Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Okay so I was originally going to make some quick intro notes but this fic is quite lore heavy (I did far more research than was likely necessary lol but fuck it we ball). SOOOOOOO anyways here’s a completely skippable intro for people who really want to know about the lore, its changes, or my personal morals heading into a story like this ig? Also if you want to know the ethics breakdown of the smut you are about to consume, read on. But if not, feel free to skip!

I did my best to research everything before writing, but there are a few changes that have been made here and there (that are still lore friendly).

Firstly, Ghorbash in Elder Scrolls V is 25, but in this story he has been aged up to be a more mature and older character. He’s around 70.

Secondly, sources are unclear on the true ages of the Greybeards, and their ages play a prominent role in this story. While many speculate that they are 70-90 because they are likely Nords, there was no evidence I could find of their actual ages, and the theories often ranged wildly (some speculated they were thousands of years old, although I highly doubt that). There are also no confirmations regarding whether or not they are Nords, although former student Ulfric Stormcloak is a Nord, and as is their founder, Jurgen Windcaller, so it may be safe to assume that they are Nords. For the purposes of this story, the youngest Greybeard is 110 (to keep in line with other characters who tend to live quite a while). In that same vein, all the Greybeards are different ages, with Arngeir being the youngest, given that he is the spokesperson for the monks, which I interpreted as meaning he hasn’t been studying for as long as the others and therefore can worry less. There is evidence to suggest that he is the youngest, given that he is the only one able to speak without using the Thu'um at all times, and he is also only able to speak 7 shouts, as opposed to Borri who has 9, and Einarth who has 8 (Wolfgar’s shout knowledge is so far unknown).

Although Paarthurnax is a Greybeard (and the master of the greybeards at that), he is rarely mentioned in terms of the greybeards except when necessary to the main quest, as I did not feel like adding Paarthurnax into the smutty scenes. Apologies to all the bards who were expecting that.

Also in relation to lore, the Summerset Isles are mentioned quite a bit, as Faelen, the dragonborn, lived there and is half Altmer (also half Bosmer) and it is a big part of his backstory. But you should know that I had to make speculations about the current political system because there is little to no current information on the Altmer political system during the Fourth Era. The only information I could find was that they have abandoned the monarchy, although there are some fans that speculate that due to the Altmer appreciation for tradition, they may be keeping up the appearance of a monarchy while slipping into a more military role (the Thalmor). Personally, I really like that theory and I feel like it makes a lot of sense.

Moving on from the lore, given that all fantasy races (Elder Scrolls or otherwise) are based on real people and communities, I did my best to respect those communities. Any changes in characteristics in terms of a character’s attitude when they come from a certain race is there in order to make them a) less of a stereotype of their associated Earthly inspiration, and b) a more 3D character because lord knows Bethesda could use a little more spice sometimes.

I would also like to make it clear that while it is specified in the tags that the Dovahkiin is mixed-race (Altmerian and Bosmerian), this is a fact of the character and their cultural upbringing and does not tie into any sexual references or kinks. They are mixed race, but that is not fetishized here. Likewise, Ghorbash being an orc is a fact of the character, his upbringing, his cultural background, and ties into who he is as a person. It does not tie into any smut that happens. Race is not used as a kink here, despite these being made up races. I do not feel it necessary to add more gross racial fetishization into the world. That is not to say that their races will be ignored, as it adds to each of their characterizations and perspectives in unique ways.

There are mentions of the Forsworn, and while the descriptions of them are friendly to lore in so much as they describe the Forsworn as a sub-race of Bretons, partially mixed with Nords throughout history, that have routinely had their land stolen. However, I will not describe the Forsworn as a hostile race. Instead, they have been given more nuance. I’d rather be on the “friendly” side of “lore-friendly” than on the lore side in terms of racial discussions. Stolen land is no trivial matter, and for all the complications offered regarding the Forsworn “buying out politicians” and other dastardly plans, they are still a culture of people that deserve good and thoughtful stories.

However, brief fantasy race discussion aside, if you find any issues with how I have chosen to represent these issues, I am more than happy to learn from any mistakes I have made. Please feel free to comment if there are any issues!

