Here is Chapter three, trying to add some depth into Durz'gash's character before we take him on a wild ride. It's hard to find a good amount of lore about the Orcs in Elderscrolls, so I'm going to be taking a bit of the empty stuff from nomadic traditions since Orsimer don't have a land of their own in Tamriel, and tend to scatter about the different lands as they see fit.

Anyways, on with the story.

Don't own Bethesda, just these two characters.

"Impressive?"

She nodded as he appeared to press the word through his teeth, eyeballing her cryptically like she were to launch a dagger between his ribs at any moment. He looked almost offended at her praise, but...was that not how Mother said the males played? - they were stubborn and cold at first, then once coaxed properly they would go as far as to bare their naked chest for your killing blow.

A shadowed crease grew around his eyes, exposing their brilliant color, though she supposed it was meant to deter her in some form.

"Mother spoke of Males such as you, but I had not seen it until tonight," his look did not change, but she felt less uncomfortable in his hard gaze than with the smiling Nords, "You are beautiful."

He did not look at her after that, turning his eyes away and searching the table under his hands like they were pages in a book rather than worn looking growth rings. At that comment she must have crossed the line. Males did not wish to be called beautiful...only females right? – but then, what did the Males like to be called? She could not think of the word, though her brow furrowed painfully as she hunted the words in her memory; failing still.

"I did not wish to offe-"

"Forget it," he cut in roughly, his throat sounding clogged and used. "Women do not speak to me often. Not used to it...and conversing is not a talent of mine..."

"Nor mine," she whispered – a warmth creeping where mead would have crept, though she'd not taken a sip yet, being too engrossed in worming all her quandaries from him. It was her turn to look away, suddenly feeling submissive under his stare. Even though he was, as he'd just said, not one for words, she found his company more than just pleasing in the way she had hoped to. Being in the presence of a Male was suppose to be many things, but the physical effects of such things still felt overpowering at times.

She craved to grasp at her cheeks – to feel if they were growing a licking flame from the heat that spread like wild fire, but he spoke suddenly, breaking her creeping hands.

"What did your Ma call you?" he asked it so awkwardly that she nearly asked him why her presence turned him into a stuttering maid, but she bit that snide remark down, knowing he could take her neck and crush it with his tusks if he wished. She'd read so in a story when just a pup...of how, when properly insulted, they could prove themselves dominate by ripping out necks and crushing bone.

"Morn when I did good. Morn'udes when I did...bad," she frowned, "but I rarely did bad with Mother."

His jaw seemed to tighten, his lips falling before going tight around his tusks – she knew that look all too well. It was a look Mother gave when she'd said something foolish but amusing.

The wideness of his chest appeared to shake, emitting a deep rumble like that of distant thunder, maybe a chuckle? She could not be certain, but the side of his mouth turned up for the barest of moments before going lax once more, "You did bad when she had her back turned," he said it as a fact, not a question.

Before she could answer he was already making that thunderous sound once more, distracting her terribly, "Don't look so insulted. Rebellion is common with our..." he appeared to pause, blink and stare at her in a manner most odd, "...kind."

A streak of energy took her; chest puffing out and lungs filling to bellow out her gathered knowledge when opportunity stuck, "But that isn't true. Historical accounts say we as a race are honorable to the death; pledging life and limb for our mates, family and beliefs. Even in those stories purely fiction condone our strength and laurels to what we hold dear. Mother spoke of my Pa much in the same way, and when the Empire summoned him he left wit-"

"Not every Orc has something dear to them," he interrupted with a sneering frown, "sometimes we just want coin and company."

Her mouth struggled to close as she watched him drink down his bottle of mead; his throat working the brew down quickly. Bitterness still hung in the air from the way he spoke, almost as though once again, she had insulted him. Not for the first time that night, she felt naïve to many a normally common thing. Reading only gave her so much to go on, and for all she knew Mother had not known everything...perhaps not even a lot about themselves.

Durz'gash did not speak further to her, and she did not him. The silence grew stagnant and in her desperation she searched the crowds for the friendly faced Nords, which she did not find – only confused looks staring back at her. Once more she felt alone and imprisoned, giving new breath to her previous panic.

"What were you doing on that berg?" He asked and she grasped at her arm; exposing the crowd to her cornered body language without thinking. She did not look at him when answering, "Standing."

A dismissive snort gave sequel to a grumble, "I did say I wasn't good for talk."

"You did."

