassaa and Dar’Kalaa looking on in curiosity, not quite understanding why the Altmer before them were so solemn, watching them eat their evening meal with sour faces.
The sugar-shakes. That was what the Wise-Woman of Tribe Nolonag, Ugabug – a wrinkled She-Orc in the black robes of a mage, missing an eye and part of a tusk – said they had the afternoon they arrived at Orcrest. At first, they thought she was joking, but no, turned out it was a legitimate condition. They were addicted to sugar, specifically moon sugar, the result of days eating the local food by mistake and by necessity, for the first head hunters had nothing else on them and edible game in their first five days in the Ne-Quin-Al proved scarce. By the time they encountered the Orcs, the damage had already been done and they needed treatment or their condition would worsen. It explained everything; the irritability, the inability to focus their magicks, their awful mood swings, their thirst. Smoking moon sugar and skooma was fine; they just could not eat it, which was what they had been doing. Then they learned what the treatment was.
Äelberon reacted the best to the news, only nodding at the irony, but he was a Knight and a Priest and therefore conditioned to endure more suffering. He actually thought it funny, biting his lip several times to stifle his laughter while Ugabug seriously explained the details of their treatment, their detoxification as she dubbed it, her gruff voice full of Orcish authority. Vingalmo and Elenwen were visibly disappointed, but understood that it was for the best. Lillandril, as to be expected, took the news the worst, theatrically falling to his knees and screaming at the top of his lungs, his face deepening to a dark gold in his rage.
“Why Gods, why? Surely, surely you mock me!? ME!” The last word was squeaked. He then continued, shaking his fist in the air feebly. “Did I commit such terrible sins? I only gamble once in a while. Sure, I like drink, but I do not overindulge… much, and sex? Gods! Why give me merhood if you don’t expect me to use it? I’m NOT RONNIE! I NEED SEX! No, no, no, no, no! I have had to put up with an elephant-sized pile of shit on this trip, but no more, I am finished. I go to die now. Goodbye, everyone. Pleasure meeting you, you large, fearsome, male Orc warrior person, and you, Wise-Woman. Malacath’s many Blessings or Curses, I don’t know which you’d prefer.”
It was quite fortunate that the Orcs did not know who “Ronnie” was, for the boy had broken strict Altmeri protocol by using Äelberon’s familial name in such a public setting, but the boy was clearly not himself at the time, exhausted, struggling with the moon sugar in his system. Äelberon did catch Krogonk’s puzzled stare when Äelberon could not suppress the color rising to his own face. That was part of the oath too, that the identity of “Ronnie” would remain a secret in Orcrest. Explaining chastity to Orcs was something Äelberon was not willing to explore. ‘Twas embarrassing enough explaining it to J’Fassaa and Dar later that evening, Vingalmo nearly beside himself with laughter. The Hyena.
When Lillandril’s meltdown resulted in loud guffaws from the rest of the folk crammed into the Wise-Woman’s stucco and thatch alchemist hut that smelled heavily of herbs and siligonder eggs, the young Altmer stormed out, vowing to die in the desert. Äelberon gave Krogonk an apologetic nod and he, Elenwen, and Vingalmo raced after the irate boy, still trying to suppress their laughter. Äelberon was quite certain both the Khajiit and the Orcs thought Altmer insane.
“Hello, Knight-Paladin.” Greeted Inyel, interrupting Äelberon’s thoughts, “Isn’t your detoxification complete? Lord Larethian didn’t have a relapse, did he?”
Äelberon dismissed his fellow Altmer with a friendly wave of his hand and a chortle, “No, no, Lord Larethian is fine.”
Lillandril did not get very far, only reaching the giant statue of Malacath before falling to his knees at its base, a tired, grouchy Mer, compulsively scratching his itchy clothes. It was there, as they comforted him, convincing him to return to the city that Äelberon conceived the plan that resulted in their oath. His reason for visiting Inyel today, to celebrate their last night at Orcrest in fulfillment of said oath. It was not his only plan for the evening, he thought with a smile, there was also a little something for himself and two new friends. A hunt under the light of the twin moons with now-Chief Krogonk of the Nolonag tribe and his sister Oghba. He hoped that the skooma would not affect him too badly, he chuckled aloud. Aye, he was laughing again. Orcrest had been good for him. For all of them.
For three days, Äelberon visited Inyel at his stall to purchase their treatment for the sugar-shakes.
