#oc daabush gro-dren

chapter 2 

(chapter 1)

cw: implied nsfw, nothing explicit

note: i don’t even know what the state of tense is in this, and i don’t care at this point lol

- - - - -

“…So.”

Hla-eix had already rolled over away from Daabush, her eyes contemplating the window. “So…what?”

“You said we would talk.”

Dammit, he remembered. She closes her eyes. “Did I?”

A hand grabs her shoulder and rolls her onto her back, but she keeps her head turned away from him. “No,” Daabush says. “Not again. You agreed to this. Stop trying to run away.”

“It’s all I’m good for. Running away.” She bites the inside of her lip, wishing she hadn’t said anything.

Daabush reaches over her, his rough hand gentle on her chin, pulling her around to face him. He’s so intense, the way he stares at her - into her. She always tries to avoid eye contact, but if she ever finds it, that intensity holds her completely still. No more running away. 

He caresses her cheek, his thumb running over the thin, delicate scales there. “I just want to get to know you, Eix.”

“Sorry,” she says, her eyes managing to step aside for just a moment to breathe. “I don’t know what to tell you. Where to start.”

Daabush purses his lips around his tusks. “Fine,” he says. “Okay. I’ll start, then. I grew up in a stronghold, out east, in the Velothi. What about you?”

“Uh.” This was going to be hard to explain. She always hates having to. But maybe if she can just get it over with… “I grew up in two places. Some in Morrowind, some in Black Marsh. Few years with my moms near the border. About ten years in Morrowind. Few years after the Red Year, I got taken in by the An-Xileel. Then -”

Daabush stretches his thumb over to cover her lips. “Sorry, hold on,” he says. “The Red Year?”

She bites his thumb. “I told you I was old.”

“Ow! Okay.” He props himself up on one elbow. “Also, what’s the An-Xileel?”

“Uh. Government of Black Marsh?”

“Is that common knowledge?”

“It’s not a secret.”

“I’ve only ever lived in Skyrim.”

“I guess you wouldn’t know then.”

“Anyways. Why’d they take you in?”

“Well. My mother was a dunmer. Ashlander. Mabrigash, to be specific. Like a witch, I guess. I lived with her and her coven for a long time.” Hla-eix looks up at the ceiling. She’s always thought about these things. She just needed a push - and some trust - but once she got going, she had plenty to say. “But the An-Xileel pushed north after the Red Year, to take back lands stolen by the dunmer long ago. We lived in those lands. So they killed the mabrigash except for me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, but…okay. They didn’t kill you? Why?”

Here’s the hard part, the one she’d been avoiding. “Well. You know what I look like. I had two mothers, an argonian and a dunmer. They found a way to have a child of their own with magic. When the soldiers found me, they thought I was … a cruel experiment of witches, I guess. Another awful thing the elves had done to our people.”

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

“Couldn’t. I don’t know why. But I didn’t speak for a couple years after that. So I just let them assume what they wanted.”

“Okay. So -”

Hla-eix covers his mouth with her hand. “Nope. Your turn again.”

He swats her arm away. “Ugh. Fine.”

“Why’d you leave the stronghold?”

“Well. Hm. You know the Great Houses of Morrowind, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there was a wave of Hlaalu emigrants almost ten years ago. Bunch of folks nobody wanted no more, on account of being so close to the Empire. Got especially bad after the Red Year.”

“Wait. You said you were born in a stronghold.”

“I did. Hold your tongue for a minute. I’m not Hlaalu.” His eyes glaze with thought for a moment. “Well. I might actually be, technically. That’s…well, who gives a shit.” He shakes his head and looks back at Hla-eix. “Where was I? Before you rudely butted in.”

“Hlaalu emigrants.”

“Oh. Well, they passed through the Velothi near our stronghold on their way to Skyrim. We let them camp nearby, gave them some supplies. Hlaalu’s always been the House that hated us least. There was…” He pauses, bites his lip. “…a person who, uh. Became important to me. But before I could get…their…name, the caravan left.”

“Daa.” Hla-eix playfully bonks him on the head. “My parents were both women. You don’t have to play the pronoun game.”

He sighs, and she notices that some tension leaves his body. He closes his eyes. “Okay. So … Well, I decided to leave the stronghold to follow them, so I could talk to him again.”

“You didn’t mind leaving your kin behind to follow this Hlaalu mer?”

Daabush’s eyes shoot open. “That’s…Actually. It’s your turn. Why’d you leave Black Marsh?” 

“…Occupational reasons.”

“A trader? Adventurer? Mercenary?”

“…Sure.”

Daabush furrows his brows pointedly but doesn’t push it. “But you didn’t mind leaving your kin behind to follow your occupation.”

Hla-eix cocks an eyebrow. “So your elf crush was just a job to you?”

“That’s…!” He stiffens his posture and raises his voice. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I was just … ugh.”

“I was forty-four when I left for the first time since arriving,” Hla-eix says. “To me, that’s nothing. But to orcs I’m sure that age is meaningful. What I’m saying is that it wasn’t easy to leave.” She wiggles and fiddles with her fingers idly. “I’m sure you can imagine … what it was like for me. To be among normal-looking argonians. To constantly have to prove yourself worthy. That you’re one of them. That you’re loyal to them, and not the dark elves.”

“…Yeah. I get it.”

She snaps out of her anxious spell and sits up straight, crossing her legs. “Tell me more about the Hlaalu boy.” 

Daabush gently runs his fingers along Hla-eix’s exposed and heavily scaled back. “…His name was Sevren. Member of the Dren family, he said.” Hla-eix raises a confused eyebrow. “As in, Vedam Dren.” She pulls back a corner of her mouth and shakes her head. “Was the Duke of Ebonheart. Whatever. Important guy.”