In terms of age, because I have mentioned that so far here in these notes and it will be somewhat mentioned in the story, I am aware that there are some possible concerns. Namely, exploitation. I want to state here and now that in terms of smut, everyone is a consenting adult, and the dragonborn is not an adolescent (he should by no means be the elf equivalent of an 18 year old). The elf is 50, so that he still has a little bit of youth in him still (in terms of elf years). In terms of the lore introduced in ESO (Elder Scrolls Online), Queen Ayren was in her 20s, and while her subjects objected to her rule because she was “a child”, it was made clear that she was not a child, and was a fully grown woman capable of making informed and intelligent decisions. In other words, she was a full adult.

There are other characters as well throughout the lore that, while ageing to eventually be 300-400, are adults that mature at surprisingly human rates before eventually slowing once they reach adulthood. That said, being 50 means being young in elf years, but being a fully informed adult far more than capable of making consenting decisions. Likewise, he would likely look like a 50 year old given the information we now know because of ESO. That said, Ghorbash is 70, so older and more experienced in life, but because of their ages it does not look like he is preying on Faelen. The greybeards are where it might get a little bit weird, but I’m hoping that this is easily ironed out by the knowledge that they are depicted as being there to serve the dragonborn, giving a balance of power to a degree. Although I suppose it could likewise be argued that their experience in practising the Way of the Voice would make them significantly more powerful than the Dragonborn, and they could easily use this to create a power imbalance. And to that I say…. I’m very sorry? I tried my hardest to make this ethical and lore friendly? But it is also smut… so there’s a level of taboo involved for sure.

With that said, I have little to no other morals with regards to this work, and you should know that shit gets weird. Enjoy!(?)

P.S, one more thing before moving on. The version of the game this is based on is the Skyrim Anniversary Edition, and Creation Club content is referenced occasionally.

Chapter Text

It had been many moons since Faelen had seen that poor Stormcloak’s head roll along the straw-covered mud on the outskirts of Helgen. Many moons since he had been shooed from Riverwood, practically dragged by the scruff of his tunic out near Pelagia Farm. Many moons since he ran from there, attempting to hide in fear of Aela the Huntress. Many moons indeed, since he had retrieved the Dragonstone for Whiterun’s court wizard, Farengar, and from there, been involved in the investigation surrounding the many dragons now dotting the countryside. It had been a rough, unpleasant, and so far entirely unforgiving journey.

A long time had passed since anything remotely heroic had occurred at Faelen’s hands, and his hopelessness would have overtaken him had it not miraculously increased his pride. A Thane of Whiterun, most likely a Dragonborn (the first in 200 years, at that), and a personal errand boy for half of Skyrim. He had much to be proud of. But it was not these things that he felt attached to, no, it was an inherent pride he’d felt since he was a boy. He was to be respected, and he would make sure that in a world where respect was not a base instinct, others would fear him. Though not in the traditional sense. He meant fear as in a fierce and steady awe and trust, not in the sense of a terrifying boss. Although perhaps his demand for respect, coupled with his often less than satisfactory heroism has led to far more distrust, distaste, and dishonour than he often hoped to achieve. It wasn’t his fault, entirely. Grappling for respect in a Nordic land as a non-Nord was hard enough, and it was even harder when you too were a dud among your races. An unpleasant and non-present Altmer father, and a poor, outcasted, but practical Bosmer mother. It was a recipe for a torment of emotions, that much he knew.

He despised the Altmer culture, or at least the aspects of it that he had been all too privy to. Of course, like most in Nirn, he took after his mother. This was no trouble considering that she raised him, and his father did not. And still, his father’s presence (or lack thereof) shaped his cultural understanding. He had lived with his mother in Cloudfrost, under the rule of his father, Lord General Vollithil. He had watched as his father’s court was showered with praise and adoration, while his mother, an outcast and an immigrant, worked to keep the fire burning and the coin flowing. It stung how much he saw one half of his parentage being so clearly lit by the knowledge that respect is deserved and that honour comes to those of the high bloodline. It hurt that, while this one thing was true, it was equally true that his father had made a mistake, and that mistake was him, and that this mistake had cost the young illegitimate every ounce of authority he would ever truly have. But no matter, he managed just fine on his own. Or so he made himself believe.

