EliteCommander, Lucius, and New Yorker collaboration
Sarel completely understood what the Orc meant. He felt the nagging of morality biting at his ears, calling for attention. He was wrought by guilt for killing so many men, some perhaps innocent. The Elf merely nodded during the short break in speech. Then the Orc began again. He introduced himself, Malakaus. Sarel nodded once more, tipped his mug in the Orc’s direction, signaling a toast. “I am Sarel. Pleased to meet you. I’m happy we have you on our side. I wouldn’t want to think up a way to take you down in battle. Tricky business.” Sarel smiled a little, allowing himself to be comfortable and friendly.
Malakaus laughed out loud as Sarel mentioned not wanting to face him in battle. Despite having an empty mug he also reached out to tap his mug against Sarel, as a toast. ”Ah, but that’s the best part, isn’t it? To test your skills and strength not against nameless whelps, but against a real warrior. It’s things like that which truly proves your place in the world.” Tired of holding onto an empty mug, Malakaus left Sarel for just a moment to fill up his mug with some brandy. He also snuck in a few drops of skooma; not as good as having a whole thing by itself, but enough to give him a nice feel for tonight. He returned to Sarel taking gulps from his drink. ”Aye, that being said, it would be a glorious battle if we ever had the chance to fight one another. Though I will admit that I wouldn’t be able to hold back, knowing what you’re capable of. Someone of your skills should be matched with equal or greater strength, anything less is dishonorable. Ha! Listen to me, trying to talk about honor of all things. Well, I suppose I just have a certain standard of principles. Or something.” Malakaus took another swig from his mug, taking in the night sky.
Sarel went from looking at Malakaus to looking at the waves crashing in the moonlight every few seconds. When the Orc went to refill his mug Sarel drank more of the Brandy, he was feeling pretty loose, but not overly so, by any means. Malakaus returned and spoke some more about a potential battle between them, then something about honor. Sarel had to admit that he was surprised that the Orc was so verbose, and opinionated, especially concerning honor in battle. Sarel wondered what he might do if the Orc attacked him. He might use some sort of telekinesis trick to keep him off his feet, flame blasts, and blinding spells and the like. Sarel had several magical tricks up his sleeve, all regulated within the honorable code of The Order, some came to him after his experience with Boethia. Like the air, the knowledge washed over him and he simply felt it. Sarel snapped from his brutish fantasies and looked back at the Orc. “Well, if what you say is true, most warrior’s lives must be quite awful, until the last moment that is. I suppose, in all of us who live these lives, there is the desire to be killed, to have that dark wish fulfilled for us, taken out of our hands. I sometimes wonder of the exaltation a warrior must feel at the moment of his killling. I imagine his internal monologue. ‘It’s coming, it’s coming!’, the fear, the joy, the ontological bliss.” Sarel would get like this at the onset of drunkenness, unspeakably eloquent and thoughtful. It was times like these, and all the rest which come to mind, in which Sarel realized he was fit for a different life. A life without swords and bloodshed. But his destiny was sealed now. Perhaps, after he lived the life of a pirate, and if he survived, he’d be able to live a normal life. Perhaps he would find what he was destined to do once the bloodshed was over. Sarel wondered if he would cease his adventurous inclinations in old age. He wondered if wrinkles came with caution and homeliness. That was presuming Sarel would age to the point of wrinkles, and not be cast into the blue depth like the Imperial sailors not hours before, his intestines serving as bait for the Puma fish.
Malakaus was oddly quiet as Sarel spoke. His fast still had a grin on it, but it was not quite a grin of happiness, rather, more like a mask to hide his feelings. A mask that was quickly shed. ”Aye, a warrior's life is half horror, half glory. It has to be.” Malakaus looked into his mug. He just got it filled and he was already half-way through with it. He could see the bits of moon sugar from the Skooma sitting at the bottom, illuminated by the moonlight. ”A life of killing has to become enjoyable, or else you end up living a life of death. To become nothing more than an extension of your own weapon, with little personality and very limited function. By trying to take away the emotions and passion for it makes you less lifeless than the bodies you kill. It’s a cruel thing, really. In order to living with killing you have to enjoy it. It eats away at you like a poison. And the only way for it to stop hurting and keep on taking small doses, time and time again, until eventually you grown and immunity. Even a taste for it.”
Malakaus took a large gulp from his mug again and was squarely drunk. Still lucid enough to think about what he’s saying, but not so much to stop talking. ”You know I could have gotten away from all of this. I used to have a nice life with the Imperials back at the capitol. I was just a smith, fixing weapons, making locks, that sort of thing. Paid well, well enough for me to make a living, buy a few things, take some days off. I was thinking of settling down and making a family. But… I was born a warrior. I don’t make life, I take them away. But I also do whatever I want. And that time, I wanted to have a family. Maybe find myself a strong orc woman, or maybe even a smart but tough elvish lass. Maybe I’d head up to Skyrim and marry a nord woman. That’d be the life… But the call for blood is too much for me to ignore. Even back at the Imperial City, I would attend the Arena to watch fights, see death and get my blood pumping. All the horror, the fear, the guilt, the danger, it’s not a life for normal people. Good people. Good people shouldn’t have to be exposed to that sort of thing. But someone has to. And those people, there are two types of those people. People who would cause those things, and the ones who look for it. Neither one of them are good, but it’s better that they are on your side than against you, you know?” Malakaus walked over to the railing of the ship, looking into the oceans’ wave now. Swirling the contents of his mug, he could see the ocean’s wave in his drink.