“…So what happened? Did you talk to him? Were you…involved?”

Daabush’s eyes close shut, then open again, but they were in a different place and time. “Yes. We were in love. He left his family to be with me.” He shakes his head back and forth slightly. “Not easy, two men, orc and elf, in Skyrim, you know. He was used to city life. But it wasn’t really an option. We joined a band of poachers in Eastmarch. They didn’t mind, long as we pulled our weight and didn’t get nobody caught. They were skeptical about Sev at first. But we managed. It was cold, but there was warmth there, with Sev, and the others. Like family.”

He shakes his head more forcibly to clear it and sits up, matching Hla-eix’s posture. “What about you? What’s your history with love like?” 

She looks away towards the window. “…I lied.”

“What?”

“I, uh. You’re my first.”

Daabush places a firm hand on her thigh. “…No. Doesn’t make sense. You’re too experienced. You’ve had others.”

She stands and walks towards the window. “No. When you’re like me, you have to pay them. And only if they’re desperate.” She opens it and leans into the biting cold.

Hla-eix doesn’t hear anything except for the heavy silence of Solitude late at night. It is a quiet hour, even the loud drunkards fled to bed. No early morning exercises clanging metal at the castle; no music wafting from the college; no weeping at the cemetery; no prayers at the temple. There is the faint whisper of winter wind, the delicate sound of snow shifting, the crisp crackling of street torches, and the cacophony of thoughts roaring in her head.

Then there is a massive warmth pressed against her back, wrapping around her. “Then I’m not your first,” Daabush says, slowly turning her to face him.

First she sees his chest, heavily scarred grey-green flesh built like a bear. Then she looks up into his eyes, this time without being forced by them. “You’re the first that mattered.”

He pulls her into a deep kiss, their first real kiss despite all their rutting, and his first in years. In his arms, she is warm despite the cold outside.

When they finally pull away from each other, he reaches over to close the window. Hla-eix buries her face in his chest, listening to his heavy heartbeat, entranced. But he hesitates, and distantly she registers the sound of a door slamming open downstairs. 

“Shit.”

note: this is technically the last chapter of “a window, open and closed.” i don’t know which chapter that is, though. just the last one. but i’m uh. i just wrote it so i’m kind of really feeling it and as a result i don’t have the sense to like, post it after the rest of awoac. so…here.

- - - - -

They had not spoken in years until Uuloril and daro’Zirr invited Hla-eix to a reunion of sorts. She was reluctant, but knew she had to go. They were her friends. She had saved the world with them.

She did not know it was because Daabush was dying. If she had, she would not have come.

Uuloril was the one who told her when she arrived at the estate. Daro’Zirr was pacing in front of the door, their tail twitching anxiously. Uuloril did not look much older than he had when Hla-eix had met him, his altmer blood sure to last him another century or two before he shows significant signs of aging. The only sign he was any older than he was that day in 4e201 was that the youthful innocence he’d had then had been drained from his face by the decades since. 

Daro’Zirr, on the other hand … their once bright red fur was paled with grey, their mane long but with half the hair length from the root stark white. Despite all the energy the khajiit had been known for, they seemed subdued, tired. Their pacing was accompanied by a limp suggesting poor hips, their eyes were dark and sullen, and their anxious claws shivered with frailty.

“…said maybe a few more days with this treatment, but that was a few days ago, so…Are you okay?”

Hla-eix was focusing on daro’Zirr’s condition too much that she forgot Uuloril was talking. “What?”

“You just seemed…you know, distracted, or -”

“Of course I’m not okay!” She grabs him by the collar as she realizes what he had asked, her voice quickly raising to a scream. “Are you? You would be. So goddamn detached and self-concerned. Just another fucking inconvenience, huh? Never mattered to you. You never gave a shit about him! You -”

She stops. He’s crying, tears shattering on his cheeks, smiling so sadly. “I loved him, too,” he says.

She lets go. Daro’Zirr steps in between the two of them. “What the hell is wrong with you?” they whisper harshly. “‘Detached and self-concerned?’ You’re the one who ran away. Daro’Zirr and Uuloril stayed with him. We stayed together. But you ran away!”

Hla-eix stares blankly. It’s worse up close. She can see the wrinkles under the fur, deep as canyons. And their voice is strained like a frayed rope. Not long now until -

“Of course,” they say, shaking their head and stepping back. “Not even listening to daro’Zirr. Fuck off.”

“He, uh,” started Uuloril, wiping the wetness from his eyes and under his nose, “wanted to see you. He asked for you.”

“Of course he did,” Hla-eix said, but the malice she tried to lace the words with just felt like lead on her tongue. She walked towards the door, but her attempt to push past Uuloril was so feeble he just stepped aside himself. She put her hand on the door handle. She could not turn it.

So she just stood there for a long moment. She tried to break free, and the only way she was able to was to breathe the words, “I can’t.”

Uuloril was right beside her. He put his hand over hers and slowly turned the knob for her.

He was lying in bed. A healer sat in a chair next to him. Hla-eix only looked at her.

“Scales,” he croaked. “You made it.” 

He was hit with a coughing fit. The healer’s hands reached over to his throat, glowing with golden restoration magic, and Hla-eix’s eyes couldn’t help but follow them to his face. 

She immediately covered her eyes with her hand, to avoid seeing him, and tried to play it off as rubbing her face. It probably looked more like wiping away tears. Once the coughing fit subsided, she looked again, this time at Uuloril, who sat on the other side of the bed from the healer, Daa’s weathered hand in his. Daro’Zirr leaned against the wall, their arms crossed, keeping a weary eye on Hla-eix.

“Hey,” Hla-eix says, her glance shooting between Uuloril, daro’Zirr, and the healer, trying not to look at Daabush. “Long time no see, I guess.” 

