#oc ogash gor-giknirh

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.”

The researchers were guided to the ruins by a Redoran they had hired, not only for his knowledge of the landscape, but also for protection from the wildlife of Vvardenfell. They were three rather scrawny individuals who had devoted their lives to academia rather than any practical pursuits: Ogash, who despite being an orc was short and frail; Caromascius, a portly imperial whose sagging arm betrayed his innocence with the sword they’d been given as protection (but the grip on his flask of Daggerfall wine betrayed anything but innocence); and Falion, their Aldmeri “friend,” which actually meant “supervisor,” whose mastery of magic was mostly limited to spells of convenience and comfort rather than defense. 

The Redoran’s name was Samhreth. Falion had immediately whispered to his two companions once out of the dunmer’s earshot, “What a horrid dunmeri name.” 

“I’ve heard worse,” said Caromascius, after a swift swig from his flask. “I’m just going to call him Sam. You know, like from Samuel. You elf fellas have ‘Samuel,’ right?”

“No,” Falion said, his voice dripping with the usual contempt, “us ‘elf fellows’ do not use such a hideous half-mer name.” He paused for a moment, then conceded, “But it is preferable to ‘Sanhereth,’ or whatever the savage called himself.”

Ogash did not need bother wonder what Falion and Caromascius thought of his own orcish name. Falion had remarked upon it as soon as they were introduced. Caromascius had feigned sympathy for Ogash, but laughed at Falion’s comment regardless, saying with a pat on the orc’s back, “He’s not wrong, you know.”

Ogash did not know, but had learned long ago to not bother arguing the point.

- - - - -

They had almost arrived at the tunnel entrance supposedly leading to the ancient dwemeri citadel Kherakah. According to the first era maps, it was once located here, in the shadow of Red Mountain, but in the years since the eruption of 1E668 it could not be found. But it was Ogash who suggested that the more recent eruptions of Red Mountain may have revealed a network of old flow tubes in the volcanic stone that could lead to the fabled city. He supported these claims with evidence from recent geological surveys as well as explorations of the subterranean networks by returning dunmer exiled by the Red Year, and took them to the Board of the Imperial Historical Society. It had taken some convincing, supported by his colleague Caromascius, as well as his own slowly developing powers of persuasion, but the Board eventually granted his request to send an exploratory mission to the site.

On one condition: Ogash and Caromascius will be the ones to go, overseen by one of the Society’s Dominion watchdogs.

On the trip from the mainland to Vvardenfell, Caromascius whispered to Ogash between heaving over the side of the ship, that the Board likely thought it a suicide mission. “They’re probably just tired of us - you - asking for all this dwarf nonsense. They expect us to find nothing and die while we’re here.”

“But why send Falion with us?” Ogash tried to look away from Caromascius, himself fairly seasick. “They must have some faith in us, to send us with a Dominion agent.” 

“They probably expect me to die, too,” groaned the altmer from behind them. “I think they want to replace me, anyway. They refuse to admit my value.” He pushed Caromascius out of the way and leaned over the edge of the ship himself. Ogash sat down with his back against the railing and shut his eyes tightly, trying to drown out the commotion of the ship and its crew, as well as the anxiety - and eager anticipation - that grew as they drew closer to Red Mountain on the horizon.

- - - - -

“Here,” growls Samhreth in his ash-choked voice, typical of the dunmer of the island. He points his three charges towards a slightly sunken part of a nearby ashmound. “Wizard. Blow away the ash.”

Falion, obviously miffed at being bossed around, steps forward to cast a spell. He stiffly recites some incantation and gestures with his hand, directing the wind to pick up the intrusive ash and uncover the hole beneath. It works, but then the wind returns to its natural direction, throwing all the ash on Samhreth, Ogash, and Caromascius. Samhreth merely covers his eyes with his forearm, not unfamiliar with ashstorms. Ogash and Caromascius, on the other hand, both had their mouths open, panting from the long journey uphill through the uneven footing of the ashlands. They both set to hacking and coughing. Falion turns back and for a moment almost looks like he might apologize. But he simply says to everyone, “There.”

