[center][i][b]Sun's Height 19[/b][/i][/center] [hr] Farid was angry. To be precise, he was a mess. Standing disheveled early morning in a shabby, cold tent, he hurled objects angrily at invisible demons. It wasn't the dumb prank two rouges of the company pulled last night, as much as he loved mead, lusted after Roze's body and hated Sagax's face, he really couldn't care less about any of them. He thought about finding that Imperial kid and clubbing his ugly teeth in, but decided the consequences weren't worth it. No, how he wish it would simply be him and giving back on his headache and theft. Instead, the news had to ruin his day, and with what he had in mind, probably the rest of his life. But it would be worth it, Farid thought. In times like these before, he would be confused, alone in making the biggest decisions in his life. That wasn't the case now. Mehm found him, counseled him and acted as the father figure he never had. He dug out the letters from his bag, beside a drawing of his siblings he paid too much for, and re-read their familiar contents. He was a Redguard, descendant of the proud Ra Gada that carved a trail of blood through arrogant elves and primitive Orcs. Yes, the Orcs were, and still are, nothing more than mindless, murderous brutes. Mehm couldn't have said it better. Ever since they first met in the staging area at Rorikstead, Farid received a total of three letters; one before the Windhelm siege, one before Winterhold and one yesterday, when he came back. He remembered the bold and forward-thinking mercenary, remembered his Vanguards (and the tale of their rivalry against Ashav) and most of all, the tactics and mentality that gave him a confident triumph when others quivered in front of snow demons. Most importantly, he remembered Dragon Gate. He was the eldest of five children, born of an heiress who all but squandered away her wealth. He was practically the guardian of his brothers and sisters; Haraas, Turpen and Abujah. His birth father never existed, and his "step-fathers" were gold diggers only caring for his mother's wealth. Farid vowed to return one day, a glorious warrior rescuing his closest from that wretched little town. That day would never come. "Are you alright?" Came the meager question of Dough-Boy. Farid snorted, how could he be? "Eat shit." He spat at the kid. Useless fool, running errands for the even more useless and foolish Madura. Farid strapped the armiger dagger and the snake-charmer's flute to his belt. How ironic, he thought as he stumbled away, his deed would be done with his dead enemies' weapons. Perhaps he would have another by the time... "No!" Farid smashed his fist into a wooden wall. He wanted nothing to do with the monster's vile tools. [hr] Orakh just woke and had his morning piss. There was a copy of the [i]Tamrielic Gazette[/i] by his doorsteep when he came back. He shut off the door of his Windpeak Inn room door and sat down to read it. As always, the reporters had the typical doom and gloom stories. He was old and really no stranger to how shit this world could be. Then his eyes popped wide open when it came to the Dragontail Mountains. "Lurbuk!" The old man exclaimed. Setting his mug down, he choked on the tea, suddenly aware how his throat burned. Then the door flew wide open; someone just kicked it off half its hinges. "What?!" Orakh barely had time to shout. He stood up in shock, realizing this wasn't Thoring going mother hen about check out time. "Orakh!" Farid snarled from the doorway. "You are the mentor of a butcher!" The Redguard jabbed his finger forcibly at the article. "I'm your huckleberry." The Orc responded. His wrinkled eyes seemed to fight a war of their own against Farid. "They're all dead because of you! Every single innocent, all my family!" Farid broke down and howled like a mad beast. "You made a killer, you are a killer! You would fucking leave me to drown and teach mindless savages to cut down the helpless!" Farid continued cry, but no one seemed to hear him, everyone else was probably sleeping off hangovers in this wee hour. "I know what you are, what you Orcs all are! Mehm told me. By Morwha, by Onsi, by Tava, by damned Talos, I'll avenge them!" "Ain't got no time for your news story." Orakh remained stoic. He made not a sliver of movement. "And I sure as Oblivion don't get what you want." He added with an apathetic shrug. "Your last words." Now it became crystal clear what Farid would do. Orakh knew it a moment too late. Should he been more alert, he would have retrieved his axe from the container and forced his way out. But Farid already pulled out his weapons, but Orakh could still get out. He said nothing and launched himself foward without warning. He hoped to knock Farid down with an elbow. It didn't work. Farid caught the elbow with his off hand and twisted it perpendicular to where Orakh charged. Aged tendons immediately snapped as pain stopped the Orc's momentum dead in its tracks. Farid then dived back, shoulder ramming into chest as he tackled Orakh into a chair, breaking it. Farid delivered knuckles, elbows, knees and headbutts amid wood splinters. When he made sure Orakh couldn't fight back, he pulled the bloodied Orc to his knees and crossed the flute and dagger in front of his throat. "Make it quick." Orakh sneered, coughing up splutters of blood and teeth. "You don't deserve it." Farid retorted. He raised his dagger up, but switched it with the flute instead. It would be fitting for Orakh to meet his end not on a weapon, but an instrument instead. Farid huffed at the thought of killing, no, he wasn't killing, he was doing justice. This was no man, what he faced was a monster like the Kamals. He would finish it with something that made music; perhaps this very deed would be enshrined in a song. Farid stabbed the sharp end of the flute deep into neck tissues, past the jugular and straight into the windpipe. Orakh gurgled, but Farid dragged the flute in grinding pace from right to left. Halfway through, the flute refused to go, so the Redguard threw it out. He stepped back to witness his handiwork; a pool of blood and an old man clenching his throat hopelessly, body twiching in its last sign of life. Farid felt dread, like a mixture of fire and ice occupying his mind. He killed more than most ever would, but this felt wrong, it felt like he killed a part of himself. Farid shook his head from side to side, in a daze, he could swear he saw Orakh's eyeballs gazing past his soul, into the Ashpits of Oblivion. Hardening his resolve as best as he could, Farid finished the cut with his dagger. Farid collapsed beside Orakh's limp body. He felt blank, as if the elements finally eroded his entire mind. Blood and tear mixed in his hands and the green Orc head rocked on a half-severed neck. He should feel like a hero, but as he pondered the first kill of his own volition, one that came personal rather than money, he felt like an animal. What did he do? Mindless and empty, Farid wanted to die. The words that came sounded like a thousand mile away. Dough-Boy was dragging a weary Ashav and his lieutenants to Orakh's room. None of them were prepared see what rounded the doorway. Farid leaped to his feet, dagger pointed defensively outwards and his feet carried him back against the wall. He heard Dough-Boy recounting what he spied on, and they wanted to get inside. "Back off!" Farid screamed. Patrons of the inn started to wake now; they gathered to watch the spectacle. Edith was the first one to step beyond the threshold. She triggered Farid to point his dagger at her. She stepped again, this time, Farid sagged. The dagger blade was spun around and pointed to its owner's heart. Edith reacted quicker in end, faster than Farid could stab himself, the Nord woman had dashed in and disarmed him. Daelin followed right behind, tripping Farid to the ground and tying up his hands with ropes. "Get out here, nothing to see!" Ashav cordoned off the room and shoved back a small crowd of onlookers. He even made sure Thoring didn't intrude. When only members of his company were left, Ashav let out a heavy sigh. "What are we going to do?"