Tomatoes.
Lillandril’s dramatic outburst was completely understandable.
To be prepared in a bland, liquidy broth and consumed for three days as their only sustenance besides water. According to Ugabug, the acidic property of the tomato countered the negative effects of the sugar-shakes. They barely held down their first bowls of it that night at the caravanserai. Granted, that they spit into their meals did not help, but all four of them woke to far clearer heads the next morning. Lillandril seemed especially motivated, working harder to attain their goal for their last night than Äelberon had ever seen the lad work.
They needed 2,000 septims for the supplies needed to reach Corinthe and nothing in Orcrest, save their initial visit to Wise-Woman Ugabug, was given for free, and even she requested payment when they were better. Orc traditions, especially those of the Stronghold, permeated Orcrest. All within its protected walls worked, from the proud hunters of the eight tribes to the rather tame Minotaurs who handled the heavy manual labor. But the 2,000 septims for supplies was not all the money they needed. From that first night at the caravanserai, they swore that their last night would see them bring vengeance upon the cursed fruit and that there would be skooma involved in the vendetta. The tomatoes, for the sheer number, and the skooma required that they save up an additional 1,000 septims and all, to Äelberon’s astonishment, were willing to work for it. Hard.
Obsessive revenge will drive a Mer beyond what they consider comfortable.
“What can I do for you today then?” Inyel again interrupted.
He needed to stop his musings, Äelberon thought, shaking his head. “I am here to purchase a bushel of tomatoes today, Inyel.” Äelberon explained with a mischievous smile while he took out his coin purse, ready to count 212 septims. He now knew the price of tomatoes to the bloody quarter-angaid, he had purchased so many of them between the West Weald and Orcrest.
Inyel’s face lit up, that was nearly four days’ worth of sales, though he was surprised at the same time and hoped that all was well with them. These four Altmer were refreshing like the desert winds after a rare rain, and very talkative too, giving him all the recent news from Alinor; far, far nicer than the other Altmer who passed by recently. Two Thalmor Justiciars, in their black silken finery and high Northern airs, had kept to themselves, avoiding the Orcs entirely, only dealing with the other Altmer and Bosmer of Orcrest. They arrived at Orcrest sometime before Lord Larethian’s party arrived, coming from Rimmen, stopping over for a day’s rest before moving on to Corinthe. The only thing Inyel enjoyed from them was their business, for they were rude, noting immediately that he was originally from Sunhold.
“A whole bushel?” The vendor confirmed, still in shock.
“Aye, a whole bushel, friend Inyel.” the Larethian Guard grinned, laying his Southern accent on thickly, “to be delivered to the Broken Jaw caravanserai before you close up, if you please? 212 septims, yes?”
“Ha! Yes! You definitely know their price now, eh Knight-Paladin? But I imagine you and your party feel much better, don’t you? The sugar-shakes are terrible to go through. I’ll deliver the bushel myself. Give my regards to the others.”
Äelberon gave a hearty nod and a smile while he handed Inyel the coin. “Of course, thank you.”
The boy pocketed the money and set about harvesting a bushel’s worth, leaving Äelberon to make his way back to the caravanserai.
Krogonk was instrumental in finding them work, though only Äelberon, according to the Orc, possessed any useful skills for Orcrest. After seeing the craftsmership of his weapons and armor and learning that he had received training from his mother, the Orcs of Nolonag sent Äelberon to their Chief’s formidable Forge-Wife, Slooonk, who growled at the intrusion, narrowing her black eyes, until she saw the arrows in his quiver. He was immediately put to fletch.
Vingalmo and J’Fassaa joined forces to offer their services in loading and unloading supplies from caravans and shops, receiving most of their work from Inyel. Elenwen and Lillandril were sent to work at the Broken Jaw Inn, where they were staying, keeping the establishment clean and serving drinks to the Orcs that were its patrons. They did their jobs without complaint, despite the sneers from the city Orcs, and on that Vingalmo and Äelberon were grateful, for both Landril and Lenni hailed from wealthy families in Alinor.