Uuloril looks to the healer. She nods solemnly. He looks down at his and Daa’s entwined hands, teardrops staining their skins. He nods back weakly. Hla-eix decides to look at the ceiling instead.

“Could you…leave us alone for a minute?” Uuloril asks. The healer nods gently and leaves the room.

“Come,” Daabush says, his voice so hoarse. (Hla-eix can look away, but she wishes she could listen away too.) “Sit by me. Please.” He waves towards the healer’s seat, now vacated.

She does, keeping her eyes as far from his shriveled body as she can. 

“I’m glad you came,” he says. His eyes are burning a hole into her head, and she tries, she tries so hard to ignore it, to resist. But she can’t help but finally look at him.

He’s so pale, like his wrinkled skin is so thin that she can see right through to the bone. His eyes are set so deep in his head, but their fire hasn’t ever gone out. His hair, once long and ebony-black, is patchy and ash-grey. His once massive muscles cling weakly to his skeleton. He reaches up towards her with a shaky hand. She hesitates before accepting it; its shriveled boniness fits cold and awkward in hers. He squeezes, but the reminder the gesture gives of the comfort these hands once gave her just makes it worse.

She can’t bring herself to look at his face too long, so she looks at their hands again. “What … Is it … How bad is it?”

Daabush swallows thickly and closes his eyes. “Any time now,” he says. “Potions stopped working a week ago. Spells stopped working yesterday.”

“Why did you bring me here? I told you. I didn’t want …”

“I wanted to see you. I missed you. We missed you. Even daro’Zirr.” He coughs again, but manages to force it down himself. “And I know you missed us.”

“No.” But the word wouldn’t have convinced even the healer outside. “I didn’t. You … I told you. You shouldn’t have … I could have stopped this. I told you I could. But -”

“But I don’t want that,” he says, opening his eyes again. “Just like Gus didn’t want it. I’m not afraid.”

“Bullshit.” She looks him in the eye. “Of course you are. Everyone’s afraid of dying.”

“But everybody dies.”

“You didn’t have to!” She lets go of his hand and looks away. “You could have stayed young and done so much more with your life. You could have - we could have done so much together.”

“I’m content with what I did with my life. It was enough.”

“No, it’s not. You could have done more. You could have done it with me.”

Daabush doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes half-focused on Hla-eix, the other half on something beyond. A memory? Or something else?

Then he swallows, and says, “You don’t look a day older than when I met you.”

“Of course I don’t. The Serpent keeps me. It could have kept you.”

“You haven’t aged,” he continues. “And you haven’t changed.”

Her eyes snap back onto his. “What?”

“You haven’t changed. Always so … afraid. Running away from everything. Pushing people away when they get too close. Afraid of change. Afraid of losing things, so you throw them away before you can lose them.”

The dam she was bracing her entire being against this whole time breaks. She keeps staring at him for as long as she can until the world becomes too murky, and his face is a vague blotch of light. Then she collapses on top of him, her body a thousand earthquakes, and her face a million tsunamis. 

“I’m sorry … just … please don’t go. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave.” 

“It’s not your choice to make. It’s mine.” He places his cold gentle hand on the back of her head. “But I’m sorry.”

It is not the glorious death in battle that many orcs dream of and pray for. There is no great triumph, no heroic sacrifice. There is Uuloril, holding Daabush’s hand so tight, his golden face awash with tears and snot; there is daro’Zirr, kneeling beside him, their face in their claws; there is Hla-eix, body shaking, screaming into his chest. There is a family, damaged by time, but a family, together, nonetheless.

It is not the honorable death expected of a savior of the world. But it is a good death.

Daa,

Something’s come up. It’s Uuloril and daro’Zirr. He went missing first, and then they went to find him. Now they’re both gone. If you don’t hear from me in a week or two, your ass better come looking for me. And them too, I guess.

I don’t want to lose any more of us.

- Scales

With a note like that, she should have known better than to expect him to wait. 

Uuloril had been invited to meet someone; he had told daro’Zirr where he was going; Hla-eix followed daro’Zirr’s tracks, because the khajiit always traveled recklessly. But Hla-eix’s investigation left very little for Daabush to go on, the clues mostly destroyed or no longer useful, and Hla-eix knew how to move in secret, minimizing her trail.

Fortunately, on top of being among the last Dragonborns, Daabush was damn near the best tracker in all of Tamriel.

He followed her across Skyrim, never catching up, but the faint trail was fresh enough he knew she couldn’t be more than a day ahead of him. He knew he wouldn’t find her before she found their friends, but hopefully whatever happened, they could hold out one extra day for him to arrive.

After a week of chasing, Daabush entered the Dragontail Mountains, and thereby the nation Orsinium. He might have been excited to be here had the circumstances been different. At the border he was stopped by orcs in heavy orichalc armor.

“Halt, outsider,” said one, supposedly the leader, in Orcish. “State your business.” 

“None of your business,” replied Daabush. His Orcish was fairly rusty.

“You come here, you make it our business,” said one of the other guards.

“I can really make it your business if I have to. Move aside.”

“That a threat?” The guards drew their weapons in trained unison.

Daabush had not bothered to bring his bow for this quest. Whatever was stealing his friends from him demanded a more personal touch. He pulled a massive warhammer from his back, but did not bother entering a combat stance. “A promise.”

One of the younger guards stepped forward to attack, but his boss held him back, and said, “Wait. Is that…?”

“By Malacath,” exclaimed another. “It is. It’s…”

As every orc recognized the hammer and its gravity, they whispered in awe, “Volendrung.”

Daabush stepped forward until he was almost tusk-to-tusk with the captain. “Unless any of you want an express trip to meet the one who gave me this hammer,” he said, “you are going to take me to the city. Now.”

