The Sword, Chapter 1: Captain Cup Bearer and the Popinjay

• Posted by The Long-Chapper July 18, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Mixed - #Straag Rod  #Lissette  #Path of the Aprax  #The Sword  - 1,586 views

  

  

  

  26th of Sun’s Dawn, 4e 101

   

  Bumph heard the impatient grunt from the rotund Breton and suppressed the urge to punch his face to a pulp with her bare hands. The battle axe could work too, but punching was sometimes more fun.

   

  He actually wanted her to open the door to the Tap and Tack. For him.

   

  What a load of Mammoth shit, Bumph thought, bearing her tusks in a sneer as she stared at the old wooden door.

   

  “Well, aren’t you going to open the door? It’s freezing outside, Orc.” His voice was about as pompous as the cheap cologne he doused himself with.  

   

  Like a  squat, round ball of a blue velvet nightmare out of Sheogorath’s Shivering Isles, the Breton steward waddled into her Fighters Guild, breathlessly demanding that he speak with her, just as she was about to head to the Tap and Tack  for her midday meal. His puffy, wine-loving face communicated ‘I hate Bruma’ from the moment she saw him, so Bumph decided to show him Bruma, because why should he be the only one doing the torturing?

   

  He wanted lunch at Jerral View Inn, but that wasn’t really Bruma, Tap and Tack was. Besides, she was hungry and fuck if she was going to let the tusker interrupt her daily routine. She didn’t care how rich he was, she ate at midday. The Oblivion Gates could reopen, she would still fucking eat at midday at Tap and Tack. Daedra can go fuck themselves.

   

  Bumph smiled, as she turned the latch on the door slowly. “Sure, let me get that for you...”

   

  She saw the midday light flood the interior of the dark, rustic inn.

   

  “CLOSE THE DOOR!”

   

  A chorus of burley Nords, most of them her men in the Guild, belted the official anthem of the Tap and Tack and she laughed when the Breton bounced like a ball in surprise at the sheer power of the sound.

   

  Welcome to Bruma.

   

  Bumph made a little bow and gestured welcomingly. “After you, Gaspard.”

   

  “That’s Ser Gaspard to you, Orc.” He reminded, his lips pursing in disapproval.

   

  “Whatever.” She shrugged. “Better get in before they yell again. Or start throwing things, sharp things…”

   

  “Oh…” He gasped, moving pretty fast into the inn for one so fat, his breath coming out in puffs of effort.

   

  “CLOSE--”

   

  “Ah, keep your axes in your belts,  I’m closing the tusking door!” Bumph snapped back, slamming the door hard behind her and stomping her boots of excess snow. Signs of spring would be showing up soon in the south of Cyrodiil, but Bruma? Winter would have Bruma in its icy grasp for several more months at least.  

   

  She flashed her tusks when she studied Gaspard in the dim light of the inn. There was just so much… blue velvet. Under a cloak of silver fox fur, just pertans and pertans of blue velvet, trimmed with gold thread and lace, the pearl buttons threatening to pop from his quivering girth. He was carrying a satchel of fine, darkly stained leather, heavily embossed with a rearing horse motif and adorned with a golden buckle in the shape of a horse’s head. You’re actually lucky you showed up in my guild first, tusker, at least now, you probably won’t be robbed blind. He was clearly flaunting his wealth and it just annoyed her. Like he was better than everyone else.

   

  The old Orc found her favorite table, leaned her trusty battle axe against the table’s edge next to her and plopped into the chair with a content grunt. She rubbed her aching knee - damn snow - and then noticed the Breton was not sitting down. The whole inn was silent, Nord faces frozen in various stages of food and alcohol consumption, their eyes scrutinizing the Breton and at the same time probably wondering why Gaspard - I’m too lazy to call you ‘ser’ in my mind - was even with Bumph.  

   

  “Well, sit.” Bumph prodded. For a moment, it looked as if Gaspard would leave, his face was scrunched up with such disdain, but then he tilted his head to the side, like he had a thought, pulled a handkerchief from the chest pocket of his velvet surcoat and spread it neatly over his seat before he sat down gingerly, like the chair was going bite his arse through the silk, the satchel securely on his lap. Several Nords growled and spit on the floor, not shy with expressing their disapproval of this milk-drinker, and Bumph caught Oslaf, the jolly publican rolling his dancing blue eyes and shaking his head. I can’t help it, Oslaf, you know I enjoy pulling this shit, and you like watching. This is probably the most entertainment we’ll get for all of Sun’s Dawn, let’s milk it for everything it's worth.

   

  “Guests!” Oslaf yelled towards the back. “Also more mead for the center table, you damn ruffians.” Cheers from the center table. “Master Bumph, you need to give these young hooligans something to do.”

   

  “Well, if I do, they’ll leave your inn.” She retorted.

   

  Oslaf laughed. “True that. Well, give them local jobs, so they can come back.”  

   

  “Will do.” Bumph then made a little groan in the back of her throat when she saw the tall Altmer emerge from the back room, in worn, nearly thread-bare work clothes, covered in an ill-fitting surcoat of coarse padded wool.  The trousers were too short for his long legs, his bare ankles exposed above his shoes. One shoe sported a small, frayed hole at the tip, where the big toe was. His large, white hands bore the calluses and the red marks of a morning’s worth of hard labor and the tinge of redness at the tips of his ears and nose against his snow-pale skin suggested that he had spent that morning’s labor outside in the cold. Clean, though, for all the humbleness of his attire, he was still washed, his beard trimmed, his long silver-white hair bound in a simple thick braid down his back, intertwined with that precious lacing of his.

