#theimmersivist

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The way Delphine was meant to look. Not too bad looking for an old Breton.

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EVIL NEVER SLEEPS ================== An increase in prosperity and prestige would confer as many hardships as it had perks for the young orc warrior who was barely averaging six hours of sleep a night already. The crisp, autumnal skies of Skyrim's harvest season were now made oceans of dread; every stormy roil of clouds could produce, at any moment, a winged engine of suffering and death. And in the shadow of dragon-born fear, other evils long buried and forgotten stirred from within the murk of their mythological undoing. All across the land, there could be seen the eerie glow of burning torches from cairn and cavern alike where no flame had burned for centuries past.

Though Akhara worked tirelessly in defense not only of her own people, the Orsimer, but of the citizens of Skyrim with whom she'd established meaningful relationships, trusts, partnerships, and alliances, she was but a single woman. In the single week following the celebration of her new steading's completion in the northern bogs of the Hjaalmarch, the youngest orc warchief in Skyrim's history was called upon to put down two dragons, stop a massive vampire assault, purge three separate giants from their grottos, route or kill a new outfit of killers and thieves that had taken up at the river crossing at the old Valtheim ruins. And on top of that, not one but two Dark Brotherhood assassins had made attempts on her life, first brazenly in broad daylight upon the stone bridge leading east toward Riften Hold, and again on her very property. After the second attack which nearly claimed the life of her daughter Sher'Tul, Akhara insisted to the Jarl Ravencrone that security be again doubled, and that for the time being, Garakh would remain at her estate as Sher'Tul's personal bodyguard until such time another could be chosen.

Akhara needed help. Fast. Fortunately, the Orsimer spellsword knew where to find it, for there was still yet more green to be witnessed in this barren country of white and gray. There were still two strongholds with which she and her warband at Cradlecrush Rock had to make contact with. It was a long way to travel, however, and there was absolutely no guarantee either of the remaining strongholds could or would produce any capable warriors who would swear fealty to a female orc warchief who possessed any measure of elven blood in her veins. Nevertheless, she had to try, and, as Captain Ogol pointed out, the power of the "Dragonborn" had an ability beyond sheer might or physical strength: the ability to unite people, and to rekindle hope in the hearts of those who had forsaken it.

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Date at dawn.

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On the road to Kynesgrove. Follow my mod reviews and adventures on Youtube! https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCxdyI8ciV-p7B35K6EHxWjw

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Temba Wide-Arm

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RIDDLES IN THE DARK =================== Though the battle with Yamarz' giants was over, Akhara Shug's Orsimmer blood still boiled in her veins. 10 dragon skulls, the shamans of the Morkul tribe had told her back in Wrothgar. Yet, after the incident at the Western Watchtower, Akhara had not only realized that dragons could indeed be slain, but that perhaps she alone possessed the very power and fortitude to slay them. The thrum of Malacath's promise of redemption for her mixed elven blood thundered now like orcish war drums in her long, pointed ears. In her short time in Skyrim, she'd slain dragons, giants, and diabolically powerful, undead draugr lords. The young, half-orc barbarian had reached a critical crossroads in her evolution as the Dragonborn; there she stood, tempted by hubris to exert the full force of her might like a choke-hold upon the province of Skyrim, yet tethered to ancient codes of honor, blood, battle, and the Gods. It was a critical moment in Akhara's life, for it was right now, at this very moment, that a choice would have to be made. A choice that would shape her own destiny and the destiny of Skyrim as the dark veil of Fate continued to fall across the land.

And so it was that Akhara delivered the news of Yamarz' defeat to his stronghold of Largashbur. According to the stronghold's wise-woman, Atub, Malacath had not spoken to anyone in the stronghold since she was but a little orc child herself. But now, his rumbling, resounding voice could be heard loud and clear as he denounced the fear, cowardice, and indecisiveness of the clan's former warchief Yamarz, installing Gularzob in his place.

Upon careful reflection, it seemed to Akhara as though Malacath was "wiping the board" of the game he'd been playing, so to speak. Chieftains who had miraculously (and perhaps, shamefully) endured into the winters of their lives all suddenly met their ends all across Skyrim. It seemed as though the daedric prince of outcasts had extended his grip and flexed tightly, to be certain nothing remained of this old, failing, weak breed of orc that seems to infest every corner of Skyrim in the recent age. The emerald and mossy hues of green that once distinguished the Orsimmer people so broadly had become watered down through generations of interbreeding with other races or simply the result of incestual practices amongst the most reclusive Orc tribes. These were not the orcs Malacath wanted for his champions. However, through whatever bizarre narrative the Gods and Demons of Nirn were currently busy spinning, Akhara, the half-Orsimmer, half-Altmer barbarian outlander, was being personally guided and shepherded by Malacath himself. What could it mean?

