After we departed Falkreath, I was a bit excited to find a band of Orcs hiding up at a wooden fort. I was hoping to hook up with them and carve our own little niche out of Skyrim together, for us all to live in peace away from the racist Nords who utter generic displeased greetings at us and offer marginally poor prices when selling cheese.
Sadly, they don't feel the same way and express this by bouncing a mace off my melon.
Now, I'm an Orc of simple tastes. I enjoy NPC banter, story progression and fine archery. All they care about is hitting people with blunt objects.
No.
This town deserves a better class of warrior. And I'm gonna give it to them.
My colleague is so impressed by his new facial piercing that he collapses against the wooden gate in awe. His friends become envious of his new look and quickly line up for my body modification services. I oblige with an assortment of head piercings, and at least one Prince Albert (my aim still needs a bit of work).
I find that my technique works best when my client's head is closer to the end of the arrow than my own. Ergo, I shall try to perform all my archery combat at a range of two feet or less.
Waaarg The Orc: Taking the 'ranged' out of 'ranged combat' since 2012.
The Orc hideout is nicely stocked, and I pick up a large supply of gold, food and weaponry from the forecourt alone even before I venture inside. Once in, I bag a Silt Strider load of extra gear including some nifty potions. The inhabitants aren't that impressed by my thievery. They're quite difficult to kill, too; burly Orcs are intimidating foes, and they land some heavy blows with their giant weapons.
Hmmmm. I'd rather not be 'bested by an Orc'. I don't know what that means but I assume it involves him burying an axe in my chest. Yeah, maybe I should just leave....
... no, hold up. I'm forgetting something here: I'm also a goddamn Orc!
AND NO ONE BESTS AN ORC!
I swing by broadsword a few times and Ghunzul, who I assume is the head honcho, collapses against his treasure chest. I don't bother opening the chest, because I already looted it a minute ago. If anyone was watching, they would have seen two Orcs going hell for leather at each other when all of a sudden one of them stops, stares at a chest, takes a minute out of the battle to help himself to the contents, then goes back wailing on the other guy.
I also help myself to the basement key he has about his person and make my way into the belly of the fortress. I do a bit of exploring and pick up some more nice stuff before finding an intriguing-looking altar room.
An altar room that looks entirely safe to walk through without hindrance.
Tch, Skyrim. Come on. I wasn't born yesterday.
Rather than attempt a risky disarming of the traps, or trying to jump over the tripwire with my oafish Orc body, I take a far easier approach: simply walking round them. There's a side passageway running up the length of the room, so I head left and walk straight into a different trap.
I eventually make it to the altar and find a broken sword. Great! That was worth the poison arrow currently sticking out of my thigh. It's mystically called the 'Shards of Mehrunes' Razor' as if I'm supposed to give a shit, but the value is listed at zero so I really don't. Perhaps it's just the poison making its way to my brain that's putting me in a groggy mood.
Time for some fresh air, I feel. It doesn't take me too long before I'm surveying a beautiful view of Switzerland, munching on a Toblerone and singing about the sound of music.
Orcs aren't known for their singing prowess. In fear of causing an avalanche with my warbling, I shut up and cautiously proceed down the slopes, killing the odd lonely goat which roams high on the hill.
Daylight is in short supply by the time I get to the foot of the mountain. I don't want to be on the open roads at night, and I don't have time to get to the next destination as per the original mission plan. In fact, even if I had all the time in the world I'd still struggle to fulfil the mission plan since that would require actually having a mission plan. As it is I'm just shambling around, stabbing goats.
I come across a cave which might be a suitable place to wait out the night. What is this place called?
Hmmmm.
I can't imagine it was easy to write up the travel brochure copy for 'Bloated Man's Grotto'. Hardly sounds like fun for all the family.
It doesn't really sound like somewhere a man playing in Iron Man Mode should be sticking his ugly head into, either.
Nope. Not going to be poking around Bloated Man's Grotto.
No sir.
