"Go ahead, Rok. Tell us your story."

Rok' Nar was seated around a blazing campfire with three other adventurers; A tall, slender Redguard man, a quiet Breton sorceress, and a fierce looking Breton man clad in heavy steel. The Redguard man's name was Garold. He was an ex-thief who decided to go adventuring once he realized gold could only make you so happy in life. The sorceress did not mention her name. Her real one, at least. The men had come to call her "Whisper", as she rarely spoke and when she did, it often went unheard without trying to hear it. The three men were rather surprised when she spoke up long enough to speak about her own past. She spent most of her life indoors, all longings of magical teachings being suppressed by her parents until one day, she snuck out and found the mages guild. They graciously took her in and taught her their ways. Today she still works for them, though she enjoys delving into unknown reaches and caverns whenever she has the time. Finally, there was the male Breton, by the name of Ernand. His story was short and to the point. He was there to destroy the evil that purges the land. Nothing more, nothing less.

The time for storytelling had been passed through the entire group, save for Rok' Nar. Over the nights the adventurers had spent together, he had always evaded the topic of his past. It was not something he spoke of frequently.

"C'mon, what are you waiting for?" Garold asked impatiently. "We've been waiting for three days now to hear your story. We've been open with you, it's about time you were open with us. Besides, it's not like were gonna go around Daggerfall spreading the word or anything." He teased.

Shifting his weight uncomfortably, Rok' Nar looked at the rather energetic man. "My discomfort with sharing my past has nothing to do with you, it's just..." He took a moment to find his words. "It is not an easy subject to reflect on."

Garold plastered a rather exaggerated frown on his face, though he said nothing in reply. From the silence, Whisper timidly looked up. "They say talking about what troubles you can help ease the pain..." Her words drifted like a breeze in the night air.

"Go ahead, Orc." Ernand grunted. "We are friendly faces. There aren't too many of those around,so use them while you still can."

Rok' Nar let out a grunt of his own. "Fine. If you all want to hear it this bad, who am I to refuse? Find a good seat though, this could be a long one..." With a deep breath, he began to tell his personal tale.

From an early age I was always a fighter. I got into scraps on a near daily basis in Betnikh. To you that might make it sound like I was a problem child. Maybe that might brand me as one in Glenumbra, but among orcs that sort of thing is praised and encouraged. Well, if you win, that is. Fortunately for me I was the winner in every case. My elders praised my combat abilities, despite their crude form and poor execution. I was strong and tough, but knew nothing about the art of battle. My parents saw this, as well as my actions. They made arrangements to send me to train in Stonetooth Fortress, just as the troops would do. I began my training alone, save for one officer to mentor me. He taught me to bear two handed weaponry of all types, as well as the more defensive style of the sword and shield. It was obvious that I took a shine to heavy warhammers, which is what I still prefer to use to this day. After only a week of practice, my mentor thought it a good idea to have me practice sparring against the soldiers who trained across the courtyard from me. At age twelve, I was the youngest orc in the encampment to be training with the troops.

I was not undefeated there, however. These fully grown orcs were easily twice my size, and despite my new knowledge of battle, it often came down to brute force. I slipped by with a few wins here and there, but was almost always defeated. I was annoyed at myself for losing, but the irritation turned to resentment towards my mentor, the officer who sent me to face them. How could she honestly expect me to fight them? This resentment stewed and grew heavier with each loss, until finally, after a streak of five consecutive beat downs, I had had enough. I stormed towards my officer, letting out all of the rage I had contained for weeks on end. A childish fit of curses and noise ensued. Guards turned to stare at us. Soldiers stopped sparring, probably wondering what was going on. By the time I was finished, I was nearly frothing at the mouth. My breaths were heavy, and I was still on the edge of rage. My "mentor" did not seem to care. She looked over my scowling figure, before growling out a response.

"Age is a number, and a number only. Enemies do not wait, nor do they care about how old you are. They will slaughter you no matter your level of training or strength." I never did forget those words. They were words of great wisdom, and experience. In fact, they are something that I have kept in my mind to this very day. I only wish that I had realized their worth at the time.

In my unreasonable temper, these words only caused more anger. The only reason I did not attack her on the spot was because of the amount of guards around us. Even my addled brain could foresee the outcome of that. No, I let it simmer once more, the resentment greater than ever. I wish I could have known what was to come...