- - - - -

The capital city of Orsinium, Orsinium Major, was nested in a deep valley surrounded on all sides by a veritable wall of mountain faces. It was only accessible via a network of natural tunnels carved into the rock. The orc from the border patrol who led him there had to give Daabush to the guards who roamed those halls. They attempted to rebuff him as well, but his heavy badge as Malacath’s champion forced their hand.

When he emerged into Orsinium Major, he could not help himself this time to be a tiny bit awestruck. The entire city was built like a temple, perfectly arranged and carved from stone, every building from abode to smithy to palace a monolith to the strength and fortitude of the orcish people. Orcs, goblins, ogres, trolls, and even ogrim walked its streets like priests of Malacath (or Trinimac), and though Daabush had long ago distanced himself from his people, his chest was filled with pride to witness their works.

But then he remembered his purpose, and continued his investigation.

After asking around to no avail, Daabush resorted to more subtlety in his search. The approach proved fruitful, if only because the subtlety of his target was less than impressive. The facility was poorly hidden. If you looked hard enough, the entrance to the cave was visible from over the city’s walls. And Daabush had eyes like a hawk. All it took the old hunter was a bit of climbing to reach it.

The hole in the side of the mountain was watched by two orcs in even heavier armor, but brass rather than orichalc. (Daabush did not care to wonder why.) They were braver than the border patrol, and seemed unimpressed by the artifact Daabush wielded. But their bravery was misplaced. One had his chest caved in, and the other Shouted off the mountain.

The first chamber of the caverns was mostly empty, except for some brass machinery that Daabush couldn’t quite place. Were these thugs operating out of some dwarven ruins? It seemed irrelevant to him until one of the machines spoke.

It was some kind of perforated cone hung from the ceiling. It had a thin, metallic voice, speaking Cyrodiilic. “Ah, you’re here, Daabush gro-Dren. Come, your friends and I are waiting for you. But, if I may? Please do spare my researchers. They will not harm you. I cannot make the same promise for the soldiers, as they are sworn to defend our work. Make your way to us as you must. I eagerly awai-”

Daabush smashed the machine into a thousand brass pieces. He didn’t bother to see if it communicated both ways, because he couldn’t stand to hear any more of the transmitted monologuing. If they were to exchange words before Daabush tore him apart, they were going to do it face-to-face.

He did decide to oblige the speaker’s request to spare the civilians. But he relished destroying the armed orcs like they were skeevers. Deep into the mountain, with a trail of mangled corpses and weeping scientists behind him, Daabush kicked down the door to the lab.

Inside were four cages. Three of them held Uuloril, daro’Zirr, and Hla-eix, all chained and gagged, while the fourth and central chamber contained a small orc whose brief startlement became a wide smile when he saw Daabush.

“Wonderful! You made it.” He clasps his hands together. “My name is Ogash. I hope the soldiers didn’t give you much trouble? Ah, no, of course they didn’t. With friends like these,” gesturing vaguely at the caged Dragonborns, “of course you would be more than capable of taking care of them.”

“Let them go. And maybe I won’t paint Orsinium with your guts.”

Ogash frowns. “Oh, well, you see. I can’t quite do that yet. I do hope you don’t get too heated over it.”

“I can show you heated, alright. Let them go.”

“Show me that fire, then, little dragon. I’m dying to hear it!”

Hla-eix yells through her gag and fights against her restraints, but it’s too late. “Yol Toor Shul!”

Daabush’s shout never reaches the orc in the cage. Suddenly his eardrums are filled with ringing like a bell’s long echo, and he cannot move an inch.

“Excellent!” exclaims the small orc, opening his cage. “Give me one moment, please.”

Only Daabush’s eyes are mobile now, and he looks around the room. The walls and ceiling are covered with more of those metal cones, and they stare at him like laughing eyes. His captor moves over to a large machine and fiddles with it for a moment, pulling levers and flipping switches. It prints out something on a long scroll of paper, which he scrutinizes with a growing frown.

“Damn. Still useless to me…” He glances at Daabush’s frozen body with a slight smile. “You’d think the thu’um would be more interesting, and more scientifically important.” He crumples up the paper and tosses it behind him. “Oh well. I’ll release them then. You’ll find I haven’t harmed a hair on their head. Or tail. Or a scale on their skin? What a fascinating bunch, but not for my purposes.”

As promised, Ogash begins to open the cages, unlock the chains, and remove the gags, starting with Uuloril, who seems very shaken by the entire ordeal. Next is daro’Zirr, who tries to bite the orc as he ungags her, but can’t quite manage it. Last is Hla-eix, who says nothing and does not resist.

Once the three are freed, Ogash operates the machine again, relinquishing Daabush from the ringing and paralysis. Daro’Zirr catches him as it happens so he doesn’t fall over. Once back on his feet, he tries to swing at their captor, but stops his arc just before hitting Uuloril square in the face. “He’s letting us go,” the altmer says, his voice dripping with exhaustion. “Leave it be. No more bloodshed.”

Daabush stares into Uuloril’s eyes for a moment, then grunts and puts Volendrung away. Ogash smiles at Daabush, and he really wishes Uuloril would let him kill the orc anyway.

But then there is a flash of steel and a spray of warmth on Uuloril and Daabush. They stare at Hla-eix and her bloody blade and face as Ogash starts screaming.

“Oops,” she says. “I’m sorry. I think I slipped. So very sorry.”

“I don’t think she’s sorry,” Uuloril whispers to Daabush after stepping back to hide behind him. “Or that it was an accident.”

“You don’t say,” Daabush says, rolling his eyes.