”I couldn’t get away from violence. But it never found me; I was in a peaceful place. A place where children can walk after dark without fear, where a woman can be weak and be safe, where men do not need to kill to survive. It was… Paradise. But not for me. I couldn’t resist the thrill. To feel the rush of battle, the blood flowing through my veins and out my wounds. It’s a high that no drink or drug can simulate. An art that can’t be mastered in a class. To control my own life as others demand to take it away; that’s not something that you can get living your days just making kitchenware. I wanted to go back to that. I didn’t care why or for who. What we do, this fighting, this killing. It’s where I belong. And it’s where I will be when it’s time for me to meet Malacath and show to him why I am worthy of standing next to him in Oblivion.” Malakaus ended his tirade by once again finishing his mug of brandy, and by this time he couldn’t even tell he was drinking it or the skooma. Absentmindedly he dumped out the rest of the contents, though it was very little anyways.
Sarel felt a certain kind of bond with the Orc at this point. It was as if they’d lived the same lives up until this point, blissfully unaware of eachother’s presence, but immeasurably close. Sarel found an unerring truth in the Malakaus’ words, a soul-touching understanding. The elf sipped his brandy and peered into the melancholy eyes of the Orc, conveying his agreement. He finished his mug just as Malakaus finished.
“Aye. Aye,” he started, rubbing the stubble which had appeared on his chin overnight. His crimson eyes peered out onto the purple waves over his hooked ashen nose. “What’s worse is that inside, tucked away, we all want to be good people, and we convince ourselves that we can be.” Sarel placed the mug on a small table which was nailed to the deck. He removed the Boethiah inscribed pipe from his boot and tucked it in his left hand, clearly ready to begin filling it. “And so we try, by making kitchenware in Cyrodiil or going home and guarding a fat Imperial. We go after that dream that we are good people. But we always find out, as I tend to in the heat of combat, that we can never be good. No one can have the things we have plastered on the inside of our eyelids and be anything else than what we are. There is no hope for redemption for us, not in this life or any other.” Sarel had filled the bowl of his pipe, at the last word he conjured a ball of flame in his right palm and lit the Balmora Blue filling the pipe. The sweet blue smoke wafted into the sea air and then off into the dark sky.
Serge could smell it from where he was. The Breton was able to explain to Allaina what he meant when he approached, and then the slight misunderstanding which arose when he kissed her hand. Eventually she explained her predicament and Serge smiled, compassionately and playfully. “Now I understand all the watchful eyes.” Serge was referring to Sharee’s protective attitude as well as several other men on the boat who seemed to have the Bosmer beauty in their sights, including another Breton, a duelist by the looks of it. Serge had a made her laugh at least once so far and was exuding his regular charm. “Captain, you have to tell me how such a splendidly interesting and beautiful woman came under your employ.” Serge said to Sharee. He glanced over at Allaina then, “It was quite the titillating coincidence, surely,” he added, winking at her slyly.
Allaina was still inwardly nervous about the attention Serge was giving her. He was being nice, certainly, but she still didn’t really know him, and Sharee had warned her not to trust everyone she meets. As a result, she had taken to not trusting anyone new she met. He was part of the crew, though, so...he couldn’t be that bad. “Well, I...don’t remember. She saved me and has been helping me.”
Figuring that Allaina’s explanation would not be enough, Sharee finally decided to chime in. She stood next to her and rested her arm on the Bosmer girl’s back, holding onto her as a protective parent would a child. “I found her being chased by slavers. She has no memory from before that moment. I slaughtered them, and have been protecting her, teaching her, since then. Keep in mind that anyone who harms her, in any way, has to answer to me, and I am not a forgiving person. But, I am sure we do not have to worry about that right now. This is a celebration. All we need to do is enjoy ourselves.”
Sharee raised her mug up to Serge. “A toast, to victory, to wealth, and to doing whatever in Oblivion we feel like.” She said with a smile that seemed happy, and yet somehow threatening.
Malakaus stood in silence just watching the ocean waves. He tried to take in Sarel’s words, but like the waters,they washed over his head under his intoxication. The orc probally doesn’t even remember what he himself said. He certainly won’t be remembering the next words he’s going to say. ”Ah, that’s why we shant keep ourselves held back to the past. There’s life and death ahead of us, and I am to meet both fo them head on. And you…” Malakaius walked over to the table Sarel was at and took a seat. He had a… Strange look on his face. It was obvous that he was drunk, but also a bit… Horny. And I don’t mean the ones protuding from his head, rather, the horn growing in his trousers. ”I’d like to see how you handle my two-hander, if you’re willing. Maybe you and I can spar between the sheets, namean?” Malakaus gave Sarel a sly, intoxicated grin. The orc wasn’t one to be held back by sad ideals and sought only pleasure in all it’s form, be it by the blade or in bed.
