Securing the Forgemaster’s Fingers was not as straightforward as I had hoped. When Arob had marked my map, I had assumed she was marking a trading post. It turned out to be a fortress held by Reach natives. Why those skraelings and their hagravens should be stockpiling the stuff is a mystery to me. Perhaps necromancy is chafing to the talons.
Through means I’d rather not discuss, I was able to secure a pair of “gauntlets”, and returned to Dushnikh Yal via a very decent road that was not marked at all on my map. Wish I had known that road was there for the trip out; I could have saved myself some hair-raising bushwacking, but hey, that’s why the world needs surveyors, isn’t it?
Arob allowed me through the gates, and I was granted the honor of presenting my tribute to Chief Burguk, who granted me the title of Blood Kin to the orcs. To further gain their trust, I agreed to a fist fight with Burguk and allowed him to beat the crap out of me, after which I was accepted by the tribe as one of their own.
I think I owe my sanity to Murbul, the wisewoman of the tribe. Here’s a transcription of our conversation:
MURBUL: I am Burguk’s mother, and I am the tribe’s wisewoman.
ME: You are an alchemist?
MURBUL: Orc poisons are to be feared, if you wish to trade.
ME: I actually wish to trade in knowledge, wise mother. Would you tell me about your people?
MURBUL: Our people have been in Skyrim longer than the nords. Our way is simple. All work to make the tribe strong. Only the bravest are allowed to lead and to marry. Wisewomen like myself are mothers of chieftains. We guide the tribe and advise as to what is most pleasing to Malacath.
I pulled out my rolling papers and a pinch of purple mountain weed.
MURBUL: You smoke the purple mountain flower?
ME (grimacing): It’s not my first choice.
MURBUL: “You’d rather it was tobacco?”
Trumpets sang in my head. “Do you have any?” I asked excitedly.
“No,” she said bluntly. “It doesn’t grow in our climate. I know of it because of my second son, Ghorbash.” She indicated a large orc working out in the yard against a practice dummy. “He returned from the Legion with the craving.” She watched me trying to roll my cigarette. My fingers shook and I spilled my herbs on the alchemy table. “Does that work for you?” she asked.
“Takes the edge off,” I told her. “For a little bit. I smoke it almost faster than I can collect it.”
She nodded. “I’ll show you what I did for Ghorbash. It’ll last longer and your smell won’t alert your enemies to your presence.”
She took my herbs from my hand, laid them in a mortar and mixed them with honeycomb. She heated that in the calcinator until it bubbled and created a tough purple wad. She pinched a small bit of this off and gave it to me. “Chew it but don’t swallow it. It’s sweet,” she told me.
I put it in my mouth and gnawed on it, and felt instantly calmer and more energetic. I took a moment to relish the sensation, and then smiled at her. “I am in your debt,” I told her. “How can I repay you for this?”
“Two hundred ninety septims,” she said promptly. I turned my purse inside out. I did not have the money. She waved that off. “I need nothing that you have. Pay it back to someone of my family.”
I could only spend two days there, interviewing various tribal members and putting together rough notes for my ethnography of them. Before I left, I agreed to deliver Gharol’s sword to her daughter in Karthwasten. I figure that doubles Murbul’s request by doing something nice for two at once.
Here is my rough draft introduction to my ethnography:
“Since the sacking of modern Orsinium, the strongholds have been considered the centers of orsimer traditionalism. The strongholds are collective, tribal, utopian communities based on Malacathism. Their economic base includes mining, hunting, smithing, small-scale agriculture, alchemy and tanning. In 4E201, there were 4 strongholds in Skyrim. Their mines and industries account for 9% of Skyrim’s economic output, worth $800 thousand septims.”
I think it’s a good start. I intend to go into mating practices and child-rearing, the Code of Malacath, blood-price, and the unstable role of adult males who are traditionally considered rivals of the chief. Speaking of which, I finally managed to hire an assistant. Ghorbash the Iron Hand is the brother of Chief Burguz, and thus, one of those subordinate male orcs whose position is so precarious in the hierarchy. He is perhaps not the scientific wingman I had in mind, but as far as protection goes, he’s probably the next best thing to a werewolf. Most importantly, I intend to interview him extensively on the road.
Our working relationship started out a bit rocky. I handed him my collection of artifacts to carry, and he understood them to be gifts. Next thing I knew, he was wearing my collection of Reach native war-garb and melting down my dwemer artifacts for the forge. I quickly explained to him that these bits of dwemer culture were the only clues we had to their ancient wisdoms, and that we had to deliver them to a famous scholar in Markarth. He seemed amused by my explanation, but put the remaining decorative struts into his pack readily enough. After that, I didn’t feel comfortable explaining to him that I hadn’t meant to give him the Reachmen’s garb either. Best to let him think I honored him with gifts. Gods know, we’ll probably have a chance to collect some more before we get out of this region. We leave in the morning to find the Hag Rock benchmark that marks the border triple point between Skyrim, Hammerfell and High Rock.
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