   

  “Yes, sir.” His soft-spoken baritone answered with a polite nod. His red-orange eyes met Bumph’s briefly before he set to work pouring mead into tankards for the center table. Pouring for the Guild Members. She watched him then balance the tankards on a platter and proceed to hoist it up, the entire weight of the platter balanced on four of his strong fingers. It was perfect, no drop was spilled as he walked with the deftness of a Khajiit towards the center table, rotated his wrist and placed the drinks on the wood like the platter weighed nothing.  

   

  “You do the knife trick later?” One Nord asked, poking the Altmer in the ribs with his fork.

   

  “I hate that fucking trick!” Another protested.

   

  Laughter.

   

  “That’s ‘cause we use your hand. It’s not like he’s ever bloody missed, you milk drinker. Eyes of a hawk Al has, even for all the line’s he’s got.”  

   

  The Altmer set at tankard down at the Nord’s place and let his shoulders slump a little, as if he was attempting to match their demeanor. “Again? You are not bored yet?” He raised his eyebrows.  

   

  It was Jorfsenn, a big bear of a Nord, one of her best fighters who was driving the conversation. He thought for a moment and then shook his head, his brown eyes looking upwards at the Mer. “Nah, not bored yet. And the coins, I want to see the coin trick too. How you make them float in the air and shit like that. That magicks or somethin’?”

   

  The Mer tensed up. “I have work to do--”  

   

  “Ah, the good publican can spare you for a few minutes.” Jorfsenn interrupted, turning to the publican. “Eh, Oslaf? Spare your new slave for a spell so he can keep us all entertained.”

   

  She liked Oslaf a lot.  In fact, there wasn’t a member of Olav’s old family that she didn’t like.  Good Nords, good publicans who treated the people under their employ well. He saw the Altmer tense up and immediately knew what to do. Oslaf gestured to the back room with his head. “Alebaron, see to Oda in the back and then we’ve got guests.” The Altmer nodded and retreated  into the back room.

   

  “You’re no fun, Oslaf.” Jorfsenn griped, sipping his mead. “We like Al, Albron, Albanorn, good man--mer, whatever. Should be back at the guild.”

   

  “He made his choice, so leave Alebaron be.” The publican warned sternly. Her guild members fell back and kept to themselves at their table, but she could make out their discontent mumbling. They miss you too, old Mer. Was funny to Bumph how people could get attached after so little time, Jorfsenn especially. Well, when you work hard, you earn respect very quickly among Bruma’s Fighters Guild, though sorry, old Mer, no one yet can say your name  for shit, even if their lives depended on it.

   

  “What was that all about?” The Breton asked a few moments later, adjusting the fit of his surcoat before attempting to rest his forearms on the table, but he made a sour face and instead opted to cross his arms over his chest, which didn’t look comfortable to Bumph. Both arms and gut too fat for such a position. She could have sworn her Orc ears heard a thread or two snap under the pressure.    

   

  Bumph ignored the Breton and drummed her fingers on the wood of the table. As an Orc, it was humiliating to watch a fighter like Ronnie reduced to serving drinks, food, performing tricks, and cleaning up after Bruma’s mess. They didn’t even say his name right, but that’s the way it was in Bruma. She was called ‘Bump’ for nearly ten years before it occurred to them to finally add the ‘h’. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t liked, it was just Bruma.

   

  Äelberon of Dusk was designed to fight, she knew that the moment she saw him at Dive Rock, framed by the snow fall just as the moons decided to return. How he attacked the Uderfrykte Matron, with only makeshift weapons and the furs of wild beasts covering his body, but with a skill that surprised her coming from an Altmer. They were not fighters in her experience, weak mages and shopkeepers mostly. Not warriors. And it was this warrior who helped her take down Uderfrykte Matron, a warrior who cheated her and at the same time saved her from Good Death. Sending him was just Malacath’s way of telling you that you are not ready to go the Ashen Forge just yet, you old tusk face.  But now? The warrior was a cup bearer for Oslaf. She didn’t like it, though she should have known by now that when Ronnie got it in his mind that he’s being dishonorable in some way, the tusker would bend over backwards to fix it.  He didn’t even allow her to give him credit for Uderfrykte.

   

  And what was dishonorable to him? That he had to rely on her in the beginning, that made him weak in his eyes. She knew nothing about the Altmer from that mysterious city called Dusk, save that they must be tusking descended from Orcs, because it took him days to accept anything she gave him. So much tusking pride.  He was basically skin and bones when they met, starving, but he only ate the stew she bought him at Tap and Tack after he was assured that he could pay her back for everything, mumbling something about how Auri-El would only expect it that way.

   

  Tusker was also bloody religious as fuck. A priest, she gathered even. Not that it made him unbearable. On the contrary, he was actually a Mer with a sense of humor,  a razor-sharp wit and she knew he knew Orcs. Same humor, same directness. All under the more polite exterior.

   

  Which made the stubbornness all the more infuriating, because it was a polite stubbornness. Äelberon wasn’t fully recovered yet, still far too thin for her taste, judging on his frame, but he simply decided, telling Bumph a week ago, that he no longer wished to be a burden to her.  So he left his place in the Fighters Guild and took the job with Oslaf.

   

  You were never a burden, my  friend. Bumph snorted to herself while the Breton was still tusking trying to figure out where to put his hands on the table. “Just set your hands down.” She snapped in irritation. “Table’s clean.”

   

  “And how do you know?”