Sarel had not noticed that Malakaus was so drunk. He was mostly just philosophising by himself, he paid little attention more than he needed to the Orc. Sarel realized now that Malakaus was pretty much just saying things, not too much thought going into it, which somehow impressed the Dunmer. When Malakaus made his advances Sarel chuckled politely, he smiled at the Orc and puffed from his pipe once more. Luckily the pipe could stand on it’s own, even in the bumpy sea. So Sarel placed the pipe down, stood from his chair, and removed a small bag from the inside pocket of his jacket. He withdrew a small burlap pouch and shook it in front of the Orc.
“You’ve had too much to drink, Malakaus. I find that the only thing better after a heavy night of drinking is to drift along in a moonlit fog.” He poured half of the contents of the pouch into the mug in front of Malakaus. The shining amethyst nature of the moonsugar glowed in the mug. Sarel grabbed a half empty bottle of brandy and poured a bit into the cup, he refilled his own mug as well. Sarel grabbed a pewter spoon from the table and mixed the contents. He shoved the mug into Malakaus’ hands and patted the Orc on the back. “You take that downstairs and have yourself one hell of a night.” Sarel said, knowingly.
And so, the Dunmer walked away from his Orc drinking buddy, and toward the two people on the ship he knew best, Sharee and Serge. Sharee was proposing a toast when the Elf approached. Sarel was drunk enough, and in enough good spirits, to intervene. He came up behind Serge and lifted his mug over the Breton’s head. “To us!” Sarel added, and his mug came to meet Sharee’s. He was smiling, clearly very happy. Still hanging on Serge’s shoulder, Sarel took a moment to identify Allaina. Once he did he smiled wider. “Allaina, I never got a chance to thank you, for helping me escape. It means the world to me.” He came from behind Serge and stood next to Sharee. “I mean, only a few days ago I was in an Imperial jail cell, waiting to have my head chopped off, now I’m drinking brandy on a bloody boat belonging to the East Empire company. And I have you, and the rest of the crew, to thank for that.” Sarel subconsciously placed his hands around Sharee’s waist. He still felt the physical attraction, he still knew the passion that was in him for her. “I see you’ve met my good friend. Serge is honorable, and handsome to boot, eh?” The Elf playfully hit his friends arm.
Serge was happy to see his friend in such high spirits, even if it was alcohol induced. Serge looked on at his friend incredulously, “What did that Orc put in your drink?”
Sarel thought for a moment that Serge meant that he knew what had just transpired between him and Malakaus, his drunk brain made him believe that. So he looked at the Breton with confused eyes, then he understood fully that his friend was making a joke. “Nothing yet, but I’ve been careful. You know, where in Oblivion--?” Sarel was looking for his pipe, and he spied it on the table he’d just left. Drunkenly Sarel used his magic to levitate the pipe, it was clumsily lifted into the air. It zoomed across the expanse and zipped past Sarel himself, he couldn’t entirely control it in his state. Luckily, Serge, who was able to remain composed under almost any circumstance, noticed the pipe was going to fly directly into Allaina’s face if it went uninterrupted. Serge quickly caught the pipe in mid air, handed it to his slightly embarrassed friend. Sarel was too drunk to be all that embarrassed however, and he took another swig. “See? Honorable, handsome, and quick as well.” The elf chuckled to Allaina.
“Shh, that’ll hardly convince her of anything.” Serge said playfully, he looked at Allaina, expecting her to laugh, but realized she didn’t understand the reference. He had another idea, “Would you like to go below deck with me? So we can better acquaint ourselves? I also have something very interesting to show you.” The Breton looked over to Sharee, assuring her, with innocent eyes, that he did not mean to take advantage. “Something I think you’d like to see,” his beautiful eyes landed back on Allaina’s.
Sharee gave an almost inaudible hiss when Sarel put his arm around her. She put one hand on his and subtly pushed his arm away before looking him in they eye. “Save it for later...if you’re lucky.”
Taking another drink and finishing off her mug, Sharee looked over Serge from head to toe. “Hmm, if he’s honorable, then I think he’s in the wrong place. Handsome, though...I’ll give him that one.” She said, giving Serge a wink.
To Allaina, it seemed like everything Serge did, and everything Sarel said about him, was impressive, but her caution made her defer to Sharee for judgement. She looked up to Sharee with a confused, expectant expression. Sharee looked down at her, then stared at Serge for a few moments as she thought. After a few seconds, she turned her head back to Allaina and gave her a pat on the back. “Why don’t you go and enjoy yourself, see what Serge wants. You can be safe in knowing that, if anyone hurts you, I’ll castrate them and feed them to the slaughterfish.” Sharee said. While she was looking at Allaina, it was obvious that was not who her comment was really directed towards.