Daabush bends over and picks up Ogash’s severed arm from the floor. “Here,” he says, holding it out to the wailing orc. “Let me give you a hand.” He hits Ogash so hard that the amputated limb breaks with several sickening snaps, and the orc is unconscious before he hits the ground. His body starts thrashing about, blood spewing everywhere, as the last Dragonborns leave Orsinium to go home.

———

“I need a new lab. New facilities.”

A smith is fitting Ogash for a prosthetic as a healer tends to his swollen face. Across from him, shrouded in darkness, is the King of Orsinium.

“You don’t say,” she says, her eyes scanning the reports in her hands.

“New guards, of course. More of them. And almost all of my assistants quit.”

“Both are replaceable.” She flips through a few pages. “You, however, are not. Even if you’ve given me nothing so far.”

Ogash frowns and says nothing. But then he suddenly straightens up in his seat, then squeaks in pain. The sudden movement caused the healer to accidentally press too hard on the bruised mound supposedly hiding an eye. He composes himself, and says, “I have an idea. But I need a more remote lab. And more funds.”

The King puts aside the reports and leans forward, the shadows peeling from her skin like a sunburn. “What’s this new idea that will dig even deeper into my coffers?”

Ogash runs through historical, geological, mathematical, metaphysical, and tonal data in his head. “There’s a few more things that need checking. But this could really work.” His mind races through dark tunnels, navigating their twists and turns, searching for something that could change everything. “I need some of your best and most loyal to accompany me into the deep tunnels. Very deep.” 

He swats away the smith and healer with his remaining left hand so that he can lean in towards the King and whisper, “If we find what - who - I think is down there, I can make your nation something truly great.”

chapter 1

cw: implied nsfw, nothing explicit

note: the fluctuation between past and present tense is intentional. it might not work out as well as i hope, but i’m experimenting.

- - - - -

Daabush was captivated at the sight of her. She sat, naked, a few feet from an open window, illuminated by moonlight. The patches of scales all across her body caught the glow and showered the rented room in faint glints, shifting ever so slightly as she breathed. The orc had never seen anything quite like it - or anyone quite like her.

A stiff breeze of cold Skyrim air clambered up over the edge of the bed, pulling Daabush out of his reverie, and his sheets up to cover more of his own naked body. 

“Aren’t you cold with that damn window open?”

Hla-eix didn’t avert her gaze from the night outside. “No.” 

Daabush grunted. She could be so damn frustrating sometimes. One minute she’d be playful, flirty, passionate. Then she’d do…this. His lips asked the question just as his brain did: “Why do we do this?”

She glanced towards him, her head tilting ever so slightly, before returning her outward stare. “I don’t know. Why do we?”

“Don’t dodge the question,” Daabush said, sitting up in bed. “I’m serious. Why? You come off so strong when we first meet, and then by this time at night, like clockwork, you act like this. It’s like … oh, by Malacath. I get it.”

“Tell me what you get.” Hla-eix swiveled in her seat, planting her chin in her hand. “I’m very interested to hear it. Dying to know, really.”

“You’re just a goddamn fetishist, aren’t you? Of course you would be.”

“You’re the one who’s been sleeping with a deformed argonian,” she shoots back. Then she bites her lip, hard, and turned away.

Daabush had never really asked what her deal was. She looked mostly like a dark elf, really, but with places where grey skin was replaced with dark scales, and a strange quality to her eyes. He had thought it curious, but best not to ask. 

“Hey,” he said, rising out of bed. Every step towards her reminded his skin of the blasted cold. “I didn’t mean to …” He didn’t finish his sentence, and instead just reached out to her scaled shoulder.

She brushed him off harshly. “Don’t touch me.”

He reaches out again. She brushes him off again, but softly. “I said don’t fucking touch me,” she says, quieter. “Please.”

Daabush obliged. Instead he walked around her and sat underneath the window. It was frigid as Coldharbour but - “Can we please at least talk?”

“About what?” Hla-eix avoided looking at him.

“About … this. About why you do this. Why we do this.”

“What is there to say?” She scoffed. “We both have needs and we satisfy them together.”

“But then you get so distant. So cold. Like the only thing in the room with me is that damn open window.”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“You wouldn’t. I’m just … a freak. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Maybe I’m a freak too. You don’t know me.” He stares so fiercely at her that she can’t help but match it. “I want to know you.”

She made a noise in her throat, like she was swallowing something hard. Then she stood up from her chair, closed the window, and sat on the edge of the bed. Daabush slowly stood himself and sat beside her. 

They sit in silence for a moment, Hla-eix not sure what to say, and Daabush not wanting to push her. Finally, she blurts out, “I hate doing this. What we do. It makes me feel so … disgusting.” Daabush starts to object again, feeling like he might’ve been right about his earlier theory, but Hla-eix interrupts him. “It’s not because of you. It’s … these bodies. Yours, mine, anyone’s. But mine especially. It’s … disgusting. Horrid. Maybe suited for the work I do. But not suited for … what we do, you and I.”

He lets the words rest for a moment, trying his best to temper his impulsivity, before responding. “I mean … I think it’s pretty damn well suited. Disgusting is about the last word I’d use. I’m no bard, but I could throw a few other words at you instead. Like sexy, or -”

“Please just stop right there. Not helpful.”

Daabush closed his mouth mid-sentence and clasped his hands together. “Okay. Sure.”

Hla-eix shakes her head and covers her face with her hands. “I hate it. But it feels like I can’t help it. Like there’s something driving me to do it, like I’m an animal, and as soon as I come to my senses I realize how repulsive it is - I am - and I just … I make promises to myself that I’ll never do it again, I’ll never stoop that low, I’ll never debase myself like that, not ever again … but in a few hours it comes back, that sick hunger for more. I feel like a slave to it. It won’t go away. And it just hurts me.” She pulls her face from her hands and looks at Daabush, her eyes close to overflowing. “And others.”