The next day, I showed up for training on time, with a defiant look on my face. I carried out each of my mentor's instructions without so much as a single word. The only sounds I made all day were the grunts and roars of combat. From then on, my days grew even worse. I failed to win even a single matchup most days, coming home with new injuries every night. Still, I remained silent. I could not tell whether my mentor wanted this, or simply put up with the 'silent treatment' I provided her. She was always a difficult read, that one. My silence was not to be mistaken with acceptance, however. No, no, I hated every day, every moment in her presence. The only thing that got me through was sheer determination, and the fiery will of my parents.

After weeks more of torment, at least, what I took to be torment at the time, I had improved greatly. I was bested most of my foes, executing bone-shattering force combined with exact precision. At the time I found my strength in my defiant nature, urging myself to prove everyone wrong. Looking back, I know that my mentor was smarter than she let on. I feel now that this was a planned method by her. Despite what I think now, my younger self did not for one second give his mentor any credit for his improvement. He hated her just as much as he had the day he lashed out.

It was on a day like any else when it happened. I was sparring with one of the other officers at the time. I had surpassed training with the regular swordsmen, they had become no match for me. This particular fight had been dragging on for a considerably longer time than most. We parried, dodged, and danced around our little ring of battle for what seemed like an eternity, until finally we met in the center. Just as our weapons clashed, trying to overtake the other, we heard the horn blasts. They sounded loud and long. They could only mean one thing. We were under attack.

"To arms! Find your squadrons, get to your posts! Families, get indoors! Do not come out until the horn blasts once more!" Orders were being barked out left and right as a surprised regiment scrambled for proper equipment. Training weaponry would do no good, of course. In all the confusion, I saw more than a few soldiers with missing pieces of equipment; Probably in too much of a rush to fully prepare themselves.I found myself in a near daze. We were under attack? Who could possibly be attacking us? These thoughts were rushing through my mind until my mentor snapped me out of my trance.

"Rok' Nar!" She shouted into my face. I could hear weaponry clanging and crashing. Arrows were being loosed. "It seems there is no time for proper admission to our regiment. I am appointing you the rank of soldier, effective immediately! Now grab a weapon and some armor, and let's go! Our forces are being slaughtered on the western flank."

She explained the situation with great urgency as I ran around grabbing what gear I could from the armory. I payed no attention to her, as usual. All I knew was that I was being given permission to fight, and I was going to spill enemy blood. Once I was ready, my mentor and I along with six other men came storming from the courtyard. The scene was horrendous. Our guard had almost fallen entirely on the western side; Bodies strewn everywhere. The soldiers who slew them were unfamiliar to me. I had never seen their garbs before. However, it mattered little what I knew. The only thing I needed was their heads. I charged ahead of my allies, bashing through three enemies like a battering ram. For once, my young age assisted me. After all, who would expect a mere boy to strike like this?

As the battle raged on, I could think very little. Everything was red. Whether it was blood seeping into my eyes or rage potent enough to cloud my vision, I still do not know. What I did know was that bodies fell wherever I went. Apparently my allies had rallied behind me, because whenever I glanced back, they were cleaning up the remainder. This made me smile when I saw it.

It seemed as though the enemy had stopped flowing in, and the last of their troops were here. This was a good sign. However, in my oblivious rampage, I failed to see my allies being pressed towards the cliffside. By the time I had mowed down the enemies around me and turned to see them, most were lying dead. My mentor and one other soldier were all that remained, surrounded by nearly ten enemies. Finally, they found themselves as close to the cliffside as they could get without falling over the edge. With an angry roar, I charged towards them.

Perhaps it was the surprise of a strike from behind, perhaps it was the surprise of being assaulted by a single boy with a warhammer far too big for his young body, but the enemy was caught completely off guard. A few turned to stop me, while the rest continued to pressure my allies. Two of the men who stood in my way fell quickly. As the third was slain, I glanced over to see my ally take a sword through his gut. He dropped to his knees, before falling back over the cliff. My mentor was still okay, though she was clearly struggling now with so many men attacking her and nowhere to move. I killed the last man in front of me and began to move to her position to help out. I was not doing it for her. I was doing it because there were enemies that needed to be killed.

