Oblivion: Duel at the Gates

Timeline: Near the End of Episode 15

            Fang took a few ragged breaths, glancing around worriedly. The sun bore down on him, and he was afraid of what it would look like, with he and the ground around him streaked with the blood of the two dead Redguards. He sighed, wiping the blood off of his fine elven dagger with his glove.

            He rolled his shoulder and reached up to rub his neck. The outlaws hadn’t caught him off-guard, but they had outnumbered him, and the big one’s hammer had came down hard on his shoulder. He reached into his satchel and uncorked a potion, taking a swig as he knelt down near the Redguard woman. The potion was frothy and foul-tasting, but it was the best he could manage. “Bleagh.” He spat nearby, hoping to get some of the taste from his mouth, when he thought he saw… something flicker through the air. “What the…”

            Wham! He flew to the side, mind spinning, his dagger spiraling from his grasp. The blur struck at him again, a blade cutting across his shoulder. He yelled in pain, stumbling across the ground and readying his shield to catch the next blow. What in the world was even happening?!

            He pushed forward against the blade, world still spinning around him as he dove towards the shape, knocking it against a nearby tree. That seemed to knock the enchantment off it, and he saw an angry orcish woman, dressed in furs and leather, and wielding a scimitar. “You’ll join them in death, furlicker!” she yelled, kicking back against his shield, knocking him back once more.

            Fang tumbled backwards, but caught himself, his world finally beginning to come back into focus. “Friends of yours, then?” he slurred as he scrambled across the ground, grabbing his dagger. She charged forward, bringing the scimitar down on him. He parried with the dagger. The scimitar may have had weight backed by orcish muscle, but the dagger was of fine elven steel, and Fang had learned a lot about blocking and parrying from training in Skingrad. He tilted the blade, and her force was used against her. He swung around, slamming his shield against her sword arm. That Fadus Calidius had known his stuff; it worked like a charm, and she yelped in pain, dropping the weapon.

            His days back in Elseweyr rushed back to him here, and he couldn’t keep the sneer off his face. “Not so tough without your blade, are you greenskin?”

            She whipped back around, and fire flickered across her forearms. “Don’t think me helpless without a sword!” She swung her arm around, and Fang instinctively jumped back to avoid the lash of flame. She used the time to get back on her feet, and then sent a ball of fire into him. The impact forced him stumbling, and singed his armor, but arcane energies whipped around him, absorbing it.

            She didn’t seem to notice. “I am a shaman, and will use my crafts to suck the life from your flesh!” She charged forward and grabbed his neck while he was still dazed. Her grip was strong, as one would expect from an orc. If she had used solely that, maybe she would fared better. But she wanted Fang to suffer, and coils of dark magic arced down her arm to his neck, hoping to suck out his life force.

            It was only then she noticed Fang’s grin, and the arcane sparks that rebuffed her spell. Dropping his shield, he reached up with his now free hand, dug his claws into her arm, and returned the favor: he knew the spell to drain one’s life to replenish his own as well. She groaned at the sudden drain, but then remembered her own strength.

            There was a long, tense moment. Fang’s magic, rapidly weakening without her supplying anymore, barely able to keep him afloat by draining her energy, and her strong hand choking him, keeping the air from his lungs. He lashed forward wildly with his dagger as his vision clouded, and she released him with a feral yell. He felt the warm splash of blood against him, vaguely, as he fell backwards, gasping in a deep breath.

            “Aagh, curse the stars of your birth!” she yelled, holding her side. As she struggled to retain her composure, Fang shook his head. His vision cleared, and he gripped the dagger tightly. “Curse them all you want,” he spat. “But mine were clearly better than yours.”

            I really have to stop insulting orcs, Fang thought as her eyes blazed with fury. Smoke seemed to coalesce around her hand, and then a daedric dagger was in its place, and she stood to her full height. Even a female orc made Fang feel small… and then she charged at him, wound be damned, aiming to cut him to ribbons with the conjured weapon.

            Fang stepped to the left, getting low, and readied himself. The orc's mistake was conjuring a dagger. Daggers weren’t weapons of mad, brutish strength. They were best used with a certain subtlety, with finesse. As she got close he thrust his free arm straight out, and while she managed to rip the curved dagger across it, forcing a pained roar from his lips, his palm struck home, slamming into her gut, probably close to the wound he’d given her only a few seconds earlier. She bent forward, both as a product of pain and momentum.

            He didn’t hesitate to seize the opportunity. He pulled his free arm back, brought it around to her back, and then jabbed his blade into her stomach. She howled in pain, and tried to move back and away, but with a struggle he kept her on the blade. Finally she threw him off, and he took a few steps back, readying for another charge… but it didn’t come. She instead staggered a couple of feet before falling to the ground, moaning, clutching her stomach.

            Fang glared at her, knowing he had two options here. Part of him wanted to slit her throat, or worse, leave her here to die of a painful stomach wound. That’s how he would’ve acted in Elseweyr. That’s the way things worked there.

            … But it wasn’t the way they needed to work here.

            He knelt down, holding the dagger at ready, and took a potion from his belt. He uncorked it, slathered it onto his hand, and rubbed it over the wound. She screamed. He took off another potion, one of the especially foul ones, and placed it near her. She looked up at him, eyes of a mix of confusion and rage.

            “I won’t shed a tear if you die,” he hissed. “But if you do, that’s your fault. Not mine.”

            He stood, and winced as he turned away. Blood was dripping down his arm from a couple gashes, but he didn’t feel he could risk sitting here for too long. He searched the coinpurse of her dead comrades, then spotted the scimitar she’d dropped early on. He grabbed that… it was a decent enough blade. A bit heavy for his tastes, maybe, but it would at least sell well.

            He glanced back over his shoulder, and held up the sword with his good arm. “This?” he said, making sure she saw. “This is payment for the potions.”

            “Fuck your potions!” she yelled at him, livid.

            “Do what you like with them, but I’m still taking this sword,” he said, and began to walk away. She roared curses upon him from a distance, but they were just words… and he was close enough to the Imperial City now that, even if she did get up and running, she would have guards to contend with.

            Had he done a good thing there? A bad thing? Who could know? But Fang sighed, finally getting far enough away to uncork another potion. As he soaked a rag with it to use on his arm, he thought… well, he thought he probably broke even. Today, at least.