He had, surprisingly to himself and to everyone who had met him so far, made it to The Reach, fully intact. Of course, he had little to no business there, other than that his mother had told him growing up to always map out his surroundings. Perhaps he took this advice too literally, and not nearly as liberally as she had intended. One thing was certain, he had definitely underestimated how large the continent of Tamriel was. He had thought, upon arriving at the Riften docks not too long after fleeing the Summerset Isles, that he would quickly make it to Haafingar and make use of the beautiful and bountiful farmland there.

Unfortunately, not only did he not recognize the sheer distance between the two Holds, he also did not make it to Haafingar before being captured by Imperials near the Atronach Stone, which he was contemplating activating to receive a blessing. He had been wandering, his signature move and his most calculated, as it allowed him to familiarise himself with the Nords (whom he often describes with three words: racist, stubborn, and racist). Sadly, Ulfric Stormcloak, self-proclaimed High King, former student of the Way of the Voice, and insolent bastard, had been scouting the area, laying in wait for an attempted ambush of General Tullius, the leader of the Imperial army. Why General Tullius had been out by Darkwater Crossing, Faelen could not say. Or more importantly, he did not care. What he did care about was that his presence at that stone had nearly cost him his head, and had given him a grudge to hold against both the Imperials and the Stormcloaks.

Luckily, he had been given some time to heal from those emotional and physical wounds, and was now wandering in threat of ambush by Forsworn. Or rather, he felt the threat was imminent. The logical part of his brain was aware that they were likely not as hostile as he had been warned, and many cultures, in particular the Nords, were known to meddle far beyond their jurisdiction, likely sparking rivalries that were then treated as the victim’s fault. Perhaps they were violent at times, perhaps they had developed outwardly hostile appearances in order to avoid invaders, but ultimately, Faelen could not blame them.

Wandering along the countryside, he found himself on the lookout for threats. His sleep deprivation made him far more paranoid than what may have been necessary. It had been ages since he had gotten more than 3 hours of sleep in a night.

He heard the rushing water and thought of every possible mudcrab acting in mindless, unwarranted defence. The overhead wind made him scared of every possible dragon, and with the mountains and Dwemer ruins throughout the Hold, it would not be unexpected for a dragon to step down from their perch for an evening meal. Breathing in slowly, and breathing out, he walked very carefully. As night began to fall without any signs of an Inn or a mining town, he began to worry about setting up camp. Stars filled the sky, and howls filled the warm hazy air. Lighting the last of his torches, he looked to the west, and saw an Orc Stronghold. Perhaps he was scared that he would be a burden, or perhaps he was fearful of rejection, but he opted not to wander toward the gate and risk interacting with the watchers or the chief. Instead, he wandered into the general vicinity, near enough to the tower to call for aid should he need any, but far enough away that he was certain not to pose any sort of outsider-risk to the community.

The night wound on, and his fire blew out, and soon he was asleep…

Chapter Text

“Hey elf! Hey! Wake up!” a voice boomed through the falling rain and thunder. It boomed so greatly that, had there been a passerby, they might have thought that Kynareth had bowed to a mortal for a brief moment.

Faelen’s eyes fluttered. He was laying on wet grass, his bedroll no longer beneath him. The campfire did not seem to be beside him any longer either, and the more he glanced about, between the grey, overcast skies, and the surrounding longhouses, he was beginning to freak out.

“Hey elf, I said- oh… you’re finally awake. Good. I was beginning to get annoyed.” the voice stated matter-of-factly.

Looking up, Faelen saw an Orc staring over him, presumably a watchman of sorts, judging by the Orcish bow at her back.

“Where- where am I?” Faelen stammered, though he knew full well where he was. Perhaps not by its official name, but he knew exactly where he was situated.

“This is Dushnikh Yal, The Reach’s only Stronghold.”

Faelen sat bolt upright, scooting backwards with his forearms like a scared Dwarven spider.

“How did I get here?”