Once the orc and imperial have mostly evacuated the ash from their throats, they step forward to appraise the unearthed opening. “Looks tight,” Caromascius remarks. He glances down at his rotundity. “I don’t think I could make it.”

“I refuse to crawl through a dirty hole in the ground,” Falion says, covering his face with his ornate Summerset silk scarf.

“Fine,” Samhreth says. He turns to Ogash. “Orc. You will fit. I will lead the way through the tunnels, and you follow.” He reaches into his pack to retrieve something. “Altmer. Human. Come.”

Falion and Caromascius approach Samhreth. “Hold out your hands,” he says, something hidden in his palms. The two comply, but yank back their hands after Samhreth quickly pricks their fingers. 

“‘Talos, Sam!” cries Caromascius. “What in Oblivion was that for?”

Falion casts Caromascius a scathing look. The imperial realizes his mistake and shrugs, smiling meekly. “A joke, of course, I was caught off guard is all.” But Falion has already forgotten in favor of sucking on his bleeding finger.

Samhreth slaps Falion’s hand from his face. “Stop. Need that.” He produces a stack of sixteen scrolls. “This is why I charge so much. Telvanni charge a fortune for these.”

Falion squints his eyes to divine what the daedric on the scrolls implies. But Ogash has already figured it out. “Mark and Recall?” Samhreth nods.

Falion’s face contorts in shock again. “Those magics are outlawed, by the Levitation Act -”

“- by the Mage’s Guild,” Ogash interrupts, “over two hundred years ago. They’re not around to enforce it anymore.”

The Redoran has already begun to stamp scrolls with blood, taking drops from himself and Ogash as well. “There,” Samhreth says after he’s done distributing them appropriately. “We use the first Mark now.” The three oblige, Falion begrudgingly so. 

To Caromascius and Falion, the dunmer continues, “Use the second - not the first - Recall after about ten minutes, once we get inside and use your second Marks. The scroll won’t work at all if we haven’t used the Mark yet, so just try again a few minutes later.” Samhreth gets down to begin crawling inside the tunnel. “We’ll use the first Recall to leave when you are all done. Understood?” The three nod, and Ogash matches Samhreth’s movement, ready to follow him. “Good. See you on the other side.”

- - - - -

The tunnel is dark, but the two manage it well enough, most mer having eyes that adjust well to darkness. Yet another reason Caromascius likely could not have followed, even if he could have fit in the hole to begin with.

After what Ogash feels must have been hours, but knew was only a few minutes, of scraping his knees and elbows on the rough porous rocks that line these veins of the mountain, he sees a faint light peeking from in front of Samhreth, growing as they continue forward. Finally they climb out of a wall into an ancient room.

It is dimly lit by the strange tubes of light the dwemer used for illumination. The walls are carved from stone, banded with brass braces decorated with what Ogash recognized as the dwemeris script. The room hums with the strange steam power of the dwarves, singing from the pipes and machines that litter the room. Not all seem to be functioning, and some pipes look burst, but whatever system they see seems to have been cleverly designed with redundancies and failsafes, keeping parts of the mechanism running even despite these flaws.

As soon as they plant their feet on the plate metal floor, both Ogash and Samhreth set to coughing from the dust kicked up. 

“Worse than the” - cough - “Three-damned” - cough - “ash,” Samhreth says.

Once they compose themselves, Ogash responds, “This dust hasn’t been disturbed in thousands of years - likely not since the dwemer vanished.” He slowly approaches and places a hand on some thrumming floor-to-ceiling machine, before jerking his head back towards Samhreth. “That means there’s no automatons here.”

