[i][u][b]Anatomy Lesson[/b][/u][/i]
 
 The meeting had ended, but Durzum still felt discourse in his stomach. He stood at the edge of a slapped together fire, arms crossed, eyes locked on the lapping tongues of flame. Conversations were drowned out by the noise of his own thoughts and emotions. Doubt hovered now at the edges of his soul, prodding at him; its frayed edges felt wrong, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit. He often wished he could simply cut himself open and spill it out. Durzum felt a sudden weight on his foot- merely someone's misplaced hand, but it snapped him out of it. 
 
 [i]"This is no way to spend the eve of battle,"[/i] he thought to himself. The sentiment was a familiar one; several times had Durzum found a Voshu gazing at the horizon or a flame, eyes locked on nothing far away. His thoughts spilled into the Wrothgarian Mountains, then to Bruk giving orders, then- 

Durzum shook his head- felt his tongue jostle in his mouth and his cheeks wobble. Tightened his fists and relented a few times. Steadied his bouncing heel. It was the eve of battle, but Durzum's conflict began now. Wordlessly, he turned from the fire, paused a moment to appreciate the heat on his neck, and retreated to his tent. Pulling back the rough hewn flap, he took quick stock of his mace, shield, and pack. Crouching at the lattermost, he fished around until he felt an odd textured metal. His Voshu token, a septim, one side blackened. 

Emboldened, Durzum felt a new lump of frustration growing, aimed at his doubt. This conflict of soul was ending [i]tonight[/i]; to march tomorrow otherwise would tarnish both the Voshu and Trinimac. Durzum wrapped his fingers around the haft of his mace, pulling it so the weapon now laid across his lap as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the tent. This was a technique he favored: to sift through scenes from his life that reminded him of how and why he ended up here as he bespoke Trinimac for wisdom by reciting the temple creed. "Like the burning of dry fields," Durzum muttered to himself. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he began:
[hr]
[quote][i]'Never let your trials burden you, for from your conflicts you shall be transformed-'[/i][/quote]

"Durzum! Don't run near the traders! We've discussed this, boy-" the voice of his father boomed. It was one of his earliest memories. It was a brisk autumn day; the enticing scent of Grasza's roast permeated through and around the tight grouping of squat stone hovels along the main road through the city. The young Orsimer boy looked up confusedly at his burly, iron-clad father, then over to a thinner, beige-skinned man, loosely holding the leather reins of a barrel-laden, horse-drawn cart. The sudden roar from his father made the young Durzum forget his intention of petting the horses. 

Moghul, axes at either hip, raised a quick apologetic hand towards the stranger. Looking over, Durzum saw a flicker of emotion dance across the Imperial's face- fear. The young Orsimer felt something sink. He had been taught the stigma the other races leveled at Orcs, but this was the first time he had ever [i]seen[/i] it. Perhaps the displeasure came from an early realization that what he had been taught was true, or perhaps he was simply upset because the [i]trader[/i] was upset. Either way, Durzum felt [i]he[/i] was wrong. That [i]he[/i] had done something, oblivious to the fact that to this Imperial, Moghul was nothing more than an addled barbarian looking for any reason to make him pay Blood Price. 

[quote][i]'The Eternal Champion will chisel away your coarseness-'[/i][/quote]

"By the Code of Malacath, I would fight you to defend my honor!"

Durzum was still young, but his voice was now deep. He stood on one of the short and wide temple steps, dressed in matted furs over itchy, simple clothing, hefting the weight of his smithing hammer in one coal-stained hand; Durzum was being taught the basics of the forge at the time, but he never took to it. His resentment for the Orsimer stigma had turned into hate when Moghul left Orsinium, and poured over into [i]lots[/i] of training. 

Durzum's mind was racing so fast, he [i]still[/i] doesn't recall what the other Orc had said, only that it stemmed from his worship of Trinimac against Durzum's worship of Malacath. He measured his opponent- the other Orc had a height advantage, but Durzum knew his own strength was superior. The other Orc obliged, but insisted only on using fists. No matter. 

[i]"Durzum, listen to me closely. We Orsimer have only our honor and our word. If we uphold those, Malacath will make us perfect."[/i] Moghul's words flashed through Durzum's head, calming him somewhat.  

Stepping forward, hands raised in a high guard, Durzum flicked a few jabs at the sodding pig-faced idiot across from him, looking to draw out a response he could counter. Luckily, his opponent bit- Durzum accurately read the torque in his hips, which meant a spin was coming. Deftly ducking under a spinning elbow, Durzum stepped in as he put his full force behind an uppercut- a bolt of pain shot down his arm from knuckles to elbow as he felt his opponent go limp. Durzum thought the gathered crowd would be cheering, but instead he found only a deafening silence. 

"Feel honorable now, heretic?" Someone in the crowd called. A mix of emotions settled onto Durzum- frustration at their lack of understanding, anger at their refusal to acknowledge victory or Blood Price, sorrow at the absence of glory. His face flushed with embarrassment; tears were beginning to well in the corners of his eyes. He had no one to turn to- a Malacath worshiper amongst a populace of Trinimac loyalists was wont for friendship, and Moghul had been gone for months now. That feeling of being [i]wrong[/i] was back, like a wad of wet blankets sloshing around his gut. In that moment, he hated everything- Malacath, himself, Moghul, the Orc whose crass comment started the whole ordeal. In his jog home, clutching his furs tight to his body, blinking away tears, Durzum made a promise to himself- he would prove to Orsinium, prove to [i]Malacath himself[/i] that he could be perfect. That [i]Orsimer[/i] could be perfect. They just need to follow the [i]Code[/i].

