A Good Death

The Orc stood in stoic silence, his thin, yet wiry frame loose and comfortable; ready for the end. He took no notice of the whistling wind, nor the stinging cold. His hide had been toughened and tempered by it through decades of hard travel. This was his home, as much as it was any Nord's.

"I am awaiting a good death." He explained to the drunken group of Nords. The five revelers had happened upon him not two minutes before. He had bade them move on. They had refused. Electing, instead, to torment him. Not that anything they had said had managed to anger him in the slightest. The Old Orc had long ago learned to keep his temper, and that often, it was wisest not to fight at all. For their sake, he hoped the young men surrounding him had the same sense. He knew he would not meet death at their hands, yet he was perfectly ready to introduce them, if the need arose.

"I'll give you a good death!" one of the revelers challenged, throwing a slow, cumbersome right hook at the Old Orc's jaw. The Orc reacted instantly, dodging the clumsy blow. His worn axe cut a perfect arc, leaving a trail of swirling snowflakes in its wake; it severed the man's arm just below the elbow. Dark Nord blood stained the ground.

The reveler let out a strangled groan, staring at his stump. His companions fell silent, their jeers and laughter stolen by the patter of blood on the otherwise unblemished snow. Scarlet clashed with lily white, forming indefinable patterns on the winter canvas.

The Old Orc wrinkled his nose, pulling a second axe from its holster at his side. He had never forgotten the stench of blood. In his younger days, he had sought it out. But now? It bored him.

The Nords moved as one. The Old Orc moved as well. Ignoring the stricken reveler, he swung his axe towards the most inexperienced of the group. The man cried out in fear and leapt backwards, allowing the Orc to breach their circle. Superior numbers were for naught when a target was approached one at a time.

His target, inexperienced in the ways of combat, backpedaled until his feet met the knee-high crumbling wall beside the road. As he rolled backwards, the old Orc brought one of his axes down into the Nord's skull, splitting it neatly. Even as the body fell back, twitching, he heard another creeping up behind him, brandishing a short dagger.

He turned, swinging his free axe a little higher than normal, prompting the third nord to duck. The young man was agile, and with training, could probably have been forged into an impressive swordsman.

Unfortunately, his chin met the old Orc's knee on the way down. At lightning fast speed, the orc brought his free axe around, slicing his attacker's exposed throat. With his other arm, he wrenched the man's iron blade from his grasp and thrust it at the last target, plunging it into the man's chest until it could go no further. The Nord gurgled as the old Orc brought his axe in a wide arc, cleaving the man's neck until his head bounced away down the cobbled road.

The old Orc let the body fall and took a step back, calming himself. The reveler with the missing arm had disappeared down the road, leaving a bloody trail to mark his path. No doubt he would bring the city guards, of he made it that far without bleeding to death…

It mattered not. If they came, they came. If they fought, they fought. And if they killed…

He smiled again as he wrenched his axe out of the fallen Nord's head; that was the point, wasn't it? To be killed by a worthy opponent.

What more was there in life for an Orc past his prime? Too old to marry. Too old to lead in battle. Anything which had outlived its usefulness to its cause was to be disposed of. That was right and proper. The only thing left for the Old Orc to do was to please Malacath, and die with a blade in his hand.

He checked his axes for damage, but the weapons were in good condition. They would last him long enough.

The whinnying of a horse made him look up. An enormous pitch-black mare was standing on the nearby road, clacking its feet against the cobblestone. Red eyes gleamed. Pale vapor puffed from the horse's nostrils and were sucked away by the cold wind.

As impressive a sight as the horse was, its rider commanded more attention. Another Nord, travelled and weathered in a way the dead revelers could never have hoped to match. The Nord wore no helmet, though the Orc observed an iron helm was strapped to his saddle. His long dark hair had no braids. His face was scarred and pitted, yet not disfigured, and not particularly ugly as Nords went. The rider had elected to travel without the tribal facepaint common among northerners. His armour was worn, and had been repaired many times. Furs cascaded down his back and shoulders. Leather straps crossed his chest, holding on an ancient, notched Nordic blade. A round steel shield lay across his back. Like all of his belongings, it too was well-used and had been frequently repaired. The tools of a tradesman, not a showman. This man was a Warrior, not a brawler. An adventurer, and one wise in the ways of the world. A Nordic warrior of old, he seemed, displaced far beyond his allotted time in history. An incarnate of Talos himself, perhaps.