Just before I could make it, my mentor lunged, running one of the enemies through with her blade. I thought this to be a nice move, until one of the others swept her legs out from under her. She fell to the ground and rolled off the edge of the cliff. My eyes widened as I saw her hand lash out and clutch the edge. She was hanging on. With a mighty charge from behind, I shoved three men off the side of the cliff, before whirling around to parry the final man's blow and pommel his skull with my warhammer. My battle rage must have been wearing off, because my limbs were becoming like logs of wood.

"Rok' Nar!" I heard a strained voice call to me from over the edge. "Please, I can't hold on! Pull me up!" I walked to the edge, peering down at her. Even now I did not speak.

"Quickly..." She pleaded. For the first time in my life, I saw great distress on her face. I started to reach down to grab her hand, but before I took hold... I stopped myself. Damn my arrogance! I still cannot forgive myself for my actions that followed.

As I looked upon her uniquely helpless face, I only found anger inside. I stood up once more, scowling softly as I watched her fingers begin to slip. I was not going to save her. I was going to make her pay for putting me through hell. Looking back, I hate how I thought as a child, even more than I hated her at the time. I was going to let my own kin, my sister in battle fall because of some selfish act of revenge.

"What are you doing? Help me!" She screamed, now clearly panicking. She cursed me more times than I care to recall in those last few seconds until... With one final wail of terror... She fell.

Rok' Nar looked visibly shaken as he returned his mind to the present. He stared deeply into the dancing flames of their campfire, sorrow strong enough to move objects emanating from him.

"I think that is all I am willing to tell tonight..." He said quietly.

Even the dramatic Garold was stricken by his past. "Yes... Take however much time you need, Rok... We can wait until tomorrow, or longer if you are not ready to share the rest." For once, there was no teasing, no mocking, no playfulness in his voice.

Shifting onto his side, Rok' Nar did his best to find a comfortable position to lay down and rest. "Perhaps tomorrow I will continue. Goodnight, friends."

"Goodnight." They replied softly.

After another long few days of travelling, the ragtag band of adventurers had settled around a campfire once more. The air was more brisk on this night, but nobody seemed to mind with the dancing flame in front of them to keep them warm. The wind was little more than a light breeze, to soft to notice. The ground was still moist from the rain that passed through the previous night while they slept.

It did not take Garold long to run out of patience as the group sat in silence. He turned to Rok, impatience plastered on his features. "It has been nearly a week now, Rok. When are you going to tell us the rest of your story?"

Rok frowned, staring into the fire. "Look, I think I've said more than enough-"

"Oh, c'mon. You've told us so much already, what sense is there in keeping the rest a secret? It makes no difference now."

Ernand nodded in agreement with Garold. Throughout their travels, this seemed to be the only thing those two could ever agree on. "Go ahead. Finish what you've started.

"Fine, fine! I don't know what it is with you all and your insatiable hunger to hear about my past, but if you want it so bad... I guess there would be no harm in continuing." With a heavy sigh, and a few moments of shifting around, Rok began to continue his story.

Some people say everything happens for a reason. I used to doubt the saying. As time passes, however, I have a harder time denying it each time I hear the phrase. Even in my darkest hour, my most dishonorable point, I still see the wisdom behind the saying. Had I not done the horrible things I did, I would not be who I am today. My regret and exile completely changed me. Repentance for my actions were what drove me for so long, and even now still do, to some extent. I -- Bah, I am getting ahead of myself. Back to my story.

The battle had died down now. It took me some time to settle enough to look back and observe the slaughter that had only just taken place. The enemy's bodies were not the only ones staining the fields. Far from it, in fact. More Orsimer bodies than I ever want to think about littered the land around me. However, it was not the deaths themselves that bothered me. Those Orcs fell in battle, how could one ask for a more honorable death? No, what bothered me came slowly, at first. As I walked through the sea of fallen warriors, I started to notice things. Their eyes were what disturbed me the most. Every Orsimer that fell that day lay with eyes wide open. I know that you tend to find the dead with eyes open, but something was... Off. They were wide, as though stricken with fear. Orcs fear nothing, or so I had thought. Every terrified gaze I saw sent a chill through my spine. What caused them to fear like this? How could they all share the exact same expression of horror? Before long, curiosity took hold of me. I started to examine the bodies more closely, wondering if something caused this that was still on them.