“That’s a relief,” the dunmer responds, having just finished using Farion and Caromascius’s other Marks and stepping away. “Tell the truth, not sure I could have protected you from a centurion or spider.” He gestures at his sword. “Useless on a metal beast, you know.”

Before Ogash could properly express his dissatisfaction with the comment, Caromascius appeared in the room with a pop. He immediately empties his stomach on the floor.

“Oh, for the love of …” Ogash looks away from the mess but gestures vaguely at Caromascius. “All over everything?”

Caromascius pants as he wipes his mouth. “Wait until it’s your turn. You’ll do the same. Damn teleportation.”

“Wait, where’s Falion?”

“Oh, haha. The idiot.” Caromascius takes a big glug from his flask. “Used the wrong Recall. Just teleported a few feet away.”

“Stupid n’wah. Good thing he didn’t use the other one, then,” Samhreth says. “Would’ve been stuck down here.”

Caromascius comes up for air from another pull of wine and tugs at his shirt. “Just me, Sam, or is it real hot in here?”

“We’re pretty deep in the volcano, Caro,” Ogash says.

“Yeah, I guess.” He wipes some sweat from his forehead. “Well, let’s get this over with. Lead the way, Oggy.”

- - - - - 

After about an hour of exploring, they enter the next room in their exploration, but by the time Ogash reaches up to cover his eyes, it was too late. “Shit.” One of those tubes of dim yellow light was flickering fast and rhythmically, casting the room into darkness and then light over and over again every second. He could feel it in his head, sucking the weight from his bones and placing it all behind his eyes. Even in the darkness behind his eyelids the world spins like a top.

He knows it’s too late, but he tries to run away from it and this damn room anyway. 

“Ogg! Where you going?” Caromascius calls after him.

“Gotta … go,” Ogash says, but his lips feel so soft he’s sure nobody heard him.

He’s out of the room now, so he opens his eyes. But the darkness lingers a moment before evaporating too slowly to the edges of his vision, not quite going completely away. The open-eyed blackness scares him and he screams. He hears the footsteps behind him, the Redoran and Caromascius, he supposes. 

It’s coming and he’s running through this ancient maze of pipes and machines but there’s nothing he can do, and he is afraid. He tries to hold his eyes open as wide as he can, but the darkness is closing in and not stopping. He trips on something he can’t see, and on his way down he catches a glimpse of something coming alive in the corner. But then his head hits the floor with a thunk and he is gone.

- - - - -

He opens his eyes and he sees a corpse.

He stares, unknowing, for a moment. But then he becomes Someone again, and he recoils from the sight. It is Samhreth, covered in blood, his sword in his hand, useless in the end.

He sits up and backs away from the body. Every muscle in his body screams to him but he is too shocked to listen. His chest rises and falls erratically, and a forbidden thought reminds him that breathing is a luxury not afforded to all, and he wishes he didn’t have it.

He squeezes his eyes shut and clutches his head. He feels warm wetness and pulls his hand down to peek. It is shiny with blood, blood like Samhreth’s, but his own. He gently probes his own head and finds the wound near the back. His eyes accidentally catch the small patch of blood on the metal floor near where he woke, and he begins to remember.

Ogash’s body groans with pain, and forces his throat to do the same. But the moan becomes a whimper as his eyes catch a glimpse of Samhreth again. Suddenly he can barely see again and almost panics before realizing it is not the blackness - it is tears. 

Then he hears the clacking of metal on metal in a six-footed gait and covers his mouth, smearing blood on his face. The tears roll down his cheeks and mingle with the blood as he tries so hard to still his breathing, even his heartbeat. The bloodstained brass spider strolls through the room, neatly stepping over Samhreth’s corpse, and moving on without noticing Ogash.

When he feels safe, he finally inhales a broken sob. He weeps for a moment, his entire body shaking, before the ache suffusing his bones brings him back to his mind. 

Why didn’t it kill me earlier, when it killed Samhreth? he thinks. The only answer he can come up with is that it didn’t see a need to kill such a frail thing convulsing on the floor.