   

  Licking her tusk, Bumph pointed at the Altmer that had now reemerged from the back room to walk towards them, his laugh lines creasing as he turned his head once more to acknowledge Oda’s cheerful giggle with a naughty half-smile before facing forward again. He must have told the old woman a dirty, dirty joke. A priest, but probably the tusking saltiest one she had ever met. The duality of it. And that was Ronnie in a nutshell, she knew as an Orc, that that was what he was. No long life stories or any of that bullshit were ever needed when you are an Orc. Orcs knew a person by they way they acted. Bumph could only guess why he was alone in the mountains for almost two years, Ronnie never told her, but she knew something terrible brought him there, suffering, pain.  And yet, at the same time, he could still smile. You know a soul hasn’t given up yet when they can still smile, when their can still stare life in the face and their eyes say 'tusk off'. And those eyes, Malacath's Fury, they still had such fire in them.  “Because he tusking cleaned them,” she replied, feeling herself get angry at the stupid Breton who was probably seeing her for a job, but at that moment she didn’t care, her friend was being insulted. “I know Altmer. The table is probably cleaner than you are. So put them down, or, by Malacath,  one swing from my axe and you won’t need to worry about where you put your tusking hands ever again.”

   

  The Breton gulped and quickly rested his forearms on the table and Bumph admitted to herself, she felt better.

   

  “So, why are we here?” Bumph asked Gaspard directly. “I mean, I’m here for my midday meal, but why are you tagging along? I have my suspicions.”

   

  “Excuse me, Master Bumph?” Ronnie interrupted. Ah dammit, just call me ‘Bumph’, friend. You are like a bloody mule, you know that? Ah whatever, I’m too hungry.  We’ll settle this like proper Orcs later…  “Your usual?  Venison steak, rare, and stewed tomatoes?”

   

  She turned to face the Altmer. “Aye, the usual.” Her eyes drifted back to Gaspard and she raised her eyebrows. “You?”

   

  The shit head still looked like he had a pole up his arse, but he tried to smile, revealing more yellow teeth than Bumph would’ve guessed for such a popinjay. New money, she grinned to herself, that’s why you like to flaunt it.

   

  The Breton shook his head as if something in the air repulsed him and then turned to Ronnie. Not really looking at him, though, looking past him, which is what pompous pricks do. “What is good here?” Asked like he didn’t believe anything would be.

   

  Ronnie gave the Breton a slight nod of respect, though Bumph saw the cogs already turning in his head. “Oda, the publican’s wife, is an excellent cook, Ser--”   

   

  “Ser Persyval Gaspard the Third, Chief Steward to the Duke of Leyawiin.” The Breton answered, raising his voice to sound more commanding. She heard the sniggers from her men. Bastards, wish I could laugh with you right now, but I think this tusker is going to give us some coin, so I’ll need to behave just a little bit.   It had to be a job, no other reason why the likes of him would venture into Bruma. And Leyawiin? Had to be a big job, a job either Leyawiin’s guild turned down flat, or they weren’t qualified for it.

   

  Bumph started to go through the list of possibilities in her mind when she observed the Altmer blink and then those red-orange eyes narrowed. “Well, Ser Persyval Gaspard the Third, Chief Steward to the Duke of Leyawiin...” Alright, here it comes, Bumph felt the grin creep to her features, Ronnie isn’t going to behave either. Something that Gaspard said rubbed the old Mer the wrong way and the Breton was going to pay for it in a way only an Altmer can make someone pay for something, because the Mer now sported his ‘tone’. “No selection will leave you wanting, but if I had to pick only one meal from Oda’s kitchen, I highly recommend her roast herb chicken, served with garlic potatoes. It is delicious.” Alright, he went with sincere, so Bumph wasn’t sure on the Altmer’s angle just yet, though out of the corner of her eye, Bumph saw Oslaf smile. She nodded back. He's a good boy, isn't he?

   

  “The roast chicken will be acceptable, cup bearer, however, I have some instructions--” He paused and his eyes narrowed at Ronnie. “I want just the breasts, deboned and skin removed. Wash them of their prior spices. Or better, just cook a new bird. Bruma spices don’t agree with me, they are not as refined and can cause the wind something dreadful.  Add to the chicken only a sprinkling - just a sprinkling of salt, mind you, and two shakes of pepper. Two. Not one, not three, but two. It is to be served on a bed of freshly gathered lettuce leaves. Firm, not from the wilting outer edges, but not from the bitter heart either. Oh yes, and mixed with sliced strawberries, sliced vertically not horizontally. Next to it, but not touching it, I would like boiled potatoes, no garlic. Absolutely no garlic. Bah! Robs everything of flavor, in my opinion, definitely for more rustic palates.  And no salt, two shakes of pepper. For dessert, fresh blackberries in cream and do you perhaps carry Water’s Edge, vintage 87?” He chuckled abrasively, his face beaming with pride. “Or maybe not. No, more than likely I’m overestimating your wine cellar’s stock.” He flashed Bumph an arrogant smile. “We guard our great Nibenese secrets well. A finer wine in all of Tamriel you will never drink. It reduces Surilie’s and Tamika’s to mere bathwater--” Gaspard suddenly stared at Ronnie, frowning. “I’m very concerned that you’re not writing this down, cup bearer.”

   

  Ronnie gave Gaspard a look, then he turned to the other patrons at the Tap and Tack. “My apologies in advance, gentlefolk, sirs, and ma’ams.” He said quietly with a polite nod as he walked to the door. Bumph tilted her head to the side. Was he leaving?

   

  He opened it wide, letting light into the room.

   

  “CLOSE THE DAMN DOOR!”

   

  “Ah, don’t get your knickers in a twist!” Ronnie barked back. “Gave my apologies! Need to make my point.” His eyes then focused on the Breton. “What do you see when you look outside, Chief Steward of Nibenay?”