More silence leaked forth like the nerves soaking into her skin. Even with the tavern lively and loud, she heard that hallow ringing in her ears that only accompanied the deadly quiet. If it wasn't for the mounting phobia, she may have been searching her mind for more to ask the grumbling Male at her side, but...a cold sweat started to form on her bare brow, and a sheen of gooseflesh sprouted on her arms.

"I was the one who saw you in the ice. In the dark..." she heard him say without any begrudging nudge; without her even looking at him, "...you know. Thought you were a Siren..." The look on his face when she turned to him was enough to dispelled most of her scare – his eyes were narrowed, but warm and focused on nothing but her. The smallest of twitches caught the corner of her lips, a smile threatening to surface as he grunted low; clearing his throat thickly. Suddenly, he was the one that looked nervous, staring back at the mead dwarfed in his fists.

"What is Siren?" she asked, scooting closer as sneakily as possible while his eyes were diverted to the side.

"They're pretty women that act as stranded victims...Sailors die trying to save them," he looked almost annoyed before taking a long drink from the lip of his bottle, " but they're not real in that way. Just teases to bring you into a berg or a whirlpool. They look different from shore to shore."

"Have you ever seen one?" she asked once more – the hunt for answers bringing her closer to him without knowing her limit.

A green eye looked her over wearily as raucous laughter started from somewhere in the tavern. Whatever it was he was thinking, he answered her regardless, "No. Just stories."

"Then how do you know they're real...or not real?"

"I don't. They're stories." he reiterated as if she were a child not understanding something all too simple.

She arched a brow at his withheld appearance; sharp, glassy eyes, tight lips over those broken tusks and a pinched brow making him look like an offensive strategist. He had to be making a yarn with her. Stories were real or not real...not just stuck to one definite category. As if he saw her painful confusion, he snorted through his nose before apparently relenting, "They are myths...and superstitions."

That was an explanation she could absorb and accept, and with the smallest creases of a smile she took a drink of her own mead; savoring the first drop like she'd not had the rich, honeyed taste in too too long. Mead always sat light but warm in her belly, and the feeling came just as expected with a contented sigh. "You thought I was luring you all to a freezing, wet dead?"

"At first," a shrug of his shoulders drew her eyes to the size of him for the fourth time since sitting besides him, " the closer we got the more you just looked like a wet woman in distress..."

"Distress?" she nearly spat the word; filled with almost mock annoyance...but only almost. He gave her an odd look, one she'd only ever seen on Mother; a scolding look, like he was trying to drill in how little she fooled him.

"My boat sunk," she said instead of following her normal route of defending herself...or insulting him.

"That's what I told Captain Graki...how else would your pelts have been dry? He wanted to leave you to swim back." He drank and she watched the empty bottle make an empty sound as it slapped on the table.

She searched him cryptically for any signs of falsehoods. For someone who had been, up until now, cold towards her, she hadn't thought he'd be the one to aid in her rescue.

Durz'gash seemed to do the same to her in her thoughtful silence, reaching a heavy hand in his pocket. A few septims chimed on top of the table with his grunt: the timbre of a bears. "Are you hungry?" he asked while one stray coin rolled on it's edge before coiling flat on it's head.

Without thinking she gave a steady nod, feeling but thankfully not hearing her gut whine against empty insides. He looked away for a second at her heavy stare, "The barmaid doesn't...approve of me," a guilty look crossed his face before he looked back at her, "would you fetch me a mead...and whatever your eating?" It was obvious how detestable it was for him to ask her, and somehow she felt honored to grab at his coin, rise and fetch him more mead and food – an eager look on her face and a less-than-becoming quickness to her step.

If she kept him full and partially inebriated, perhaps he'd continue speaking with her.

So with a new vigor, even greater than the one she'd come in with, she hopped up to the bar with coin in her fist and a smile that couldn't even be broken by the sour expression of the blond barmaid as she ordered as much food and mead as the coin could get her.

A cold snap gave steam to the freshly exposed gloss of red – the fallen boar's hind leg still twitched inanimately with each deep slice, separating skin and muscle quickly. Every moment was precious. Every cut perfect, and yet...

"Do not rend the veins Morn'udes." Mother reminded dryly over her shoulder – too close to be anything but nagging. She ruined her lower lip, keeping such rude retorts to herself as she angled her knife around the curve of a ruddy hip, pulling back the flap of furry hide with bloody fingers.

"You're getting blood on the fur."