Dar’Kalaa spent the time roaming the city, gathering intelligence on Dune and listening for any jobs. Through her efforts, they struck gold with a seemingly simple job. The Stronghold Orcs had considered clearing a minor rat infestation unworthy of Malacath, so Vingalmo, Elenwen, and Äelberon were assigned the filthy task, only their persistence resulted in the uncovering and destruction of a goblin smuggling ring that had been draining Orcrest’s precious resources. Their success earned them 2,500 septims and the appreciation of Orcrest’s High Chief, Shulnar gro-Uzukhash, who pronounced their efforts “pleasing to Malacath, though it was done by weakling mages and a White Orc.” With their additional earnings from the past five days, they were able to purchase the supplies needed to travel to Corinthe: leather armor for both Vingalmo and Elenwen, new traveling clothes for Lillandril, some shirts and breeches to wear under his own armor, what they needed for tonight’s celebration…ah vengeance… and have a little money left over in case of an emergency.
The experience had also renewed Äelberon’s faith in his friends. When they first swore the oath, he could not lie to himself while he walked the Market Plaza towards the Broken Jaw; he had thought he would be doing the majority of the work, remembering their treatment of him in Riverhold and later at Dune. But it seemed their contact with the Orcs had been a turning point for them. His beating had been a turning point for them. He should have known, for when he vanquished Krogonk, they were overjoyed, not because they were saved, but because he had survived the brutal encounter. Even Elenwen, the most reserved among them, could not suppress her tears of relief, burying her face against his torn blood-stained shirt, releasing her pent-up anxiety and fears. Allowing herself to hold him just as she did when she found him in the Tower ruins all those years ago. Vingalmo and Lillandril then joined in and Äelberon blushed at the Orc’s strange stares. Four Altmer holding each other was a bloody rare sight in Alinor; it stood to reason that it would be an even rarer occurrence in the middle of the Ne-Quin-Al Desert. Aye, Äelberon thought with a warm smile as he entered the Broken Jaw, his twinkling eyes immediately finding a grinning Lillandril chatting with Elenwen while she swept the floor, they were going to enjoy tonight.
“They’re gone in the head, Krogonk. The lot of them.” It was almost done. Oghba turned the roasting goat in the spit, her mouth watering when she saw the fat drip onto the cooking fire, making little hissing noises, releasing the scent of the seasoned goat into the night air, while her bro—Chief reclined against a boulder near the campfire, picking up another squashed tomato that had landed close to him, tossing it into the campfire. There were pieces of tomato everywhere. Plenty of food for the desert rats, Krogonk chuckled. The night sky blazed above them in a flurry of star clouds in blues, oranges, whites, and reds against a black backdrop. Masser played with them tonight, but Secunda was a coward and stayed hidden.
“Fanne!” Cried Äelberon, his bow ready, an arrow nocked in position, grinning wickedly at Dar’Kalaa, who was perched on top of J’Fassaa, his eyes catching the star light.
“Amma rauba?” hollered Vingalmo from the opposite end of the campfire. The two older Mer had constructed a make-shift catapult, designed specifically to vault tomatoes into the air. Considering they were already high on skooma when they were planning and making it, Krogonk was impressed.
“By Malacath, Chief, they are going to attract every Ra’gasha goblin within a day’s journey to Orcrest with their racket!” complained Oghba, causing the Chief of the Nolonag Tribe to eye his sister. She would be traded soon, for his first wife, a Hearth-Wife from Tribe Mogrish. If she continued to nag, he’d rush the trade.
Krogonk dismissed her with a wave of his hand, enjoying his bottle of ale while he watched their antics, “Ha! Female, you are so wrong. If anything, the racket from these crazy Elves will make the goblins run away. Skooma makes this group bold. It’ll be a fine hunt later, if Äelberon’s not too blazed.”
“This whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Nah, they’re just blowing off steam. You don’t know, you’ve never had the sugar-shakes.”
“Aye, I know. Unlike you, I learned from your mistakes.” Oghba sneered. She asked for it. Krogonk launched himself from his position and tackled Oghba to the sand. They wrestled for a few moments, until Krogonk managed to pull her arm behind her back, grunting with effort. Damn female was strong.
“What did you say?” he asked for clarification.
“Not… backing… down… you shit…” She groaned, fighting against his grasp. “Don’t care if you’re my Chief. I can still take you.” She dislodged from his grasp with several twists and he body-slammed her. He was going to miss her, and Krogonk was going to miss the blazed-stupid “White Orc” too.
But change was part of the Orc's way.