   

  “Snow.”

   

  Ronnie shut the door and then walked to the table, putting both hands on it and leaning towards Gaspard. “Nice to see the weather didn’t freeze your brain. Aye, snow, lots of it still because this is Bruma. This means the following.  You are having chicken and you are having potatoes. And you are having it the way Oda makes it, or you can bloody hunt for your own damn game in the mountains or in the frozen forest and cook it for yourself, take your pick. For dessert, you can have apple slices cooked in butter, sugar and spices, served with cream, because that’s what we have. Don’t worry, it’s delicious, one of my favorites and I well know my sweets.  And for wine, we have Tamika’s or Surilie’s. Or, you can have what Master Bumph is having. So now you know why I don’t need to write write anything down, eh?”  

   

  The inn exploded with laughter and cheers, even from old Oslaf as he wiped the counter. It was that the Breton wanted to erase Oda’s hard work, that’s what set Ronnie off. He didn’t care for that bullshit. He seemed to dislike ‘airs’ intensely, which was funny for an Altmer, because they were supposed to be all ‘airs’. Even Karinnarre had ‘airs’ and Bumph had known the Altmer trader for over a century. She quietly was watching the events from her corner table as she sipped her tea.

   

  The fat ball of velvet rose from his chair, and… was still shorter than the Altmer who was leaning over him. “Publican! Of all the insolence--”

   

  Bumph reached forward and forced him to sit again. “Just sit the tusk down. I’m hungry and the longer you put up a fuss, the longer I have to wait.” She gestured with her head toward the battle axe resting against the table’s edge. “And I hate waiting.”  

   

  “I will put the order in, venison and the chicken.’ Ronnie nodded and he turned to leave, but Bumph tugged at his shirtsleeve, though her eyes were on the Publican.

   

  “Oslaf! When he brings our food, can my friend sit with us?”

   

  “Bumph…” The Mer groaned a whisper. “I’m working.”

   

  Oslaf grinned. “Sure, Aleborn, you can take your lunch when you bring their food--”

   

  “No! Tell the old Mer to sit! Bumph, grab him a chair!” Bumph’s head turned to the sound of Oda prattling into view, wiping her flour-dusted hands with her apron. “Spent all morning chopping wood and has not had a bite to eat, I know it.”

   

  “Really?” Oslaf looked surprised and then shot a look at Ronnie, who looked like someone who had just been caught. 

   

  “You came in later, husband,” Oda continued, clucking like a mother hen, “we’ve wood for a whole week now. From the pile in the back and the look of those poor hands of his, he’s been at it since before daybreak.”

   

  Oslaf pointed right at the Mer. “In this weather? You, sit down, and have a proper meal. And don’t you ‘no sir’ me.”  

   

  Bumph grabbed a chair and slid it next to her. “You heard them. Sit.” She grinned.

   

  Ronnie lowered himself onto the chair and gave her a look before releasing a gust of air. “Fine.” The way his knees and back cracked when he sat told Bumph that his body was more than willing to betray his stubbornness and side with Oslaf, his wife, and Bumph. She felt the cold around him, he had been outside. Tusker.

   

  And of course, mother hen Oda came right up to her errant chick and Bumph had to suppress her laughter while the Breton looked on, completely aghast that he was to now share his lunch with Tap and Tack’s cup bearer. “So the usual for you, Master Bumph, chicken for the Steward--” Damn, the woman had ears like a tusking Elf to hear all that from the back room, or she’s a werewolf, but she isn’t  a werewolf, because that’s just stupid, Bumph. Her old hand found the top of Ronnie’s head. “And for you, gentle sir, hot chicken, cooked apples slices with cream, and a spot of alkanet tea, with extra milk and honey. Should warm you up right away.” She clucked. “Outside in the cold all morning, Bruma’s too cold...”

   

  “I am no delicate canah bird.” The Mer said, his eyes flickering with his brand of stubbornness.  

   

  Oda chuckled. “No, you’re definitely not. But we like you a little bit, old Mer.”  

   

  “I like you a little bit too. Besides, you and Oslaf are too old to do that sort of work now and I really do not mind, the sunrise is rather pretty…”

   

  The Nord gave Ronnie a quick kiss to the top of his head, “Just rest, for your old Oda, alright?”

   

  “Very well, old woman.” Ronnie sighed while the old woman went off to see to their meals. “Cannot win with Bruma folk, eh?”

   

  “Nope.” Bumph smirked. “Especially when they like you a little bit.” That made Ronnie chuckle.

   

  There was awkward silence for several moments while the scents of food began drifting towards the inn’s main room. Jerral View doesn’t smell like this, you popinjay.  Speaking of the bird, he was rubbing the little patch of fuzz growing right under his lower lip. Bumph made a sour face, not  even a proper tusking beard. Of course Ronnie would choose to break the silence first with a bored sigh. He raised his eyebrows and relaxed in his chair, resting his forearms on the table thoughtfully, before turning to Gaspard and aye, those cogs in his head are definitely turning. “So, tell me. Does old Pilper know you are here telling everyone that you are Chief Steward of Leyawiin? And more importantly, does the Duke of Nibenay know that you are saying you are his Chief Steward?” He tilted his head to the side, “Unless old Ser Pilper Gallinus  is dead, but honestly when he died, I thought the title of Chief Steward would go to Ser Arnotian Bullester, not you. And damn, Persy, you got really fat. It’s not healthy, you know...”

   

  What the tusk? Ronnie knows this popinjay?