Like a chastised child, she felt any pride from her kill slowly wash away with each unhappy comment. Lately nothing she did pleased Mother, always staring at her with unclouded disappointment and mild disgust. The boar at her feet was growing cool in the cold air as the moments waned. The twitching had ceased and the small gloom of steam was all but cleared. No sounds of approval for striking a boar as large as her were granted, nor talk of what supper they'd make of him, just displeased grunts and short peeved silences.

Alone, on the hunt, her hand never shook around the hilt of her Pa's dagger. Only with Mother scrutinizing every movement did she feel like she'd done the first time she'd skinned a carcass; clumsy and green.

With a huff she opened the separated hide over the grassy ground, like the curls of a scroll as she took the edge of her knife to the tender meat of the flanks. At her side Mother laid out tanned leathers with little but a miffed noise. She slapped the cut portions of meat then and there as she always did, knowing full well that the cuts were less than adequate for anyone who knew the proper ways to cut an animal. Mother said nothing; worse than when she chastised, while the boar lost it's girth one hunk of flesh at a time.

The meat was tied and slung in a sack, another sheet of leather lain out to encase the run of intestines, liver, stomach, kidneys and thick sheets of fat. The heart she left as Mother had said earlier on their prowl. It was the first day of the new moon, and it was tradition to leave the giving beast it's soul.

"Don't touch it." Mother hissed as her thumb grazed the bulbous heart, wanting to touch it before leaving it to the hungry munch of the wolves that no doubt were stalking close from the heavy stink of blood in the thick twilight air.

"Apologies...Mother..." she muttered, taking the hide and dragging it out from under the dressed boar – the bare carcass flipping on it's side in a sound of both 'crunch' and 'slop'. Mother made another unsatisfied noise before stringing the heavy sack over her neck and under her shoulder. The weight was substantial, but this was part of her duty, and Mother had to see that she was capable firsthand. Seeing her come home with meat and supplies was one thing, watching her daughter kill, dress and carry home their sustenance was another trial all together; a test.

A daughter of Malacath had to be skilled in all acts of survival – she could not rely on anyone but herself.

"At home you will make yourself better clothes..." she glanced up to see Mother staring with that sour turn of her lips at her worn hunting shawl. It had grown small on her frame over the many past seasons, as well thin and pocked with various holes. Mother's tumultuous eyes turned to the hide strung over her shoulder. "It is time you learn to sew anyhow. I will cook while you work, Morn..."

Silence followed as she smiled meekly, looking to the ends of the worn path. The translucent moon was growing thicker as the last of the sun's rays died past the horizon.

"You did well, child." - and that was all she had to hear for her smile to stretch wide, and her heart to soar. She had passed her test.

Her slight, short frame bobbed expertly around the thick Nords by the bar; one eyeing her backside casually before turning to the rest of the tavern. An itch manifested in her chest – unreachable – at the sight, but it vanished quick enough as he clasped hand on the table.

The barmaid, Milly, gave him another underhanded look from around the girls short-haired head. The disgusted look would be there at least until the next time he found himself in Skyrim. Women didn't forget things easily, especially not when they involved transgression by an Orc. Still, she'd been the one curious, and who was he to withstand a loose woman with a curiosity? The shunning was nothing abnormal, but the reasons for it, even to him, seemed childish. If the woman had anyone to be bitter with then it was herself...

An Imperial soldier's stare ran hot on his face, but when he turned to look the thin lipped-sneer turned up in a fake smile. They were tolerant of him, even kind to his face, but he was no fool – they despised him, as did all no matter where he was.

No doubt they'd be keeping an eye on him as he conversed with the small Woman. No one trusted an Orc around a woman, especially not one that bore the old bandit brands on his wrists. War paint he could scrub off and did, but the scars would always remind the more-conscious man of what he'd been and what he'd most likely done.

"Roast and milk biscuits," Morn came upon him with a heavy plate, piled with layers of meat and crumbled breads growing soggy from the drippings, "...and mead."

She had the bottles hugged to her breasts with one arm, forcing a crease of supple flesh to show through the fur shawl tied at her neck – the sight gave him a moment of pause. Normally it was easy to ignore the barely clad bodies of tavern wenches and port women, but it seemed, with her, that the less flesh she showed the more interesting what little he saw was. Supple as it was, he turned his eyes away as she sat besides him, unaware.