More questions arrived that night in a dream. Akhara had awoken in the Ashpit of Oblivion, the very realm of Malacath. There, she was submerged in some sort of sinkhole or crepuscular oil-like substance, and could not move. Before her, stood the enormous, twisted, horned and mutated visage of Mauloch, not as he was portrayed in the statues of Malacath all throughout Skyrim, but more like a spiked, gnarled, behemoth, demonic excretion with many arms, many blades, and two long, glowing rune-etched fangs that were easily as long as mammoth tusks. For several hours, Malacath revealed his mysteries and agenda to Akhara through a series of visions and seemingly-disconnected interludes. None of it made any sense to Akhara. Even had she been fluent in the daedric languages, as with all Daedric Princes, his words were never direct and always belied layers of hidden meaning and apocrypha. The visions were eclectic and oftentimes ambiguous. An old, crumbling, abandoned fortress made of green stone. A group of children gathered around a madonna and child like something out of an old Cyrodiilic painting. A field of giants' bones, and in its center, a gigantic, evil-looking hammer. And lastly, all the rivers in Skyrim turning a glittering shade of green beneath an enormous, blood moon. One thing was clear, however, and that was that she needed answers. Answers that far older, more experienced, and educated minds could offer her.

Though Atub had exhausted both her energy in Malacath's ritual and her knowledge of orc affairs throughout Skyrim, she directed Akhara back to the northwest where scant whispers of a rumor that a ragtag band of orcs too young to be married or join wars and a handful of old, retired, veterans had been attempting to setup a "freehold", or stronghold without a chief, but that their lack of leadership was seeing them walk a similar path as Yamarz, angering giants and bringing the Orsimmer people into open conflict with the Plainstrider Confederacy. This alleged new stronghold had been discreetly established in the Orotheim Foothills, not far from Rannveig's Fast. It was said that whatever de-facto leadership they possessed issued primarily from the oldest and wisest orc woman in all of Skyrim, who had taken up residence in their makeshift camp. More than anything, Akhara needed direction and she needed answers, and if what Atub told her proved viable, then perhaps the former would result in the acquisition of the latter.

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The adorable little orc orphan, Sher’Tul, who I would later adopt as my own daughter.

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Even the little khajiit got her paws dirty fighting those nasty vampires!

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MORE THRALLS IN MORTHAL ========================= As newly-appointed Provincial Battlechief and political advisor, Bonecaptain Ogol's first exhortation was to establish civic and financial affluence in the withering capital of Hjaalmarch Hold. Due to its isolation and lagging economy, Morthal had proved of little strategic importance throughout the duration of the civil war. The city's lumber mill was its only source of trade, however to the east lay the Stonehills which, as Ogol keenly pointed out, supported Rockwallow Mine. Morthalites, as it turns out, thrive on gossip, for there is little else to do in the hamlet. Scalewarden Garakh determined from the local peasantry that its owner was a Nord named Bryling, one of the Thanes of Solitude, who used the ore produced by the mine to support the Imperial war effort. In conference, Akhara, Ogol, and Garakh reasoned that the iron of Rockwallow would perfectly supplement the orichalcum lode beneath her stronhold of Tharash Dol, as it was the closest base metals operation for miles in any direction before infringing upon the Silverbloods to the West or various Stormcloak-loyal operations to the East. To secure Bryling's patronage in Solitude, she'd need to spread word of the coming of the Skyrim's savior and salvation.

The hold of Morthal lies in darkness. Old crones attempt in vain to scry visions with cloudy, glaucomic eyes. Restless ghosts wander a black, fetid wetland, vampires and defilers of the dead roam unremitting fogs, and long shadows drip from the long faces of a population plagued by superstition, isolation, and neglect. The citizens of this marshstead know little and care little of the world beyond their own trials and tribulations. But they will be fashioned into instruments, either knowingly or unknowingly, of a much more complex, green machine. As the grip of Malacath extends northward from the tundra, so too does the legend of the Dragonborn grow...

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