   

  It took a few moments before the Breton processed what Ronnie had said. Then his eyes widened like saucers and a palm slammed into his face. The hand slowly slid down and Bumph saw the recognition all over Gaspard’s eyes. “Oh, by Phynater’s tiny steps, it bloody is you.. Here I was thinking, I know that voice., and yet, I couldn't place it, you look so different.”

   

  “Only my feathers have changed, Gaspard.” The Mer explained. His eyes narrowed and his voice grew terse, almost like he was insulted. “I am still the same inside.”

   

  Oda stepped in and set three steaming plates of food before Bumph could ask any of her own questions. Ronnie started attacking his meal like nothing had been said only moments before. The Orc shrugged, he’ll explain himself soon enough, might as well eat too. The Breton only stared at his plate, his face going redder than Ronnie’s work-sore knuckles were when he finally noticed the Mer’s heavier mood.

   

  “You going to write Lord Larethian, aren’t you?” The Breton groaned. “Gods! Please don’t. I’m going to be so humiliated. The Duke. Please, I just...”

   

  A white hand slapped the Breton’s shoulder in reassurance, while the Mer continued to eat, though Bumph could sense the tension.  “Can’t, so keep your fancy britches on, Gaspard.”

   

  “I don’t understand.” Gaspard shook his head.

   

  “Neither do I.” Bumph shrugged, but she, at this point, was more patient than Gaspard in waiting for an explanation.

   

  Ronnie looked up and something very hard flashed in his intense eyes before he decided to replace it with total nonchalance. “Like I said, I can’t. Notice that my feathers are no longer purple and green.”  

   

  “Impossible not to notice. I didn’t even recognize you without your black armor and that ridiculously colored cloak.”  So says the ball of bright blue velvet, Bumph smirked.  The Breton stared hard at Ronnie and then comprehension slowly spread all over his face. “By the Nine, you left the house?” Gaspard was legitimately shocked. “How?”

   

  “Not of my own accord.”  Ronnie replied curtly, now cutting at his chicken with no mercy. A growl escaped his lips. “Apraxic. I am now Apraxic.” He nearly hissed those words. Bumph and Gaspard exchanged puzzled looks while they watched the Mer eat. His nostrils were flaring, which meant he was angry, but he was trying hard to keep it inside. His voice grew low.  “Just think of it like being exiled,” he elaborated while he ate, his eyes briefly darted to Karinnarre, the heat of shame creeping into his face. She looked away and Bumph didn't know what that was about. "Yes, exiled, so I don’t have to waste the energy trying to explain it to you, human, because you wouldn’t understand what something like that is like. Do not fret, you have nothing to worry about, Gaspard. I no longer have contact with Summerset, so, for all I care, you can pretend to be Nibenay himself.  Only do not dare use Pilper’s name like that. He’s too good a man to be lessened by you and frankly, I am no longer bound to the restrictions of my House to not act on something I don’t approve of.”   

   

  That is a threat, Bumph thought. He just tusken threatened a steward of the Duke of Nibenay and she could tell by Gaspard’s quickly sobering expression that the Breton was going to take it. That simple, the Mer commanded that much respect. Who the fuck was Ronnie?

   

  “Very well. My apologies, Captain.” The Breton spoke, bowing his head in respect towards the much older Altmer, all of his prior arrogance thrown out the door of the Tap and Tack, just like that. “I meant no disrespect.”

   

  “Do not call me ‘Captain’, Brother Äelberon is acceptable if you must call me something."  Captain, Bumph mused. Captain of what? “Apology accepted, Steward.” The Mer nodded, his mood starting to relax.

   

  “For how lo--” The look Ronnie gave Gaspard told the Breton that the matter was now closed.

   

  “How is old Pilper doing? Is he well?" Ronnie switched the subject. "Still knocking about the halls with that cane of his? Perpetually complaining that the world’s gone to pot?” The questions were asked with genuine affection.

   

  “Yes, he is. And yes, he does.” Gaspard admitted, taking a bite of his chicken. He pointed to the meal with his fork. “Delicious.”

   

  “It has herbs. Colovian ones.” Ronnie smirked a warning.

   

  Gaspard chortled. “Bring on the mighty wind.”  

   

  “Deflating a bit will do you some good, Persy.”

   

  “No wonder you and Pilper always got along, Äelber--” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I just cannot call you anything but ‘Captain’. It’s just wrong.”

   

  “Very well then.” The Mer said begrudgingly, with a hidden bitterness that the Breton didn’t pick up on, but Bumph did. His eyes on his meal the whole time.

   

  “Back to what I was saying. Old Pilper, he would be saying the exact same thing, probably knock my head with his cane too.” He sighed. “I completely forgot myself.” The Breton’s features softened and he faced Ronnie and then Bumph. “My sincere apologies to you, Captain, for my prior behavior, and to you, Mistress Bumph.”

   

  “I look like a soft matron to you?” Bumph grumbled, squaring her shoulders.

   

  “But you are a She-Orc, no?” Gaspard asked, looking confused. He gave Ronnie a mortified look. “Gods above, is that a man?”

   

  Ronnie laughed, released a snort and gave the Breton a half-smile. “A She-Orc is pretty much the equivalent of a man in any other race, Gaspard, but no, Bumph is female. Nevertheless, it is Master Bumph and Sir.” He corrected.

   

  “Of course, Captain, and I will pay my respects to the cook--”

   

  “Her name is Oda.”  Ronnie chided.

   

  “Yes, Oda.” The Breton nodded, and he was actually being nice now. He even undid the top button of his surcoat and seemed to ease into the room more.  It was like he was a completely different person. A real person, with real insecurities and faults. Bumph also noticed that while Ronnie called Gaspard by his given name, the Breton didn’t dare call him by his. Only ‘Captain’.