“We carried you. As it turns out, giants do not enjoy elves sleeping in their pastures.” her voice condescended, and though there was a drip of sarcasm, Faelen chose to remain blissfully unaware of it.

Instead, he became preoccupied with something else entirely. His mind turned to the Reach and the dangers that lay in wait outside the gates. He thought about his previous misadventures, his minute chances of survival going forward, and he thought of his near-fate the previous night. But regardless of any dormant Dwemer machinations, Forsworn conspiracies, or so-called giants, the last thing he wanted was to remain in debt to an Orc stronghold. “I must leave now, mustn’t I?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. You must. But first, you must eat. For the next hour, you will be a guest to us. Then we may discuss what happened last night and what you may do to make it up to us.”

Faelen nodded. Orcs were nothing if not straightforward. No unnecessary niceties, no small talk. Only the true heart of conversation. The Orcs had a great deal of respect, both for each other and others, along with the world at large. But they were smart with this respect. Respect was free, but their time wasn’t. If you were to cross paths with an Orc Stronghold, you had two options: be an Orc or their Blood-kin, or leave immediately, something that Faelen forgot to take into account the previous night. He was certain this mistake would become a topic of discussion later that day, but for right now, he was content in the idea that he had not been immediately banished. Clearly there was something to his arrival that was either not entirely problematic, or he was about to find himself turning down yet another quest.

He followed the guard past the training area, watching in awe as warriors fought valiantly against straw-battle dummies. One of them sneered as he walked past, their eyes catching one another before the old grump went back to his work, slashing away at the poor, tattered sackcloth of the practice bust. "Weakling" he heard the Orc mutter.

The guard brought Faelen to a standstill outside the heart of the Stronghold: the chief's longhouse. Gulping nervously, Faelen passed through the doorway and was pushed forward by the guard after he hesitated and lingered several annoying seconds too long. He found himself staring at a table of steaming smoked bear haunch, bitter goat cheese, fresh bread, bog iron jam, and cups of wraith. Though this was nothing like the dishes he knew from home, the smell was far more rich and intoxicating than any Nord apple-cabbage stew could ever be. Faelen took a deep breath, inconspicuously of course, before breathing out and bracing himself for the discussion to come.

At the head of the table sat the chief, a large, imposing man with yellow war paint carefully applied to his face in a pattern that, while likely significant to the chief and other Orcs, was of no consequence to the inexperienced Faelen. "Welcome to Dushnikh Yal, young man." the chief stated politely, albeit with an edge only those averse to small talk could manage. "I trust you slept well, given how hard it was to wake you."

Faelen smiled awkwardly. Where is this going? he thought to himself.

The chief motioned for Faelen to sit at his left side, and motioned for the guard to be seated at his right. With that, food was passed around and breakfast commenced. Faelen noticed a significant lack of other people in the dining area, and, though he had a limited knowledge of the Orcs, he took this as a sign that the sun had been up for quite some time. Normally, a meal was a communal event, one in which every member of the community would be present, eating, drinking, sharing. The fact that it was only himself, the chief, and a guard was telling.

"Now that we have gotten the pleasantries out of the way, we have things to discuss." the chief continued. "I am Chief Burguk. You have no doubt become acquainted with Arob, our fine gate guard."

Faelen bowed his head to each of them respectfully as their titles were mentioned. Upon noticing that Burguk was staring at him, he stammered. "Oh, uh. I'm Faelen. It's nice to officially meet the both of you."

The chief continued, showing no signs of interest in the conversation. "To put it lightly, your presence endangered us last night. Now, under normal circumstances, we would have killed the giant, left you at your camp, and carried on with our lives."

Ouch Faelen thought.

"But you uttered something in your sleep last night during our fight with this giant- a word I have never heard across any of the languages of those I have traded with. Seemingly, it staggered the giant. Clearly, you are of use, and while I know nothing about you or your honeyed words, I do know that I can offer you something," the chief stated, his plate remaining empty and prompting Faelen to feel briefly embarrassed at his own brunch-covered platter. "We have been in search of an item known as the Forgemaster's Fingers for quite some time. They are smithing gloves, and you may be unaware, it is true that we are one of the greatest Orc forges in Skyrim's vast landscape. Mining is in our blood, our lungs, our air. And smithing only comes naturally as a side effect."