I searched for some time. While I found nothing overly unusual, I did notice that many bodies did not even appear too heavily wounded. Many of the injuries looked far from fatal. Confusion was rising like a storm within me. Just as I was about to give up and head home, however, it happened. Slowly a dark, shadowy essence seemed to leak from my fallen kin. Gradually, the shadowy leaks increased to steady streams. After a few seconds, the shadows began to rise. They morphed and twisted through the air, almost as though they were shaping themselves into something. I clutched my weapon tighter, though I was lucky there was no fight to be had. I had none left in me at the time. I watched the shadows until at last they stopped moving. I was greatly disturbed by what I saw before me. Every pool of shadow that escaped the bodies of the fallen Orcs had taken shape, but not just any shape. They looked exactly like those who had died. They we're shadowy apparitions of every last Orc on the field. To my great discomfort, they we're all eerily silent. And then they began to move. With silent footsteps, the army of risen shadows walked away from Stonetooth Fortress, in the direction that the unknown enemy had attacked from. Not a single one made even the slightest sound. They ignored me entirely as I looked on with horror and fascination. Why was any of this happening? None of it made sense. At long last, the army passed, fading away the more distant they grew from me. Shaking my head to snap back to reality, I began to run for the Fortress.

Things did not get any better when I arrived at the walls. One of the guards, a female orc, saw me and called out with disgust. "You!" She sneered. "We heard what you did, you..." She seemed to be at a loss for words, using every last shred of willpower to prevent herself from lashing out at me. With a deep breath, she pointed in the direction of the castle, growling, "You are to speak with the Chieftain. Now." At the time, I thought nothing of this. In fact, I had hoped to speak with our Chieftain about what I had only just seen a few minutes ago. As defiant and arrogant as ever, I did not care that the guard knew of what I had done. I regretted nothing. I rushed off to the castle as quick as I could from there, not even stopping at my home. Little did I know, I was walking into my own trial.

When I arrived at the castle, those within were waiting for me with looks of distrust and hatred in their eyes. I slowed my pace to a walk, approaching the Chieftain who was watching me from the far end of the main hall. Once I drew near enough, he stopped me, motioning for me to kneel. I complied, waiting for what he had to say.

"Rok'Nar, son of Grolgum. You have committed crimes against your own clan on this day. You have dishonored your family's name, and smeared their history for centuries to come. You let a fellow warrior fall to her death, hardly an honorable way to die. Not only that, but she was your mentor, your teacher!"

"My Chief, my mind was not my own, I-"

"Did I ask you to speak, traitor? You are not worthy of words, especially not in this place." He scowled at me, before continuing. "I should kill you for this. The only reason I do not, is because you are not even worthy of death by the hand of an Orc. No, that would be too good for you. Instead, I banish you from the island of Betnikh. I cast you out to the softskins of the mainland. You are stripped of your clan and family names. You are no longer a Stonetooth. You are to leave all of your belongings behind."

I could not believe the words I was hearing. Perhaps you might think exile to be much better a punishment than death, but in our society, exile is a thousand times worse. We live by Malacath's code of honor. Having our name stripped is the greatest dishonor one could bear. We live and die to honor the clan. An Orc without a clan is nothing.

"You will leave with the next ship that leaves. If you are not on it when it does, we will kill you on sight. Now, get your filth out of my castle. Wait at the docks until it is time to set sail."

I wanted to argue, I wanted to defend myself, but I could find no words that would not make things worse. I knew that speaking of what I saw that day would only make people think I was trying to find excuses to stay. With my gaze pinned to the ground beneath me, I exited the castle. I left my maul in the courtyard, along with me armor. Nobody said even a single word to me as I dragged my feet to the docks. Not even my family. Why would they? I tainted their name, which was no longer mine. I was no longer a part of their family, as far as they were concerned.

As the ship I was to take to the mainland began to depart, there were no family, no friends waving goodbye. There was little more than looks of anger on the faces of the few near the docks. I heard a few people call out "Finally, the traitor is gone." It was there, during the painfully slow days of sailing, that I began to feel the first glints of regret. It was there that I begun to realize just what I had done, and what I threw away.