   

  “But you have done well for yourself, I can see that.” Ronnie acknowledged. "A steward then?'

   

  “Yes, of the outlying villages of the county. It was a struggle to rise that high.”

   

  “All things, properly earned, are, Ser Gaspard.” The Mer replied, a resigned melancholy creeping into his tone.

   

  “Thank you, Captain.” Well, there it was. The reason for the Breton’s prior ‘airs’.  Newly rich, indeed. And then those ‘airs’ were shut down, just like that.

   

  “So why are you here, Ser Gaspard?” Bumph asked, taking over the conversation.. She would have to speak with Ronnie about all this ‘Captain’ and ‘Apax’ business later, but in private. “What can the Fighters Guild do for you?” That piqued the interest of her men in the center table and four pairs of eager Nord eyes honed in on their Orc Master.

   

  “Well, your reputation, Mis-Master Bumph, precedes you. Since Uderfrykte especially. That was a province-wide bounty, a monumental predator. That creature had been terrorizing Dive Rock since… I don’t know.” The Breton shrugged, trying to think. “Before I was born? Some say even Third Era, though I cannot fathom creatures living that long. We had some of the best hunters in the realm answer the Emperor’s call to slay the beast, and yet, of all of them, it was you--”

   

  “The old Orc?” She finished.

   

  “Frankly, yes.” Gaspard answered, sipping his wine. He sighed and pushed away his plate. “I don’t know quite how to say this, so I’m going to come out and say why I’ve come all the way from Leyawiin. We have lost Water’s Edge.”  

   

  Water’s Edge. The Breton had mentioned it earlier when he talked about wine, but the name was very familiar to Bumph. She blinked when it came to her head. “Blackwood Company.” She said aloud.

   

  “Why yes, indeed, Master Bumph.” Gaspard nodded, moving to place his satchel on the table. “The Blackwood Company wiped out the entire village while the province was under Daedric invasion, if I correctly recall my Leyawiin history. Fortunately, the head of the Fighter’s Guild from that time - the name escapes me - was able to prevent more massacres like that from happening again and the Blackwood Company is no more.  Water’s Edge was resettled after the Oblivion Crisis, becoming quite a model town really. Fishing, mostly, but like I said, we have some Nibenese secrets and the grapes from that region, well, impressive is all I can say. That’s why this occurrence is beyond distressing. See, the Duke now has a vested interest in Water’s Edge.”

   

  “The vineyards.” Bumph guessed.

   

  “Precisely, Master Bumph.”

   

  By now, all three had stopped eating their meals and her men in the other table were silently watching Ser Gaspard unfasten the buckle of the satchel and pull out a narrow stack of documents. Bumph narrowed her eyes, looked like reports to her, along with a contract of some type and  maps of Leyawiin.  One map had a mark on Water’s Edge.”

   

  “Goblins?’ Jorfsenn speculated.  

   

  “Or maybe minotaurs?” Chimed in another of her men.

   

  “Master?” Asked another.  

   

  Bumph nodded and grunted. “Aye, boys. Slide your table over, Jorfsenn. Let’s all take a look at this. Sorry, Oslaf, Bruma's Fighters Guild is going to play strategy in your inn again."

   

  The publican chuckled. "Just don't forget to hang the banners here too. Fighters Guild: Tap and Tack branch." 

   

  “Can’t read, Master.” The last of her men present spoke up, scratching at his blond beard. "Never learned." 

   

  “Just listen carefully then.” She turned to Oslaf to have him clear the plates, while her men pushed their table against Bumph’s, but Ronnie had already stood and was beginning the task. She grabbed his sleeve again. “Don’t disappear.” She murmured towards the Elf who slowly nodded.  

   

  Gaspard spread out the papers between the two tables. “No, not goblins, or minotaurs for that matter. If it was that simple, Leyawiin’s Guild chapter could have handled it. When I showed them this, when they visited what was left of Water’s Edge.” His tone grew concerned. “They told us to go to you directly, Master Bumph, to the one who slew the Uderfrykte Matron.”

   

  Only you have the tusking wrong person, Gaspard. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, she did manage to cut off its arm, only to end up nearly dead before Ronnie showed up. But it was the execution of his plan that resulted in the Uderfrykte Matron’s death, only the tusker wouldn’t let her acknowledge his involvement in any of it. Nothing public. Like he didn’t want to exist. Bumph furrowed her brow and cast a glance at Ronnie who was just returning from setting the plates in the counter so they could get to work, tea in hand. His face was completely serious, his eyes already studying one of the maps. And it suddenly hit Bumph. Apraxic, exiled.  Hunted. That’s why you were in the mountains, my friend. You were tusking hiding. And that’s why you made me take credit for everything. Malacath’s tusks, he’s a wanted Mer.  

   

  A criminal? Clearly Gaspard didn’t think so. No, the Breton steward seemed to respect him a great deal once he remembered who he was. Captain... There was a Lord Larethian mentioned. Disgraced and forced out, maybe? He was from Alinor and Altmer were so damn anal.  For all she knew, Ronnie could’ve just farted in the wrong direction, or one day wore his left shoe on his right foot. She could see a High Elf being apraxi-whatever just for something that stupid. She always noticed the way Karinnarre got when her place in the Tap and Tack was disturbed in any way, mere pertans, and the She-Elf would angrily go off. High Elves were tusking crazy.

   

  “If not goblins or minotaurs, then another Uderfrykte maybe?” One of her men asked, while he favored his bottle of mead, bringing Bumph out of her thinking.