Their initial violent encounter had ended in a mutual respect for each other and as the Elf continued to prove himself, it became friendship. Krogonk had petitioned for Äelberon to be declared Blood-Kin, but the High Chief resisted the idea, saying that the recognition for bringing down the goblin smuggling ring and the 2,500 septims was enough for these outsiders. He respected Shulnar’s decision, but a part of him was disappointed. The hunt was the solution, a last hunt as friends, and a last hunt as brother and sister. A desert lion for the Mer who had fought like a desert lion when they first saw him. The fur and mane Krogonk’s gift, a necklace of its teeth, Oghba’s.
“Ronnie! Amma rauba?” Called out Vingalmo, louder this time and annoyed.
Dar’Kalaa widened her eyes. The Elves were being careless with supposedly secret names and Pelin was none the wiser. Hopefully the Orcs were stupid.
“Ah…” Äelberon paused in thought, his sides splitting from laughter.
“Nata, nata!” Interrupted Lillandril suddenly, shaking a small bag of septims in the air, “I have a bet with Lenni. I says he can’t shoots down three. I says… ah shit, I’m blazed.”
“You’ll lose, Landril.” The She-Elf shot back, vaporizing a tomato with shock magicks. She lost count of how many had met their end under her magicks. They had all slain countless tomatoes under the influence of skooma. The revenge glorious, just as Ronnie had promised. “And I say he can.”
“Ronnie, do me a favor and deliberately miss, please.” Called out Lillandril, getting close to Elenwen and crushing a tomato with his bare hands with a growl.
“I’m not impressed.” She countered, producing another tomato, which she proceeded to freeze with ice magicks, making the tomato burst into little particles of frozen crystals.
“You’ll only be impressive, Lenni dear, when you actually make the tomatoes attack or, even better, turn them into soul gems!” He replied, clapping his hands, only then realizing with a frown that one of them was still covered in tomato goo.
“Only in the Shivering Isles and in your mind, Landril, can such madness occur.” Countered Elenwen, taking another puff of her pipe.
“Nata then, Galmo, can’t disappoint the gamblers.” Answered Äelberon, stumbling a bit, “split the proceeds with me, Lenni? After all, I am the one doing the work and I am rather poor.”
“Only if you shoot straight! I can plainly see that you can’t handle your skooma!” She called back, now holding a flaming tomato in her hands, which she quickly tossed into the fire.
“You hear that, Galmo!? You better set your female straight.” Äelberon cautioned. “I can handle my skooma.”
“FEMALE? Do I look like an—“ Elenwen started, only for her mouth to be covered by Landril. The hand covered in tomato and he beamed when she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Lenni was dirty!
“Remember who’s here. She’s very large and very intimidating.” Warned Landril, who then attempted to stuff a tomato in Elenwen’s dress. “The bigger they are…”
“Oh, you are awful.” She replied, wiping her face. “I can see that you have been running around Dusk too, picking up a few things from that one’s father.” She pointed towards Äelberon.
“And enjoying every minute of it.” Grinned Lillandril, tossing the tomato in the air and shooting a fireball into the sky. It didn’t hit the tomato, no, that fell on his head, but the fireball was quite impressive.
“Not bad,” Elenwen nodded, “though do try to hit your target next time.”
“Gods, Galmo, are you so blazed you can’even load a damn catapult anymore?” Barked Äelberon from his position, “My bow arm’s tired, and I’m hungry. That goat smells delicious and I don’t trust it so close to the Orcs.”
“Shut up, fat arse.” Growled Krogonk, his tusks flashing. “Or I’ll beat you to a pulp again.”
“Your eye was just as blue as mine was, Chief.” The Elf teased.
Krogonk and Oghba exchanged grins. Another dispute might have to be settled.
“I’m trying, swear.” Chortled Vingalmo, the smoke from his latest inhale escaping his lips when he spoke. “We didn’t exactly design the bloody basket to fit three all that well, Ronnie. Wait, there we go, ah shit. It fell. Stupid tomato…” A purple light emerged from the Altmer’s hand and morphed into a Daedric sword that promptly sliced the tomato in half. “That’s for not cooperating with the Thalmor.” Vingalmo gloated. He picked up another tomato, the last one in the bushel, slightly smaller, an even harder target for Ronnie to hit and he pointed to it with his weapon. “Last tomato, friens.” All four Altmer sulked. The fun would soon be over. Vingalmo’s attention returned to the fruit. “Now, you better cooperate, or you’ll meet the same fate as your…” He started laughing.