“Hey,” he says, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close, this time to no resistance. “Don’t worry about me. It doesn’t hurt me, doing what we do.”

“Not helpful,” she whispers. 

“Yeah, sorry.” He gently rubs her arm. “Just worried about you, is all. Hurting yourself. It hurts to watch you like that.”

“Why?” She looks up at him. “You barely know me. I’m just the weird-looking elf you meet up with for sex.”

“You’re right, I guess. I do barely know you.” He kisses her forehead, a much gentler kiss than their usual snogging. “But maybe I want to get to know you.”

Hla-eix shakes her head. “That’s a lot. You don’t want to know. There’s so much about me.” But then she smiles and sits up straight, letting Daabush’s hand fall to rest on her lower back. “If you really got to know me, I’d have to find somebody else to fuck. And it’s not so often a woman finds a nice boy like you to treat her right.”

“‘Nice boy?’” Daabush smiles back, his hand sinking lower. “I’m not some novice teenager or something.”

“To me, you might as well be.” She places a hand on his chest and leans her face into his, their lips breaths apart. “First thing you get to learn about me: I’m actually over two hundred years old.” Her hand slowly trails down his body. “Let me show you what two centuries of experience feels like. And then we can talk more.” She cuts out the breaths from between their lips, and the two fall back into bed.

(chapter 2)

“Your form is pitiful,” says Daabush as he cores an apple with his dagger. His eyes barely even lift to see Uuloril’s transgressions.

“Well, of course it is,” retorts Uuloril, glancing Daa’s way. “I’ve never done this before.” He stamps his foot petulantly, further disrupting his stance. The bow in his hands shakes as he tries his best to pull back the string.

Daa smirks, finally looking up at the mage. “Don’t hold the arrow so long, you’ll wear your arms out. Shoot.”

Uuloril tries to focus his eyes on his target, a bullseye drawn in charcoal on a large birch tree in the near distance. The arrow’s head sways with the nervous motions of his hands. Finally, he gathers up the courage to let go of the string, closing his eyes as he does. 

The arrow falls flatly a few feet in front of him. He opens his eyes, startled as Daa bellows out laughter. Uuloril’s head whips to the side to see the hunter slapping his knee with the apple hand, his shirtless greenish-grey chest shaking with mirth.

Uuloril frowns and stomps up to Daabush, thrusting the bow into his arms. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done then, o master of the art?”

Daa stops laughing and accepts the challenge, setting down his knife and apple and taking up the bow. He returns to Uuloril’s former position, leaning over to grab the failed arrow. “Take notice,” Daa says, as Uuloril sits at the stump the hunter has abandoned, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands as he observes.

In one fluid motion, Daabush draws back the arrow and string, takes aim for a brief second, then releases, launching the arrow directly into the center of the bullseye.

Uuloril throws his hands into the air with an exasperated sound as Daa casually retrieves the arrow from the tree. “What in Oblivion was I supposed to take notice of!”

“Anything but the tip of your nose,” mumbles Daabush. “Come here,” he commands as soon as he returns to his shooting spot. 

Uuloril grumbles but obliges, dusting off his robe as he stands. He plants his palms on his hips and frowns. “What now?”

“Let me show you how it’s done,” Daa says, gently handing back the bow and arrow. “Stand as you think you should, but don’t draw.”

Uuloril shakes his head but does as he’s told, shifting his feet awkwardly as he holds out the bow far from his chest.

Daabush’s rough hand gently grabs Uuloril’s wrist, pulling the bow back. “Save the energy for drawing. That way, you push and pull at the same time.” Uuloril feels the warmth of Daa’s chest collide with his back, automatically restructuring his stance. One of the hunter’s feet kicks at Uuloril’s heel, spreading it a bit further apart from the other. 

“…You can breathe. We’re not drawing yet.”

Uuloril lets it out in the form of a shaky laugh. “So. Shall we? Or are there any other corrections you must make?”

He can feel the smile bearing down on the back of his head. Another grey hand wraps itself around Uuloril’s other pale-gold wrist. “Position the arrow on the bow,” Daa says, guiding Uuloril’s hand, “like so.”

“Now, we draw -” Daa begins, before slowly pushing and pulling on Uuloril’s hands, the bow curling back with the tension. “- and shoot.” Daabush lets go of Uuloril’s wrist, which can’t maintain the pull strength on its own, the string flying straight past his fingers and sending the arrow flying, landing off to the side of the tree somewhere.

“Well,” Daabush says, as he peels his body away from Uuloril’s, “aim comes eventually - with practice.” 

Uuloril refuses to turn around, lest his face betray his blush. “Thank you.”

Daabush strides over towards the bushes, stopping a moment to pick out the arrow visually before grabbing it and returning to Uuloril. “Now,” he says, “let’s have you try it on your own again. Remember what I -”

“Shhh!” whispers Uuloril. “Don’t move.” Behind Daa, his keen Altmer eyes pick out two faint gleams in the foliage. Instinctively, the mage slowly takes the arrow from the hunter’s hands. He positions himself from the memory of closeness, and in one slow, fumbling motion, he pulls back the arrow, his arms and back burning from the strain of such a heavy draw. Daabush, motionless, glances at the arrowpoint lingering near his ear.

Then Uuloril lets go, and the arrow flies - it lands with a sickening wet sound, followed by a loud howl, followed by a heavy thud, followed by thick silence. 

“What was it?” Daabush asks after a moment, remaining still.

“I don’t know!” replies Uuloril, “but I think I killed it.”

The two wander over to the source of the sound of the howl and thud, and in the bush find the carcass of a sabre cat, an arrow sticking out of one of its eyes.

“Nice shot!” cries Daabush. “But next time, aim for the heart. The eyes are valuable, but not like this.” Uuloril says nothing, in awe of what he has accomplished.

