Kelly St. Clair

During the Nerevarine's time in the city of Mournhold, he met a young Wood Elf¹ named Gaenor². Gaenor fancied himself an adventurer and was about to set out into the wilderness, and begged the Nerevarine for a boon. Any man's charity has limits, however, and as the Bosmer's demands grew ever more insistent and unreasonable, the Nerevarine was at last forced to refuse him. Enraged - for it is well known that Bosmer are the least civilized of all mer, eating the flesh of their own kind among other savage customs - Gaenor rebuked the Nerevarine and departed.

Now, while most mortals have good luck and bad in equal measure, there are those rare few who only seem to possess one kind; for them, good luck follows good or bad follows bad. Gaenor was one of these, and not the miserable sort either: he was already known to some as "Gaenor the Lucky". His meeting with the Nerevarine might have been another blessing, if not for his pride... but his good fortune had already begun to twist him, making him expect such as his due.

After only a week of delving into caves, tombs and dwemer ruins, Gaenor had found a fair pile of treasure. He plowed most of this right back into improving his luck even further, buying every ring, amulet, or other charm he could find. At the end of a month, he seemed invincible: neither blade nor spell could touch him, foes blundered into each other or tripped over their own feet, and ancient dwemer guardians chose that moment to break down and fall apart. Bags of coin and other valuables turned up in chests, urns, or even landed right in his lap. Gaenor decided that it was time to repay all those who had wronged him, starting with the Nerevarine himself.

But the Nerevarine had received a prophetic vision³ of their next encounter, and had made preparations of his own. Through cunning alchemy, he had brewed a large batch of potions to fortify his luck; when taken all together, they would lift it to the same dizzying heights as Gaenor's, and even beyond.

On the fated morning, Gaenor - now clad head to toe in shining ebony armor - saw the Nerevarine across one of Mournhold's plazas and charged, howling Bosmer curses. The Nerevarine, who had quaffed his potions only minutes before, calmly drew his own weapon and stood ready. When they met and struck at each other, there was an eye-twisting moment of discontinuity (much like some accounts of the Miracle of Peace, also known as "The Warp in the West") and then Gaenor simply exploded, pieces of his armor flying in every direction. His helmet rolled to a stop at the Nerevarine's feet.

So it was that Gaenor the Lucky finally met his match, and he and his good luck both came to an end.

( Footnotes )

He stood at the base of the Hist tree, watching it go up in flames, and for a moment felt a powerful sense of deja vu. The heat of the blaze licked his face as the air grew thick with smoke. Somewhere high above, a window shattered.

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Shortly before first light, those sleeping in the Leyawiin hall of the Fighter's Guild were woken by an orc banging loudly on a shield. "Up! Everybody UP! We got a job to do, right now."

One of the fighters told the orc what he could do with himself. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor with the stranger looming over him.

"That's '____ you SIR,' meat! You're talking to a Guardian and a knight! Come on, on your feet! Get dressed - you won't need armor or weapons, I cleaned the place out already."

"What do you need us for, then?" asked an elven archer.

"Carrying bodies," the orc said. His voice dropped a few notches from his earlier bellow. "We got people to bring home... brothers and sisters." There was a moment's pause, then he whacked one of the bedposts with his mace. "Come on, move it ya gobs!"

Quietly, though not without some grumbling, they did as they were told.

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The owner of the Five Claws, whose name sounded like "Witsydeucy" to most non-Argonian ears, was sweeping up the last of the mess in the common room when the two orcs entered. "... get a big surprise when he shows up tonight," Thag was saying to his companion. "We wait here 'till then, get some rest, go back a little before midnight."

"And then the Count will make us both knights," Mazoga said eagerly. It was all she'd talked about since they'd been tasked with eliminating the leader of the Black Bow bandits.

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Howling with rage, bathed in divine dragonfire, steam jetting from cracks in his blood-red skin, the giant four-armed figure of Mehrunes Dagon faded and was gone. Now only the great golden dragon, the avatar of Akatosh, remained in the shattered Temple of the One... along with a single orc warrior who stood awestruck at the dragon's feet, having just witnessed a battle between gods.

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It was after midnight when Thag came to Anvil. The streets of the port city were empty but for a lone watchman, holding his torch high as he made his rounds. Thag exchanged quiet greetings with the man as he trudged toward the Fighter's Guild.

Thag was tired. It was three days since he'd last slept and he'd spent most of that on the road, in the saddle, or fighting through caves and ancient ruins (not to mention the occasional attempted highway robbery). Even his renowned orcish stamina was reaching its limit. He was over-burdened with loot that he could not sell until the shops opened in the morning, sustaining himself only with potions and spells that lightened his load somewhat.

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[The Burning Blade is Thag's signature weapon, somewhat unusual for an orc (who tend to prefer axes, maces and warhammers) - a fine steel longsword of which he'd already become very fond before he used a Sigil Stone to enchant it with fire damage.]

As an orc adventurer in (mostly non-orcish) Cyrodiil, Thag gro-Uruk had been called many things. Until today, "too pretty" was not among them.

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