“Xarxes’ arse, the hyena’s started up again.” Groaned Äelberon, shaking his head when the area around him spun rapidly, almost making him drop his bow, “Dammit, Galmo, it’ll be tomorrow morning before I get this bloody shot in.” He then spied the two Khajiit flashing their teeth and narrowing their eyes. “Ya don think I can hit all three, do ya?” He asked, his voice breathless and slurred from the skooma.
They both shook their heads in unison. The Mer had more moon sugar in him than Riddle’thar.
“Doubters. I shall.” He took a deep breath to clear his vision and pointed a finger at them. “… I shall verrrily show ya the glorry of Au… Auri-El, jussst ya watch. GALMO! Rrrelease the damn tomatoes already. Gods’bove, we’ll have already heard from Dune by the time ya move your arrse!”
Vingalmo ceased his laughing and triggered the catapult, launching three tomatoes into the glittering night sky before falling over in an attempt to reach his pipe. And the Eagle of Auri-El, true to his word, in rapid succession, brought down each of them with his sure aim. They landed upon the ground with a heavy splat, a golden arrow embedded in each and he grinned wider at the doubting Khajiit than Lorkhaj himself must have on the Day of Mundus’ Creation, his clever trick now fully realized. Dar’Kalaa narrowed her eyes, seeing something new in Pelin’s luminous ones, the fur behind her neck standing on end. Not out of fear, no she was not afraid.
“I AM… good!” Äelberon boasted in glee, lifting his bow high to the air. “I AM!” he laughed, his eyes to the night sky, gazing upon the brilliant stars and the moon. It made him dizzy with their constant spinning. Like a wheel turning in the cosmic glory. Gods, the skooma was coursing through his body, his heart hammering in his chest. It felt amazing.
Elenwen took a sulking Lillandril’s coin purse, flashing a smile that made Vingalmo wink at her, making her blush and turn away towards… The skooma was making them uninhibited and she found herself wanting him. Him.
Krogonk blew out a gust of air while he sliced himself a piece of goat meat. That was damn good shooting, for even Oghba’s mouth hung open in amazement and the female wasn’t easily impressed. Äelberon attempted to take a grand bow for his incredible feat, only to stumble and fall forward, clumsily eating sand. He turned to lay upon his back, gazing upwards, his breathing heavy as he gasped.
“Look just at the sky night, a colorful madness of jeweled stars. That order isn’t right. Am I blazed? I AM!” He chuckled, stretching his body.
Vingalmo crawled towards him laughing. Landril was clutching his stomach, lapsing into a fit of giggles. Elenwen was still able to walk at least and she started to make her way towards the Orcs and the roasted goat, hungry, and not wanting to be so close to those forge-fire eyes, but Vingalmo pulled her over to him and quickly dragged her down to steal a kiss, ignoring that she tasted a little of tomato. “You eat sand like the rest of us vengeful, tomato-slaughtering misfits.” He smiled before kissing her again, deeper, the pleasure of it making Elenwen forget her prior feelings. Vingalmo brushed a lock of hair from her face and then turned to Äelberon, “You alright?”
Äelberon started to rise, only to collapse into the sand again, sifting it with his fingers, chuckling. “I feel… fine.” He grinned. Vingalmo slapped his shoulder playfully and dragged him to a sitting position. Äelberon then beamed at the Orcs. “I’m ready to hunt if you are?”
“Ready? He says he’s ready. Aye, he can shoot straight, but he can barely walk and talk.” Observed Oghba, shaking her head, her awe greatly diminished as she shot her Chief a sarcastic glance. “He’s blazed stupid. I’m not carrying him around to hunt that lion.”
“We can settle this now.” Challenged Krogonk, giving her a good taunt. Oghba didn’t give him time to react, tackling her brother to the ground. Malacath’s Balls, it was going to be one Oblivion of a hunt tonight.
Author’s Notes:
Caravanserai: what the locals call an inn.
Khajiit Pantheon:
Lorkhaj – Khajiit version of Lorkhan
Riddle’Thar – Khajiit god of the Two Moon’s Dance and the Sugar God.
Altmeris:
Fanne: Load, imperative command
Amma rauba: How many.
Nata: Three
Chapter 3
Chapter 5
Comments
Can I expect Going Elsweyr: Revenge of the Killer Tomatoes then?
You also called them taverns. Which is it?