Faelen listened intently, sipping occasionally from his cup of wraith, and swallowing between mouthfuls of tart bog-iron covered toast.

"Should you choose against this mission, you are free to leave. But you may never come back. We have helped you, and we have endangered our own for your protection. You have been welcome thus far in our Stronghold, but once you leave, our hospitality returns to the care of our own, and we will not lend it to you further. Is that understood?" the chief stated. Though phrased as a question, it was clearly not one in tone.

Faelen nodded knowingly.

"Good." the chief concluded.

"What if I accept the mission?" Faelen asked, finally bold enough to speak.

The chief grinned. "You will be granted a personal guard, a member of the Stronghold to accompany you. We have tracked the gloves down to a total of three places, although we have not been able to narrow it down any further than that. You will travel to as many of these places as it takes to find these gloves. Your bodyguard will fill you in on the rest of the details on the way."

Faelen paused, lost in thought. Given his inclination towards avoiding physical violence, and Skyrim's nature of providing exactly those scenarios, he felt it would be wise to make friends with the Stronghold, despite the discomfort it may have caused him at that current moment. "I'll do it. I'll retrieve the Forgemaster's Fingers for you, Chief Burguk."

The chief grunted in approval. "One final warning, young one. You will prove yourself in battle. We may be giving you a companion for the journey, but you will pull your weight should a battle arise. Understood?"

Faelen nodded reassuredly, although he knew internally the nod was more tentative than anything else.

"Good. Now, let's get you ready for your mission, shall we?", Burguk smiled.

Chapter Text

The trek from Dushnikh Yal to Dragontooth Crater was a long one, and one that Faelen was vehemently against. Although he kept this fact hidden from his new travelling companion. His companion, he was dejected to find, was the same Orc that had previously christened him with the term “weakling”. Unfortunately, when Faelen found out who his companion would be, it was likewise the first time his companion had found out they were to travel together. And so, an unfortunate air of seething settled over the two of them as they journeyed. Faelen grit his teeth in remembrance of the moment.

“Faelen, I present you Ghorbash. He shall be your companion on your quest. He proved useful in battle last night, and will prove even more useful to you than perhaps he could here.” Chief Burguk had stated this matter-of-factly, before promptly leaving the two to stare in confused frustration, completely unaffected by the fact he had just insulted someone. At last, Ghorbash turned on his heel, and walked off in a huff, treading towards the gates without any care regarding Faelen's readiness to follow. If they were to accompany each other, Faelen would have to prepare for silence and brooding.

Faelen stumbled after his new bodyguard, nearly falling as he attempted to do so. Orc Strongholds had many stones, and Dushnikh Yal’s existence in the Reach did nothing to lessen the amount of rocks and pebbles --if anything they increased severely. Finally, reaching his side, Faelen attempted to right whatever wrongs had been made last night.

“Hi um, Ghorbash, is it? Listen, I’m aware that we got off on the wrong foot, but I’ll be happy to make it up to you on this expeditio-”

Ghorbash spun around, stopping in his tracks. Faelen had been keeping his eyes directly on the ground below so as not to trip over more rocks or embarrass himself any further. Unfortunately, in doing so, he walked directly into his companion. Ghorbash stood tall and proud, looming over the mage, his demeanour commanding and powerful. Faelen gulped, unsure how to react. Had he made things even worse now?

“Listen mage”, he let that descriptor drip from his tongue like a derogatory slur. “If we are going to make this work, you do as I tell you, alright? You have no idea what happened last night, so don’t pretend like a few happy-go-lucky words are going to get you out of the mess you’ve just created.”

Faelen opened his mouth in defence, but found himself quickly shut up by Ghorbash, who lowered his head to look directly at the young man, ensuring there was no space between them, and therefore, no escape from the intimidation. Faelen was stuck.

“I don’t like you. I don’t like how you leech off my Stronghold, and I absolutely do not appreciate how you cower from a fight. You got that? I think you’re a weakling, and right now, you’re more of a burden than a travelling companion. We are not friends, and we aren’t going to be. So quit this whole facade, and this trip might be liveable. Got that?”