   

  “Don’t be so stupid, Borgis,” Jorfsenn scoffed, slapping the back of Borgis’ head. “Leyawiin is practically a swamp, a troll wouldn’t get past the mud.”

   

  “That is Border Watch.” Ronnie suddenly said, before taking a sip of his tea, a long white finger resting on a location on the map just west of Water’s Edge.

   

  “Why yes, Captain. Straddles Elsweyr and Cyrodiil.” Gaspard explained. “A rather large Khajiit community. There were reports of disturbances there just prior to the incident at Water’s Edge, probably skooma trade. It can be a problem in the south of the province.”

   

  “Disturbances?” Ronnie lowered his brow, hooding his eyes, making the color remind Bumph of two points of fire. He sat down, his eyes still on the map.

   

  Gaspard gave Ronnie a defeated look. “The Duke prefers that we focus our attention on the situation at Water’s Edge.”

   

  “I see.” Ronnie replied, rubbing his beard in thought. He reached for one of the reports and started to read.

   

  “What does it say, Albron?” Borgis asked, his fingers finding his beard again.

   

  “What about Border Watch?” Jorfsenn pressed.  

   

  “It’s really not important.” Ser Gaspard insisted, dismissing the two Nords with a wave of his hand. That made Ronnie glance up briefly from his reading. Aye, I’m not buying that either, old Mer, Bumph thought.

   

  “Well? Have you had word from there?” Bumph probed the Breton further. If she was going to go to Leyawiin, or send her men, she needed much more than this. She would also need the coin. This was going to be a contract for at least three thousand. Too many factors, too many potential risks.   

   

  “No, Master Bumph, not recently. I would not be surprised if they avoided Water’s Edge altogether now, considering what just happened. Leyawiin borders Elsweyr and Black Marsh. While we’ve not had aggression, the populations tend to naturally segregate, unless they are familiar with Imperial ways." 

   

  “When was the attack on Water’s Edge?” Bumph continued her questioning.

   

  “The report here is dated the first of Sun’s Dawn, though it can sometimes take a day or two to produce a full report on an incident.” The Altmer murmured while he read. “Mine were usually done within the hour…”  

   

  “He would be right, the incident was almost days before.” Ser Gaspard clarified.

   

  “Dammit, the longer it takes, the less accurate it is.” The Mer continued, reading. “Hmm… ‘the trees, the trees’ the poor child kept repeating that…” A moment later, he paused from his reading and looked up. A long gust of air escaped his lips, he swallowed and Bumph noticed that his face was a little paler then when he started reading. “This is serious.” He handed the report to Bumph, “read it, Orc.”

   

  What she read in that report made the Uderfrykte Matron pale in comparison. There were no official sightings, no description of the animal or creature, whatever it was. The one survivor spoke of a creature that just came out of the trees at night, appearing out of nowhere.  The only information was that it was large, very large, and the girl remembered yellow eyes, but she couldn’t say what it actually looked like. Just kept whimpering ‘the trees’ over and over again before she succumbed to her wounds.

   

  The information from the bodies told a story of tooth and claw, of people literally torn to pieces, hearts, organs consumed, even bone.  The entire town. Guards in full uniform, their armor ripped apart like they were made of paper. It didn’t discriminate between old or young, man or woman. It just killed and fed. Bumph’s first guess was a feral werewolf, only it didn’t really add up. Werewolves didn’t climb trees. They probably could, based on the shape and power of their arms and claws, but they were like wolves, and wolves tended to hunt closer to the ground. Besides,  many creatures have yellow eyes. Another Uderfrykte perhaps? The damage and strength was similar to what she had seen from the carnage at Dive Rock. No, don’t be stupid like Borgis, old Orc. That doesn’t work either, the swamps would slow it down too much, and again, trees. Trees… Something from Valenwood maybe?

   

  “Can you help us?” Ser Gaspard asked when she handed the Breton back the report.

   

  “Let me think.” She grumbled, rubbing her jaw. She turned back to Oslaf. “Hey Oslaf! Oda’s been keeping our plates warm?”

   

  “Of course, Master Bumph.” Oslaf nodded. “I’ll bring it right over. Would like your plate too, Aleborn?”

   

  “Yes, please.”

   

  She caught Oslaf’s murmured ‘poor, poor souls’ as he disappeared into the back. Leyawiin was far from Bruma, but it was still Cyrodiil and he was worried, she could tell. Something unknown was always frightening to villagers, farmers, ‘gentlefolk’ as Ronnie called them. And it was up to the Fighters Guild to take up arms for them when the Legion was busy with other matters.

   

  “Gods!” Gaspard exclaimed, widening his eyes. “You two can still eat after reading that?”

   

  “Do you not understand yet that I’m an Orc?” She gestured towards Ronnie. “And the Snow flake next to me is practically one.” Bumph smirked, but then her expression sobered up. “So, this is it? Just one random attack on Water’s Edge?”

   

  “Like I said, priorities.”

   

  “So we do not know for sure if there have been other sightings, other attacks?” Bumph threw her hands up in the air in exasperation, nearly spilling her mead in the process. “Malacath’s hairy armpit, we don’t even know what the tusk this creature is and the Duke expects me to risk my men for… tusking vineyards?”

   

  “We could send a group?” Jorfsenn offered. “You don’t have to go alone like you did with the Uderfrykte.”  

   

  Jorfsenn didn’t know shit of what he was talking about. She went alone to Dive Rock because she wasn’t intending on coming back. Yet she did. Was Malacath sending her mixed messages? Was this Good Death and not the Uderfrykte Matron? And if this was Good Death, she certainly wasn’t going to drag her men into it. Good Death was for old Orcs only and Jorfsenn was a good man, she could see him running the chapter one day, not wasting his life following an Orc on her journey to the Ashen Forge. Yet, was this really what it was? Bumph wasn’t sure anymore and the prospect disturbed her. She was not unhappy when she descended Dive Rock alive. She still had fire in her eyes too. 

