When we left off last time, I'd just finished looting Fort Greymoor and mercilessly butchering every living being which stood in my way. I also had a lovely bit of salmon.
Silence falls over Greymoor as I pull my axe out of the still-warm corpse of Agnes - she was an unarmed witness to the bloodbath and posed no threat to me, but sadly she was guilty of 'being mildly annoying', a crime strictly punishable with an axe to the face. Other mutilated bodies litter the fort corridors, the only living thing among them being me, Waaarg the Terrible.
That was some good Orcin' even if I do say so myself. In fact, I finally feel like the no-nonsense brawler I set out to become in this Skyrim adventure! Perhaps now people will stop emailing me and telling me I'm a pussy. Unlikely, though, since I don't think my father reads this blog.
I gaze around at the destruction. Well, I suppose there's nothing more I can do to demonstrate my ferocity here: everyone is dead. I've stolen all the valuables not nailed down. I've eaten all the food. I even left at least one toilet seat up.
Time to go. Although, I guess I could...
... rape the bodies? Just to drive the point home?
Jesus, no. Way too heavy. Let's just get out of here and leave the casual raping for another day.
I do a quick double-check down in the basement for any last valuables which might be tucked away. I find a few nifty potions and also an exit to the outside world via the sewers (my favourite way of leaving any building). It's been night-time for what feels like the last four blog posts, so hopefully that little massacre will have put us squarely into the daylight hours and I'll emerge from this gloomy fortress with the same puzzled look on my face as I have when leaving a cinema during the daytime, even though I know it's going to be bright outside.
It's dark outside.
Arse.
Arse and bugger.
Making the reasonable assumption that the sun isn't going to rise for as long as I'm still alive or indeed ever, I don't delay in walking the open roads towards Windhelm to join the revolution.
Within minutes I bump into a bunch of Khajit doing the night rounds. Whereas the cats in my local area have painful-sounding sex and yowl loudly and wake me up at 2am, the cats in Skyrim wandering around at night are friendly and open to trade.
I sell him all my magical gear (since I'm a fighter) including all my useless yet expensive potions such as Fire Resist, Drain Magicka and some crap that protects me against ice damage. I'm pretty sure I'll never regret selling them and I end up 1,000 gold richer.
Noice!
Seconds later, I bump some chump called Plautis Carvain who is, for reasons unknown, being escorted by Frank Zappa.
I ask him what he's doing at this time of night walking around with dead American musical composers.
"Don't slow us up," he snorts. "We don't have any time to waste. We've got to get to a wedding."
Oh, I see! Well, I'll get out of his way and leave him to it. I certainly wouldn't want to prevent a dude from getting to a weird midnight nuptual on time.
"I've had a long journey and paid too much coin on these gifts to be late to Vittoria's wedding," he adds.
You can see the mistake he made there.
Plautis screams for his bodyguard and runs away, at which point something awesome happens. It's tricky to make out in the above screenshot, but just as I plough my axe into Zappa's chest, one of the Khajit appears from behind him and skewers the poor guy at the same time as he yells a racist insult at me. Good ol' cat folk! We odd character classes stick together.
I find Plautis again. He calmly tells me about the wedding. Again. I remind him that I was the murderous Orc who attacked his party approximately three seconds ago. He recalls this in vivid detail, screams, and runs away.
One of my Khajit brothers gives chase, and I join him. I don't want to let loose with arrows in case I hit my feline friend, and because I'm wearing heavy armour I never quite catch up to them with my axe. As such, we end up running across the Skyrim countryside for hours in what must look to everyone we pass like some kind of mad Benny Hill parody.
Eventually the Khajit gives up and I catch up with Plautis. I apologise for the hostility, reassure him that I mean him no harm and wish him all the best for the wedding.
Nah, only kidding. I bludgeon him to death and take the wedding gifts.
Anyway, I've run so far I've ended up well beyond Whiterun and at some obscure fortress called Fellglow keep. It's still not dawn, either, so I decide to poke around. I instantly regret my decision as a fireball fhwomps past my head, missing me by inches - the fhwomper in question is a Flame Atronach who's spotted me from a rock outcropping.
That's a bit disconcerting. How hard are Flame Atronachs to kill? Perhaps I should hightail it out of here...
No. That's not the Way of the Orc. I might have started this blog being on fire, but that's not how it's going to end. I side step the next few fireballs, inching my way towards the Atronach, trying to get within swinging range. I also take preventative measures by drinking some Fire Resistance potio... oooooh.
I guess I did regret selling those potions. Well, the Fire Resistance potions would have been handy right now, but at least I got a pretty penny for the useless Ice Resistance ones. As for the Drain Magicka, they'd only be useful if I was fighting a number of magical enemies - won't be necessary for just one Atronach, right?
Oh hello, Ice Mage. You're looking rather... predictable this evening.
Waaarg barely gets two steps towards his foes before his weathered Orc face is blasted by both fire and ice. With his health rapidly draining with each blow, he dodges as many elemental attacks as his gigantic frame will allow him to before getting close enough to swing his axe at the first enemy.
What happens next is somewhat of a blur.
Waaarg feels his axe connect, but suddenly the world switches from murky darkness to long-overdue daylight.
The Orc fighter feels warmth on his face; not from one of the Atronach's firebolts as he was bracing himself for, but a pleasant warmth which feels calming against his green skin.
The battle cries of his enemies fade, replaced by the sound of wind gently blowing through a meadow. His battle armour which has served him so well for so long is still present, but feels eerily weightless now.
He smiles, knowing exactly where he is.
Waaaarg has earned his place on the Fields of Elysium, and with a fond farewell, this is where we must leave him.Thanks so much for reading.