“Ow,” says Daabush suddenly. He reaches up to cup his ear. His hand comes back streamed with blood. “Nicked me, you s’wit.”

“Oh,” says Uuloril, standing up to examine the cut. “I’m sorry.” He reaches up with his hand to heal it. Daabush instinctively reacts by grabbing his wrist, but stops himself and allows the mage to cast his magic. 

Once the spell is done and the bleeding stopped, the two are again unbearably close, their gazes locked together. Instead of retracting his hand, Uuloril grabs Daabush by the side of the head and pulls him down into a quick kiss.

Wide-eyed, Daabush pulls back after that brief moment of electricity, but doesn’t say anything, just staring at Uuloril. Uuloril’s own eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to apologize, but Daabush rushes into another kiss, embracing Uuloril tightly.

When they finally pull away from each other, they glance down at the carcass beneath them. “Let’s continue this…elsewhere, shall we?” suggests Uuloril.

“Yes. Let’s,” Daabush says, and he leads Uuloril into his tent.

Handsome has been tracking this particular mark for a year now. Her reputation depends on it: this argonian nearly killed the Queen of Wayrest, and under her watch. So through the East Wrothgarians she’s chased her, hunting from sighting to sighting, always one step behind. She’s a tricky one, this assassin, former sister of the Dark Brotherhood.

Handsome pulls her cloak tighter against the frigid air of this altitude. What a waste of time, she thinks, to be an assassin. It’s not much better than being a bandit, albeit a little more civilized. There’s a proper profession for people like her, like Handsome: bounty hunting, or at least other mercenary work. That way you can make money killing people legally. They had something like that in Morrowind, before it blew up: the Morag Tong. This assassin, an old member of the Wayrest chapter of the Dark Brotherhood, idealizes herself as one of those old state-sanctioned assassins. But there’s not much room for virtue in this kind of work in the 4th era.

Handsome’s last clue was a sighting climbing this path up Mt. Martag, spotted by a group of orc teens playing banditry in the valley. Not the best lead, but the trail is running dry. Handsome needs a little bit of luck on her side. The kids told her a story of a cave near the peak of the mountain, of an infamous marauder who hid his loot there before being caught by the Empire centuries ago. Many youngsters tried to climb to this cave to find his riches, but all either turned back halfway or were never seen again. There was a rumor that a vicious dire troll lived in that cave, but the adults knew the much simpler truth: the path was treacherous, and it was nearly impossible to reach it in the first place. Most never bothered to try to reclaim the bodies of the lost, and instead tried to instil the danger of trolls and dragons into the children to keep them away.

Handsome was experienced enough that she felt her odds were better. So she set out to climb the mountain, following the often narrow and icy path upwards. As she approached, she heard ominous sounds, almost like the roaring of a troll, but she convinced herself it was the wind. Now, as she nears the cave, she’s not so sure. Even if her target isn’t here, maybe she can make enough money killing the troll for the locals that she can run far away from Wayrest and start again somewhere else. 

-

Handsome stares into the dark, narrow opening of the cave and sniffs at the frigid mountain air, the cold stinging the lining of her nostrils. No smell of troll dung, which she takes as a good sign. But she does smell something: the faintest whisper of smoke, an even better sign. The brief roar of her torch igniting breaks the howling winds for a moment, and she draws her axe. Then she begins to descend into the cave.

The air in here is hazy, smelling more strongly of smoke. She follows that odor as she keeps careful footing on the damp stone. No signs of habitation anywhere in these early corridors, so she commits to delving deeper.

The smoke leads her to a larger chamber in the bowels of the cave. She waves her torch around to get a better look. The smoke clears a bit and she can see a bedroll, a doused fire, and a handful of small barrels. Lying near the bedroll is a pack, lounging open on the stone floor. Whoever lived here, they left in a hurry, and recently.

Handsome lays her torch on one of the barrels to give the room light as she investigates. Halfway tucked into the pack is a small book, a journal by the looks of it. She picks it up and leafs through it with one hand, her other still firmly on her axehandle. It’s written in daedric script, which Handsome can read, but the language is entirely unfamiliar. She studies the cryptic handwriting for a moment, trying to decipher the text, but to no avail. Her best guess is that it might be written in the strange language of the argonians, seeing as her target is one herself. But to Handsome’s knowledge, that language is completely oral, with no written equivalent. Puzzling. She sticks it in her back-pocket to study more later.

“Hello.”

Handsome nearly jumps out of her skin. She swings around instinctively, her axe-arm outstretched in an offensive arc to catch her attacker. But all it finds is air, as the speaker is at the entrance to the chamber, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Who are you?” Handsome asks, trying to gauge who she’s dealing with through the smoke and darkness. Looks like a dark elf, so not her target.

“Who are you, snooping around in my things?” The stranger draws a sword, but her arm is shaking. Clearly untrained. “I know how to use this.” No, you don’t, thinks Handsome.

“You live here?” Handsome waves her hand around, but keeps her axe leveled the stranger’s way.

“For the time being, yes. Why are you here?”

Handsome grunts. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Unless that person is Sivennis Dirale, I think you should leave.” She waggles her sword in what is surely meant to be an intimidating gesture.

Handsome grins. “Going to call the guards on me? The legion, perhaps? Or an ordinator?”

Sivennis drops her sword in a pleading gesture. “Please just leave me be. I’m just a hermit. I live here by myself.”

Handsome strokes her chin. “That may be so,” she says. “Tell me, have you seen an argonian around these parts? Possibly accompanied by an orc?”

“An argonian? Why are you looking for an argonian?”

Handsome decides to trust this poor woman. “I’m a bounty hunter. She’s wanted in connection to…an attempted murder. The orc’s her accomplice.”