   

  “And do what, Jorfsenn?” Ronnie suddenly asked, making all heads turn to him. He had been quiet since he read the report. “Kill it? Wave our axes in the air while we scream and think it will go down just like that? Do you know what it even is?”

   

  “Do you?” Bumph asked, her eyes on him, challenging him.

   

  He hesitated, averting his eyes, and then shook his head. “No, I don’t.” Are you tusking  lying, priest? Bumph narrowed her eyes. Ronnie bit his lip, like he was unsure what to say. “It could well be a number of creatures. Leyawiin is, as Ser Gaspard says, right between Elsweyr and Argonia and there are species, so many different species.” He stopped and took a breath.  “What I mean is that we--ah, you should not be going blindly into this. A proper investigation must be conducted, evidence gathered. These reports are so vague. You need to know more.” Bumph blinked, the old Mer was now talking like tusking Inspector Vale from that book Karinnarre would talk her ear off about.  Ronnie then backed away in his chair, as if remembering something, his body language now withdrawn, distant. “But I am sorry, I just work at this inn, a cup bearer, and I have spoken out of turn, Master Bumph.”

   

  “Bullshit.” Bumph snorted. “If you’re just a cup bearer, then I’m a princess from High Rock who wears frilly dresses all day and eats sweets.” She turned to Gaspard. “But I will say this, I may be a dumb, old Orc, but I know a few things.” She pointed at Ronnie, though she still faced the Steward. “He’s right, I’m not going to risk my men on an unknown like that, I don’t care if it’s the Emperor himself calling, which is what I did at Dive Rock. If Dive Rock  taught me anything, it’s that I want to live, and by me living, that means my men live too. We need to know what we’re going to fight.”

   

  “Master Bumph, I understand you completely.” Gaspard agreed. “And I assure you, so does the Duke of Nibenay.” That last bit was a rehearsed platitude if Bumph ever heard one, but she’d let it go.

   

  “Wonderful! Let’s eat!” She grinned when Oslaf himself brought the plates over and noticed that Oda had cooked her a fresh steak. Her eyes darted to all the plates. All three were fresh meals. See, this why I like the Tap and Tack. You wouldn’t get this at Jerral View, Breton, they don’t give a shit there.

   

  “So what is your plan?” Gaspard asked, and aye, even he was unable to resist the fresh chicken before him. Ronnie was eating his apples with cream, like a tusking Khajiit with his sweet tooth, eating the damn dessert before the main meal.

   

  “You going to pay?” Bumph cut him off.

   

  “Of course, of course, Master Bumph. Naturally, expenses, and we’ve already taken the liberty of drawing up a contract. The Duke wants a display for his Great Hall, so the head of the creature for one thous--”

   

  “Three, three thousand septims, that’s what you were going to offer, am I right?” She flashed her tusks at him, slicing a piece of rare venison with her knife before stabbing it and bringing it to her mouth. She made sure the chewing was extra noisy. “Right?”

   

  The Breton nearly choked on his wine, unbuttoning another button from his surcoat. “Whew!” He gasped. “Three thousand? That’s an awful lot of mo--.”

   

  “P’shaw, Persy, the Duke certainly has that kind of coin.” Ronnie pointed out. “I have been there, remember?”

   

  “Well the Void Nights did hit the economy a little. The Khajiit were not willing to work the docks, the vineyards. And the Argonians are not as easy to work with.” Bumph stabbed at her venison again and the Breton waved his hand in dismissal. “But, yes, yes three thousand. I have the authority to amend the contract if I need to, but it’ll have to be paid in gems, trinkets, is that acceptable?”

   

  “Yeah, you can sell that shit and less shit to carry.”

   

  “So you’ll go then?”

   

  “No.”

   

  “What?!” The Breton cried, dropping his fork.

   

  Bumph laughed hard, throwing her head back and stomping her foot repeatedly on the floor. She couldn’t help it. He was so easy to tusk around with. “You’re such a dumbarse, Ser Gaspard,” she finally said when she calmed down, wiping the tears from her eyes. “But I like you, and that says a lot because I really wanted to kill you in the beginning, so I’ll stop your suffering. I’m nice that way.” She pointed at Ronnie, who immediately straightened in his chair.  “I’m sending him.” His lips parted slightly in surprise. She heard the protests of her Guild members, but she motioned for them to shut the tusking tusk up by slamming her fist hard on the table and she continued, both eating, drinking, and speaking. Bumph faced her friend, looking him right in the eye. “You saved my life in Dive Rock, Äelberon of Dusk, so what I also know is that you’re no cup bearer. I know, because I’ve seen you fight and I saw this Breton popinjay go from arrogant prick to someone I may not actually kill now because he recognized you.”

   

  “Master Bumph, but I am--”

   

  “Apoxic, Abraxo? That bullshit? I don’t give a tusk.” She replied bluntly. “You know the Leyawiin court, you know the Duke.  And that’s something I can use. So, I’m sending you, Captain Cup bearer, the Mer who saved my life and can fight like Malacath himself blessed his very balls, to Leyawinn. But not to fight. Not yet. I send you there to ask the questions I need you to ask. To be my Inspector tusking Vale that Karinnarre is so obsessed with. So whomever I do finally send to Leyawiin to slay this tusker comes back… alive.”    

  

  Path of the Aprax * Chapter 2