Faelen huffed angrily, looking down at his shoes and stepping backward. Who was this man to make such assumptions about him? Assumptions that were uncalled for, and ones that he stated as indisputable fact. Ghorbash growled, grabbing the front of Faelen’s robes, making a fist with his hand and forcing him closer again. “Got that?” he repeated, sneering with a low voice.

Faelen nodded. Ghorbash let him go, pushing him backwards as he did so, making Faelen land with a thump on the ground. The angry, intimidating man turned around once more to continue walking. Faelen lay there for a moment, propped up by his elbows as he watched in anger as his companion continued without him. He had much to say, but he knew the warrior would never stand for it.

“Except for one thing.”, he finally spat out, shouting to the disgruntled fighter.

Ghorbash turned around, impatient, his arms crossed and his foot tapping the soft ground like an agitated rattle snake. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

Faelen gulped, standing up as tall and confidently as he could manage. “Chief Burguk told me you would fill me in on what we’re doing. If I’m to be quiet, how am I to gather information?”

Ghorbash rolled his eyes and tskd, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, but you don’t talk back, okay?”

Faelen nodded, and his companion picked up the pace once more.

“Actually, no!” he called out.

Ghorbash stopped walking and turned around, hand sprawled across his face in an exaggerated and exhausted show of frustration, awaiting Faelen’s final statement with impatience.

“I might have questions that need clarification. I’m a mage, not a warrior, in that you are correct. But I have different needs than you might anticipate in your explanation, so I reserve the right to ask any questions I might need in order to prepare the correct spells and be helpful. Chief Burguk said I was to make myself useful, and I intend to do so, so you’re going to give me the space to do exactly that.”

Ghorbash listened, irritated outwardly, but with a twinkle of acknowledgement in his eye. His foot no longer tapped impatiently on the ground below. Faelen had gotten his attention, and with every ounce of anger he could muster, he intended to finish this argument with as much mutual respect as possible. It was true, he had never met an Orc before, but he knew they valued openness and honesty, and they valued those who spoke up and spoke their minds according to what they thought was right. To do so was to be strong in character, and to be strong in character was to be respectful. Faelen instinctively stepped forward, closing the distance between them just as Ghorbash had done earlier. He could not intimidate him, given his height, his bony, awkward structure, and his significant lack of up-close battle knowledge. But what he could do was show that he was not scared of Ghorbash, and to do that, he had to get real close.

“It’s true that I don’t know what happened last night. I don’t know what kind of hell I might have put you through, and I don’t know how to make it up to you. But I am not weak. I am not a coward. I am calculating, and I am precise.” Faelen jammed his index finger harshly into Ghorbash’s chest, pointing as fiercely as he could. “You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to respect me. This doesn’t have to be fun for you. But if we’re going to do this, and we’re going to be forced to work together, you’re not going to undermine me, you hear? I’m here and I’m going to do more than my best to make sure your Stronghold gets those gloves, and to make sure my debt is paid. So you’re not going to silence me.”

Faelen searched Ghorbash’s eyes for understanding, and found a mixture of irritation and respect. That was enough for him --well, almost. “Got that?” he mocked, jamming his finger harshly at his companion once more.

Ghorbash groaned. “Got it.”

The two continued on their way, fresh air and physical distance finally separating them and their angrily mingling breaths.

“So tell me the details.” Faelen stated, his voice no longer edgy or demanding.

Ghorbash grunted. “Our scouts have tracked the gloves down to three potential locations, as Burguk told you. Either they’ve been picked up by the Forsworn, and are being held at Broken Tower Redoubt, or they’ve been hidden away by a dragon or a dragon priest down at Dragontooth Crater.”

Faelen nodded. “And the third place?”

“That’s where it gets confusing. They might have been lost long ago in Dustman’s Cairn, an ancient Nord burial site.”

“All these options are wildly different. How did you track them? And why are these the options?”

Ghorbash sighed. “You sure do ask a lot of questions, kid.”

“I’m not a kid.”