The old Orc smiled ruefully at the thought. He had been among the Nordic men far too long; their legends held as much weight in his mind as those of his own kin. Malacath, not Talos, was his god.

"You kill my countrymen." The stranger said. It was not a threat, and the old Orc could not detect the slightest trace of anger or disapproval. Indeed the stranger seemed… curious, if anything. But not unfriendly. He wished to know more about the situation before he intervened. Caution; a rare thing amongst the northern men, in the old Orc's experience. Many of them were bested by their own pride and tempers before their enemies were ever presented with the chance.

"They were mine as well." The Old Orc responded evenly. "I have lived in Skyrim at least as long as some of them." He kicked the body of the youngest. "Definitely longer than others. Nords they may be, but this is my home."

The rider straightened up, staring down at the youngest body, whose head had been cloven asunder. "How did they come to deserve such punishment?"

"They chose their fate."

"Indeed?" the man nodded at the youngest. "That one was trying to flee. What honor is there in brawling with drunken children, Orc?"

The old Orc growled, his pride stung. "Perhaps their deaths will bring an opponent more worthy!"

The rider elected silence, examining the Orc. Eventually he said, "And when this worthy opponent arrives?"

"He will grant me a good death, Malacath willing."

More silence as the two warriors stared at each other. Then the Rider hoisted himself out of his saddle and drew his sword. The Orc grinned, readying his axes.

"You have found your worthy opponent, Orc." The man unslung his shield, holding it loosely in his left hand.

"You fight to avenge your kinsmen?"

"Fools pay for foolish deeds." The Nord responded, circling slowly. "I do this for you. And to sate my own curiosity."

The Orc swung. The blow was light, cutting down across the Nord's right shoulder, aimed at his collarbone. Unfazed, the man stepped backwards and the blade passed in front of him with hardly a whisper.

The Nord reacted as soon as the Orc's axe was beyond the point of harm. He stepped inwards and thrust at his opponent's exposed abdomen, forcing the Orc to work fast and parry. Each of them stepped back and reevaluated the other.

"Tell me," the human said, "Why does an Orc wish death upon himself?"

"I am past my prime, and must die before I become a liability to my people. There is no greater shame." He lashed out and his axe bounced harmlessly against the human's shield. The man responded with a thrust to the Orc's ankles, slicing at his hamstrings, but the Orc danced away and adjusted the grip on his weapons.

The Nord straightened up. "And your skills? Your knowledge? Are they to die with you? You can handle those axes, Orc. I'm sure your kinsmen could benefit from that knowledge."

The Orc swung again, and again the human blocked. "Experience is the only teacher!"

"Without training, most won't get that far."

"Then they are weak!"

They engaged, blades whirring and ringing against each other, the constant noise punctuated by the harsh bash of axe on dented shield. The Nord was a true swordsman. No fancy kahjiit footwork, or mage trickery. Merely skillful efficiency, and a knack for putting his blade where his opponents hoped it wouldn't go.

They exchanged blows for a minute or more, engaging and breaking with the ebb and flow of the fight. The sounds of their melee echoed form the distant mountain cliffs.

The Orc parried and rushed forward, bringing his axe down on the Nord's unprotected head. The man's shield hit him in the side, knocking him backwards and buying the human a moment's respite.

The old Orc took a step forward, goading his opponent to perform another shield bash. The Nord, smarter than most, saw the trick for what it was, and thrust with his sword instead, forcing the Orc aside- straight into the path of the oncoming shield! It was a clever double feint, and were the Orc any younger, any less experienced, he would have found himself knocked wide-open and promptly impaled by the oncoming blade.

He leaned backwards, parrying the sword with his left axe, and hooking the blade of his right axe on the edge of the shield. He pulled across his body, throwing the Nord's arm far wider than the human had intended, and driving him to one knee. The old Orc brought his right axe up, around, and down for a killing blow-

FUS RO DAH!

The fabric of Tamriel stretched and warped with the words -if that mundane description could be applied to such powers- and then the world was re-written, sending the old Orc flying into the snow bank some ten feet away. And in the distance, carried on the winter wind, the old Orc could hear the answering call of the Blood Dragon of Anthor, presiding high from its clifftop lair.

The old Orc lay there for a moment, staring in shock at the cloudless blue abyss far above his head. He could hear the human panting, some distance away, but coming closer. He tried to sit up, but his bones creaked, and his muscles burned in protest. One axe landed in the snow beside his head.

