Mists on the Mountains

Chapter 6: Simple Things

Chapter 6

Simple Things

"The longer I live and the more evil I see, the more I appreciate the simple things in life."- Savlian Matius, Captain of the Kvatch city guard. Later, Count of Kvatch Quote Circa 3E 433

* * * * *

It was the morning light streaming through the window that woke Clobnak gro-Grogork. He rubbed his eyes groggily, still much mead and not enough sleep proved a poor combination for any mage. He would need the legendary Orcish discipline to move forward this day.

What would Uncle Garborz say about this stupor?

Shaking his head in hopes of clearing the night's grogginess, Clob reached for his journal. Sure enough, it was still resting on the nightstand where he'd left it. Perhaps it was paranoid of him to fear it missing after only a single night, but caution never hurt. If he lost that journal not only would his notes be gone, so would his maps. Without those maps he would never succeed on his quest.

The safety of his journal assured, Clob went to the next task on the morning routine, prayer. Leaving his bed clad only in a pair of rough breeches, he knelt next to the bedside. "Lord Malacath, father of the Orcs," he whispered, rubbing a thumb against the small totem he wore around his neck. " Witness me as I conquer my enemies this day. I will prove my strength in today's tasks that I might be worthy to be called Orc." He bowed his head lower, whispering intently his declarations to Lord Malacath, Daedric prince of the Spurned and the God-ancestor of his people. "In all my actions, I will gain honour, gain strength, and heap glory on my tribe."

Rising to his feet, Clob retrieved a small silver bowl and a packet of troll fat from his travel sack. Opening the window to his room ever so slightly, the Orc placed the bowl on the ledge and filled it with a small portion of fat. "Accept my sacrifice Lord Malacath, that I might draw upon your strength in the day to come."

With a quick spell, Clob sent a burst of flames from his hand, instantly setting the offering alight. The fat sizzled away, the putrid stench of burning troll filling the room as the black smoke drifted into the sky.

Turning his back on the sacrifice, Clob began his mental exercises. Sitting crossed-legged on the room's carpet, he closed his eyes, imagining each of his spells working, conjuring the sounds and smells into his mind. His breathing slowed. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead onto his chest, casually tracing its way down Clob's body before hitting the floor with a tiny splash. He was the very picture of calm.

Almost unaware of his actions Clob smiled. It was these simple morning rituals that helped prepare him for anything in this strange land. He wasn't sure how he'd survive without them.

Clob wasn't aware of the passage of time. Ten seconds or ten minutes could have passed, it made no difference. What mattered was the magicka flowing through his veins and coursing through his body. He was ready.

Standing, Clob fetched his boots and robes, dressing for the day's exertions. With a trip to the Jarl planned, he intended to look presentable, even if Balgruuf wasn't who Clob was hoping to meet at Dragonsreach. There was someone else he needed to see, someone he hoped could point him in the right direction. With luck, he'd be courteous to his fellow mage and aid him, without too many questions.

Packing away his journal and sacrificial bowl, Clob picked up his staff and headed downstairs. Whistling as he went, Clob was quite pleased with himself. With each step one closer to his goal. Today was looking to be a highly profitable day.

* * * * *

Hammel wasn't in nearly so fine a mood.

He splashed water on his face, confirming he was awake. Gripping the wooden dresser tightly, he gazed into the mirror with blood-shot eyes. He'd had that nightmare again, the one in the Dwemer ruin. Ever since the other Legonaries had pulled him from the ruin more dead than alive, he dreamed about it once a week. It wouldn't let him go.