[quote][i]'Perfection will be yours, the sword of your God its vessel-'[/i][/quote]

A crack and a thud echoed throughout the dome-shaped chamber of the dark-stoned temple as a wooden head left its body and clattered along the floor far behind it. It came to a sudden stop as a burly, well-dressed Orc caught it underfoot.

"Nice hit, Durzum," Bruk said, smiling, rolling up the sleeves to his maroon tunic as he bent down to retrieve the now cracked lump of timber. Where once was carved a face now stood only a spider-webbed mess of splits and fractures. 

Durzum shrugged at the compliment. Should Bruk expect any less of him? He had been adamant in his training routine the last few years, which had only supplemented by their new guard duty. Even on days like today, when the smell of a torrential rain filled the temple halls, Durzum would wait until the clergy cleared and move his fletched dummies inside. The irony of a Malacath faithful training martial skills in a holy place of Trinimac wasn't lost on him, but it was just that- the temple was simply the largest indoor space around, and Durzum liked to measure how far he could make the heads roll. 

A slight chill slithered down Durzum's exposed back. Sweat came off of him in large droplets. 

"Maybe someday I'll have to come in here and treat myself to the real thing-" Durzum jested with a chuckle. Bruk gave a puff of a laugh as he took a few steps forward and tossed the cracked head into Durzum's arms. Had he not been using a training mallet, Durzum was confident the whole thing would've splintered. A few moments passed as Durzum plunked the severed block awkwardly back onto the body. 

"I mean it, you know. I've seen you train a few times in here. Your form could use work, but your sheer ferocity and determination are impressive."

Durzum shook his head. He was never good at accepting compliments. He always overthought what he should say in return to the point that he never would say anything at all. But this was a trait he admired in Bruk, the fact that he would speak so suddenly and poignantly about anything. Perhaps it was due to Bruk being the first true friend Durzum had made since he was a child, but compliments [i]meant[/i] something coming from him. He wasn't like the other Trinimac worshipers.

Bruk's hand clasped hard on Durzum's shoulder. 

"I know not what troubles you, Durzum, but I would be remiss to not share my admiration for your struggle. You've grown strong, and if I had a mere droplet of your determination I would be King tomorrow."

Durzum chortled, "Please, I'll never seek a crown, perfection's an easier goal."

"Durzum I don't think you understand- you've been following in the ways of Trinimac for a while now, you just need to..I don't know...[i]see[/i] it. You already [i]are[/i] perfect in his eyes."

The statement wormed through Durzum's brain down into his heart. His chest felt warm. Durzum had never made the connection before; he had long looked for what other Orcs saw in Trinimac, but Bruk had just made him realize it: they saw [i]themselves[/i]. Somehow, what Bruk just said felt [i]right[/i].

Durzum smiled. "Alright, [i]maybe[/i] I'll show up to the next sermon here." 

Not more than a month later, Durzum's mother kicked him out of the house and left Orsinium a week thereafter, likening her son to a cultist. 

[quote][i]'Take heart in your own strength. Take control of your own path. Take comfort in your own honor-'[/i][/quote]

Durzum's arms and legs were shaking- it was equal parts fatigue and the biting cold. His eyes remained locked on his boots as he followed in Bruk's footsteps through the deep snow of the Jerall Mountains. The aftermath of the Battle of Bruma was behind them, literally, but the two had shared little conversation during their day of travel afterwards. Durzum had spent the better part of the day in thought of what he had seen both leading up to and during the battle. 

"We owe Trinimac our lives, but I think this is a lesson," Durzum had said to Bruk, "honor is not strict codes of conduct. Honor is minimizing suffering." Bruk had remained silent.

Now under a small rocky outcropping that at least buttressed them against the icy winds, Durzum dropped his warhammer and fell to his hands and knees. His armor felt too tight; he felt so weak. His worldview was shattered. He and Bruk had come here looking to honor their God, but found something unholy instead. It all felt [i]wrong[/i] again. 

"You're right, Durzum. There is nothing holy in something that causes such torment." 

The supine Orsimer stretched his neck to look at Bruk, expecting him to be gazing out at the remains of the battlefield. Instead, he was gazing directly at Bruma. 
 
Bruk draped a weary hand over his face and tried to fight the memories; Refugees starved in the streets- some took to killing for food. Mothers and fathers screamed at the heavens for children they could never see again. Some would stare into the distance with cloudy eyes until disease, despair, or Daedra took them. All of this for a war they [i]won[/i]. This wasn't perfection, it was plague. 
[hr]
 
"In this, be perfected, and stand the unified and virtuous of Trinimac." Durzum whispered the final tenet of Trinimac to himself, taking a few more deep breaths afterwards. Opening his eyes, his gaze wandered from his mace to the token in his hand. His thoughts and doubts were seceding, at least for now. The reality of the morning was finally seeping in and he wanted something of a gameplan of his own. He thought of the Voshu goal- if even one person hears the tale of what will happen to Hruldan come the siege and acts more amicably, then this was all worth it. It [i]had[/i] to be worth it. 
 
[i]'The Count has a wife and two sons; I should seek their ends as well. Nothing would stoke the fires of conflict more than a deposed heir, let alone three.'[/i]
 
"The burning of a dry field."
 
Durzum felt [i]right[/i] again. All here would be transformed by the conflict- even Durzum. For he was Voshu Ornim, faith and steel, a worthy Orc.