“Oh! How awful!”

“I’ll leave you alone, if only you answer my question. Have you seen any suspicious argonians lately?”

“Well, no, why would any argonian come this far…” The woman bites her lip. “Oh Azura save me. I can’t tell you now that I know she’s a murderer. What if she comes after me next?”

“Attempted murderer. That means she’s not good enough to finish the job. Tell me what you know and I’ll make sure you’re protected.” 

“Well…she came to me one night, with her orc man, asking for directions. I think they were heading south, towards Cyrodiil. Something about meeting with a friend in Skingrad, I think. That’s all I know, really.”

“That’s good enough. Thank-”

“I’m home!”

The words bellowed and echoed throughout the cave, causing Sivennis to cringe and whisper, “Dammit,” under her breath.

Handsome’s eyes dilate. “I thought you said you lived here by yourself.”

“I did, didn’t I? Sithis damn his loud mouth.”

There was a space of time between the sword being on the floor and then appearing in the elf’s hand again. In that brief moment Handsome saw through the dark haze clearly enough to make out some of the finer details of “Sivennis’s” face; notably, dark grooves on the sides of her neck, and the faintly reflective scales on her cheeks. After that brief moment was another, briefer, when Handsome’s axe-arm instinctively drew upwards to defend against the incoming strike.

“I told you I knew how to use this,” Hla-eix the assassin said, pulling back from the parried blow. 

“You did, didn’t you,” quipped Handsome, readying her axe for a strike of her own. It came at the same time as one of Hla-eix’s, forcing her to quickly step to the side to avoid it. She certainly was a far cry from the quivering mess Sivennis had been, striking decisively like a viper, with a well-trained grace. 

The two slowly circled one another, blocking and parrying each attack. Handsome needed to finish her, and quick, because she could hear the orc coming, his steps heavy down the stone halls - she certainly couldn’t take them both on, if he’s anything like her. When they had completely switched positions from the start of their duel, Hla-eix made a mistake that Handsome jumped on: she catches Hla-eix’s wrist under the beard of her axe, disarming her, her sword clattering away. 

So much for the “alive” bonus, she thinks as she readies a finishing blow. She raises her arm over her head -

- but it won’t come down. She feels a weight on her wrist that holds her back. She elbows behind her and wrests her hand free, swinging it around to hit her attacker. She finds that the elbow connected with his throat, and her axe finds his side, but doesn’t manage to find much depth. 

But something manages to find depth in Handsome’s back, sucking the air from her lungs. She falls forward, knocking the wounded orc over but catches herself on the wall of the cave. 

Now, Handsome thinks, is the time to run.

She gropes her way through the dark cave, away from the light behind her, running as fast as her breath will allow. She realizes too late that she left her axe in the orc’s tough flesh but keeps pushing forward. Finally she finds the light of the moons and stars outside and follows it until she escapes the cave. She turns her head briefly behind her to see the orc hot on her heels, bleeding, holding her axe, eyes glowing red. No one escapes an orc’s rage, she remembers just as she realizes there’s nowhere else to run. She can’t manage the descent wounded like this, and all that remains is a nearly vertical cliffside. 

She runs to the edge then stops, turning around. Hla-eix and the orc are both there, and Handsome is out of options. Hopefully there’s a soft snowdrift down there.

This is going to hurt, she thinks. She steps backwards.

-

Everything hurts, she thinks as she wakes up. Handsome tries to sit up but starts coughing so harshly that she has to lay back down. A little orc girl in the room notices and gasps before running away. She returns a moment later with an older orc woman, a shaman by her garb.

“You’re finally awake,” the woman says. “Was beginning to wonder if you would wake at all.”

“What happened? Where am I?”

“You’re in the village of Orsinium ag Martag, in friendly hands. You fell off a mountain. With a knife in your back. Which was poisoned. You also broke some bones. From falling off the mountain. I’m in the process of fixing you.”

Handsome raises a shaky hand to try to rub away a headache. “Is that all,” she whispers.

“It’s a miracle you survived,” the shaman says. “You should be thankful.”

“Yes, thank Malacath, I thought I was done for.”

“No, stupid girl,” the shaman shouts, slapping her on her unbroken leg. “Thank me. Malacath had nothing to do with it.”

“…sorry. Thank you.” Handsome slowly sits up, wincing all the while. “How can I repay you? I have gold. Drakes.”

“We don’t deal with Imperial gold in Orsinium,” the shaman says. “Tell me who you are and I call us square.”

“Okay. I’m Handsome. A bounty hunter. Just got my ass kicked by my current mark. Is that good enough?”

“I know you’re handsome,” the shaman says, “but what’s your name?” The little girl giggles.

“Handsome. It’s my name. Professionally.”

The shaman laughs deeply too. “Oh, I’m just playing with you. You outlanders are so fun to tease.”

“How do you know I’m an outlander?”

“People from here don’t climb mountains just to jump off them. Got more sense than that.”

“…Fair.”

The woman drags a sack over by the bed. Handsome looks through it, finding most of her things intact. She sees Hla-eix’s journal and pulls it out, puzzling over it again.

“We had to dig around where you fell to find a lot of this, so we may have missed some stuff,” says the shaman. “And you may be missing a few healing potions. We used them on you.”

Handsome acknowledges with a grunt, but is still poring over the pages. “You read daedric?” she asks.

“It’s all we write in,” says the shaman. “No cyrodiilic letters in Orsinium.”

“Can you tell what this says?” Handsome turns the journal out for the shaman to read.

The woman squints as she focuses on the words, but shakes her head. “Gobbledygook. Is it code or something?”

“I think it might be argonian talk,” Handsome replies, closing the book. “Know anyone who might know it?”

“Not out here. Maybe in the city.”

“How long until I can leave?”