Ghorbash ignored Faelen’s remark and continued on with his stories. “The gloves alternate throughout generations. Each Stronghold in Skyrim gets a chance to use them. Nearly a decade ago, they were being transported from Largashbur, the Stronghold near Riften. We never received them. Given the many roadside dangers in Skyrim, we assumed it would take a while for them to get here. But after a year, we got suspicious. Sent out a scout team to see what was up. I was there. We found nothing. It took months. Couldn’t find much other than the caravan.”

Ghorbash stopped, holding his hand up as Faelen nearly walked into him again. In the distance, a sabretooth was prowling. Ghorbash signalled to Faelen to crouch, and to stalk quietly to the left, in order to avoid the creature. The grass was tall enough to obscure them slightly, and the grey skies allowed for less visibility in the sunlight. Faelen followed his lead, although he didn’t need to be reminded how to avoid a beast like that. He had grown up with a hunter for a mother, if anything, despite his mage-like tendencies, he was more prepared for an animal attack than anyone else he knew growing up.

Once they had successfully sidestepped the sabretooth, Ghorbash continued his story. “We couldn’t return with the gloves, and there were too few of us to focus our efforts on recovering it. I went searching anyway, managed to use tracking techniques to come up with a few directions the survivors or attackers might have gone. Narrowed it down to these three directions after a while, and here we are.”

Faelen nodded. “Makes sense. The Forsworn could have attacked if they felt their territory was being threatened or encroached. Dragons will attack just about anyone, so that’s always a possibility. Bandits like to hole up in and around the burial sites, so if they attacked the caravan, heading out to the Cairn is a logical route. I see why you weren’t able to narrow it further.”

Ghorbash nodded. “Any more questions, mage?”

Faelen ignored the veiled insult and answered point blank. “Where are we headed currently?”

As they walked, mountains had been growing on either side of the road, and given every dragon’s penchant for the dramatic peaks of the world, Faelen had a bad feeling they were headed for the monster before all other avenues. Ghorbash did not answer. At least, not verbally. Rather, he pointed in the distance, where the vague pointed shape of a tail flew through the clouds, and a roar echoed throughout the valley.

“Why must we travel to Dragontooth first? Would it not be simpler to barter with those at Broken Tower Redoubt? Or to fight the Draugr at Dustman’s Cairn?” Faelen asked, hoping to Auri-El that he had not sounded whiny or unprepared. Unfortunately for him, his voice, when stressed, had little to no other mode of sound.

“You, the fabled so-called Dragonborn of the Fourth Era, would rather barter with Forsworn than fight a dragon?” Ghorbash sounded disappointed, but not in the least bit surprised.

Faelen swivelled toward his companion, stopping him in his tracks and blocking his path. “How did you know what I am?”

Ghorbash pushed past him, unimpressed. “Last night, if you hadn’t shouted in your sleep, the giant and his entourage would never have been staggered. I only know of one type of shout that results in what you did, and it was that of Ulfric Stormcloak, the king of entitled brats.”

Faelen was shocked, impressed even. Though he was not reassured that Ghorbash hadn't just referred to him as an entitled brat. “How do you know I didn’t just study under the Greybeards like he did? You have no proof that I’m dragonborn.”

Ghorbash raised an eyebrow. “You gave it away when you asked how I knew. But even then, I had my suspicions. The Greybeards, they shouted some time ago. A chorus that shook the very Earth. They do that only in acceptance of a new Dragonborn. You, however unlikely it seems, show up, use your Thu’um in your sleep, looking much younger than Ulfric after the years it took him to master a singular shout, and all this after the Greybeards acknowledge a new dragonborn? It’s more than a little bit obvious.”

Faelen was quiet, unsure what to say. Ghorbash was a mystery, and an angry one at that, but he was one that Faelen was certain would prove a very useful and intriguing travel-companion. Ghorbash, on the other hand, seemed far more reluctant to Faelen’s optimistic thoughts.

The Orc slowed to a halt, looking contemplatively at the wall of rock that towered over him. He turned to Faelen. “Now, if you’re done insulting my intelligence, I think it’s time we start climbing a fucking mountain.”

Faelen sighed.