It was the best answer he could come up with, so his mind shifted to the task at hand. I need to get out of here. He forces himself to crawl over to Samhreth and search for the Recall scrolls. He tries to not look at the killing wounds, but he sees them anyway and nearly loses his fortitude again. 

He finds the scrolls, but they are soaked in blood. Unusable. Useless, just like that sword. 

He didn’t fancy his odds trying to find his way back through the tunnels by himself. Without the scroll, he was trapped here, with that murderous mechanical spider. He collapses over top of the dead dunmer, sobbing.

Then he remembers: Caromascius. Where is he?

Ogash pushes himself away from Samhreth and tries to stand. He almost falls over in his first attempt, but manages to rise to his feet, despite his sore, shaky legs. He starts to shamble towards the door opposite where the spider went, which he recognizes now as the way he came in during his mad dash to escape his seizure. Caromascius has to be that way. Maybe he made it out.

(Ogash wanted to believe that was possible, but he knew it couldn’t be.)

He slowly makes his way from chamber to chamber, clutching his throbbing head, and wanting to clutch his entire body to make the extensive pain go away. On the bright side, his head has finally finished clearing up. On the dark side, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Caromascius.

He is lying there, his head propped up against the wall, his hands clamped over his stomach. Ogash thinks he is dead, but as he approaches Caromascius opens his eyes. “Ogash,” he sputters, “you’re … alive. How? Where is …” He goes into a coughing fit. Ogash kneels down next to his friend. “The elf?”

Ogash tries to speak but his throat is tight and dry, his tongue fluttering in vain. Instead he just shakes his head at Caromascius.

“I … told you. Suicide … mission.” He smiles faintly, but blood drips from his lips and sets him to coughing again. 

Ogash shuts his eyes for a moment. He massages his throat as he tries to speak. “Pack?” he rasps.

“What?” Caromascius manages to get the word out before continuing to cough. He answers by shifting his eyes to his left. Ogash looks in that direction and spots it, unbloodied, sitting next to the sword Caromascius had brought with them. He crawls towards it and rummages through it. All the notes and recovered dwemer documents are here, right where they should be. 

Caromascius says, “We didn’t bring any … potions. Remember?”

Ogash looks back to Caromascius. “Yes. I know.” He stands, his weakened body buckling under the weight of the bag. In one hand he grasps a scroll. In the other, the sword.

“Oggy?” Caromascius says, his eyes closed. “The scrolls. Falion could … maybe heal us.”

Ogash stands over Caromascius. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You couldn’t have made it.”

The imperial opens his eyes and only sees the sword as it slides into his throat. His hands reach up, grasping for air, letting blood from his stomach gush up. He convulses for a minute before falling still, his eyes empty.

- - - - -

Ogash returns to the surface with a pop, his knees and stomach giving out, the latter emptying into the ash. Whether it was because of the seizure, a reaction to the gore he had seen, or simply from teleporting, he did not know, or think important to know.

“Ogash! Ogash?” It occurred to Ogash, once he finished, that Falion must have been speaking to him the entire time. “What happened? You’re covered in blood! Where’s Caromascius and the dunmer?”

“Dead,” Ogash says after wiping his mouth. “Automaton killed them. I barely got out with my life.”

“By Auri-el’s beard …” Falion tentatively reaches out to Ogash to help him up, but Ogash waves him off. 

“Just. Give me a minute.” He tries to erase the sight of Samhreth’s body and all of Caromascius’ blood from his mind, but he can’t make it go away.

Eventually Ogash lets Falion carry the pack as they make their way in the direction of the closest settlement. Falion even has the decency to not ask too many prying questions about what happened under the mountain.

Ogash knows he will have to explain everything to the Board once they get back to the Imperial City. But he will have time to come up with the story while they travel home. 

The sailing from Vvardenfell to the mainland is so quiet. Despite himself, Ogash appreciates it.