For a small woman she was acceptable looking, perhaps sweet on the eye but not beautiful...at least not with filthy smudges under her eyes and the crop of unwashed hair that stuck to her forehead. She smelt of brine as well, something he found too often while seeing and doing un-lovely things to find the smell at all nice.

There was only the one plate, which made him weary. The looks had grown less severe, but they came and left at the sight of them still. She did not seem to mind the prospect of eating from the same plate as him, nor with only the one fork. He watched her tear into a stringy hunk of meat, swallowing fat and skin like he'd not seen a woman do before. There was no delicate bites, or hands-over-mouth-delicacy, and he found himself smirking at the rare sight. She looked like a woman, but she acted the Orc in ever way.

"I..." she began, then appeared to realize her mouth was full and swallowed thickly with a gasp that was almost becoming, "I wish to hire you."

He took a bite of meat with his fingers, chewed, swallowed and aimed for a pinch of soaked bread before pausing as her words sunk in fully. Since he first saw her he'd known she was an odd one, perhaps crazy, but this only labeled her stupid to him. She was looking at him thoughtfully, taking nibbles from a flaky biscuit as if she were waiting patiently for his answer.

What was he to say now? He'd fallen into a rather dangerous comfort while exchanging frivolous words, and now she seemed even more comfortable, especially to say such a serious thing. There was no tip-toeing around for her, he could see that now. His nostrils flared as he uncorked, what must have been his fourth mead, with gusto.

Still unable to look at her, he growled low before drinking half the sweet brew down, hoping the coming fog would ease his poor condition.

"You know nothing of me, Woman, not even a name," he replied in short work, almost in a threatening manner. How was she so confident he was not a former rapist, murderer and theif? - or did those things not bother her?

"Durz'gash is your name. I asked your captain, who said you were strong and 'kind enough'...what ever he meant by that." He did not know whether to insult her or remain silent.

"I don't need someone pleasant though," she continued while fiddling with her own bottle of mead, "just strong and capable. Having a fellow Orsimer by my side would be enough of the pleasantries." There was a brief smile before it tightened as she uncorked her brew.

"I am not used to carrying coin, but I have means to pay by gems and valuables. You can trade those for your reusable coin...I'm certain."

"I already have a job," it was all that came to mind. He couldn't form a cross word or leave her alone at the table in mislaid offense. The woman may have been crazed, but she meant no harm by it. Thinking she was an Orc was an uncomfortable thought, and if he even entertained attending her on whatever chore she was running, her misplaced identity would make things even more difficult than if she'd just been some normal woman.

"But you have the arms of a warrior...not the ones I see on the rest of your shipmates. Surly, you used to fight," she leaned in like before, as though he spoke in hushed tones and subsequently needed to be unbearably close to hear his answers.

"Orc's are built differently than normal Human and Mer...you should know this," it took too much to even speak to her on matters of race let alone what it would be like to deny the fact – right along with her – that she was merely a Human with an Orc's brain.

"I've never seen a Male Orsimer until you..." she confessed whilst avoiding his eyes, as if suddenly she were embarrassed. "Why not let me buy you a bed for the night. Sleep on it, and tell me in the morn? I will pay you, and what treasures we happened across I will split with you. I have found much in just the short time I've been here."

The temptation was raw as his mind conjured memories of gold, blood and weak women, all at the destruction and find of his blade. Her deal was hard to spit on, for anyone, let alone one who knew the pleasures of travel and battle. There were many flaws in her offer though – none having to do with her, but with him. He'd not held a sword in his hand for many seasons, nor had he killed anyone in that amount of time. Darkness crept on him as he remembered the pleasure he'd found in such barbaric activities. He didn't want that...but too hide from his flaws on a ship did little for his honor either...

She was right, he'd have to think about it...

"I'll sleep on it," he agreed begrudgingly, watching her hold in a grin as her attention was drawn back to the plate. He watched her, drank and let his mind take him to the span of possibilities; both fraught with sin and redemption. If he said yes, she may live to regret giving him such a seductive offer.

Thank you as always for reading what I expel as writing. If you find the time, a review would warm my heart.

I'm falling in love with the orcs of Skyrim like I just couldn't in Oblivion or Morrowind. Do let me know if I'm doing them any justice so far. I'm adding a bit of stereotypes to Duz'gash, but hey - sterotypes exist for a reason, and I want to make him difficult to love in the traditional sense.

I do, also, always fear turning my female creations into Mary Sues. Please, if this starts happening, call me out on it.