"You fight well, Orc."

The other axe landed near his hand. The Orc grunted and sat up, glaring at the Nord.

"Magick!" he spat.

The human shook his head. "Older."

"And what of honor?" The Orc grabbed his axe and pressed the head into the snow, using it to support himself as he rose wearily to his feet. "What of the warrior's way? What of an honest fight? What of iron and muscle?"

The human shrugged. "You wish to die by the sword. I wish to live by any means at my disposal. Why do you whine like a Jarl's pampered pup? I gave you back your weapons. There's your honor."

The Orc took another step backwards. "That was no spell I've ever heard." He said suspiciously.

"It was a Thu'um. Dragonspeak." The man told him. "I am Dovahkiin. Dragonborn. If a good death is what you want. No one in skyrim is more qualified to deliver it than I."

The Old Orc had lived most of his life in Skyrim, and he knew the legends of the Thu'um. The gift the gods' bestowed upon their most favored. He had held out against a Dragonslayer. A Nordic Legend come to life. He found his gaze rising past the Nordic legend, to the fog-shrouded peak of mount Anthor.

The Nord nodded, "That's where I was going to go today. Come and die, Orc. The morning wanes."

The Old Orc obeyed, charging forward in a frenzy, bellowing ancient Orsimer death chants. This was his battle, and whether he won or lost, he would make his bloodline proud. Leaping was a bad idea; once a warrior as in the air, his path was set, and an enemy as cagey as the Dragonborn would be certain to take advantage of that. That being said, the true strength of Orsimer combat styles lay in their simplicity and brute force tactics. The Old Orc took full advantage of those strengths, bringing both axes down on the human's shield.

The steel covering bent and strained. Wood cracked, and the human grunted, bringing all of his physical strength to bear in blocking the blow. Despite the stinging protest in his wrists and elbows, the Orc followed up the initial blow with secondary and tertiary strikes designed to keep the Nord focused on defense. The Orc possessed both superior strength and stamina, and he knew that he could outlast the human.

Unfortunately, the human disengaged, leaping backwards and using the superior length of his sword to keep his opponent at bay. The two of them circled again, looking for openings. The Nord crouched, the wet snow sticking to the fur of his boots. He moved his sword aggressively, teasing, and trying to goad the Orc into striking. Whether he thought the older warrior's onslaught the product of a sudden fit of rage, or understood it as the calculated move it had been, the Orc didn't know. In the end, it didn't matter. The old Orsimer knew a faint when he saw one, and kept his distance.

Realizing that the Orc had retained his emotional control, the Nord tried a different tactic. He opened up his shield arm, exposing the vulnerable flesh of his side, wrist, and inner arm. Once again, the Orc did not take the bait; if he moved, the human would close up and hit him with another devastating shield bash.

What he hadn't expected was the fireball. It appeared for less than two seconds, a simple flower of flame, dancing between the Nord's fingers. The sight distracted him momentarily, allowing his opponent's sword to slip between his defenses.

The ice-cold blade bit into his side, burning and freezing him at the same time. A subtle blue glow flowed down the edge as it dug in deeper. The Orc roared in response, rage finally taking hold. He swung out wildly with his own axe. The Nord's move, though it scored him a hit, had left him open as well, and he leaned back, the blade slicing a long red trail across his cheek. He moved in as the Orsimer's other blade came whistling through the air in a similar arc. This one clanged uselessly against the shield, and the Nord was inside his defenses. The same burning chill spread through him, this time much more pronounced than the last. The pain crippled him, and an unfamiliar discomfort forced him to slouch.

The Nord had run him clean through, all the way to the hilt of his ancient sword. Feeling his strength whither, the Orc looked up and met the Nord's eyes in a moment of silent understanding and comraderie.

"I have healing potions in my saddlebag." The Nord offered.

The old Orc shook his head as his lifeblood ebbed away. He coughed as the human laid him reverently across the barren snow. "This was a good death, Dohvakiin. A good death."

The world faded, and the last sound he heard was the call of the blood dragon of Anthor on its distant mountaintop, roaring in approval.

How do you say "Ooh, another Gamer! Om Nom Nom!" in dragon? My official strategy guide won't tell me… :(

Should I continue this? I suppose Krow Blood and I'll have to think up a plot… On the flipside, it'll take away more from Mass Effect and Fallout…