#Half the intuitions Kicks is getting are from the Septim spirits and half are his memory trying to come back

[nine-blessed-hero]

An Odd Thing Happened on the Way to Anvil

CW Genre-typical mentions of violence, injury & blood; fantasy religion Universe: Vanilla Oblivion Comment: This is less of a fic and more of a description of events that I just needed out of my head. "Grilikamaug" = Shamen, Orcish. Or read on AO3

Kick's penance for marring his clean record and besmirching the good name of the Fighter's Guild is to be bumped back to Associate and sent off to Anvil for some rookie tasks. Quite frankly he's a bit insulted by that, but mostly he's just glad the Guildmaster didn't throw him out on his ass. He's definitely not a good enough mage to enter their guild…

As a shortcut, he's shlepped his way over the Colovian heaths, accidentally tangling with some bandits on the way. They were living on a handful of withered carrots and a cob of bread so hard it got used as a cosh, so now that he can spy the outline of Kvatch sitting high on its mount, his mouth wets with the thought of fresh game pie and a tot of Flin. It's not until he's halfway up the mount that a problem emerges. The perfect blue colovy sky darkens, turning an eerie shade of thunderous red. The wind, which should have a bracing nip, is warm and smells of egg and ash. It's further confirmed by the defences at Kvatch's gate and the burning oval – a portal, according to the guard who gives him the story and begs for aid.

He's not supposed to take contracts not approved by the Guild, but the sporadic waves of creatures that spew forth convinces him that there's no time to request permission. Especially not when his query into Kvatch's Guild chapter head is met with a shrug and, "I hope you weren't close," from another of the guards. So he agrees to see what can be done about closing this portal, because he's the freshest one here and there are no armies on the horizon. And because looking at the thing is making him feel nauseous and itchy. The kind of itch you get from a wound trying to heal.

–

When he stumbles into the church after closing the portal and helping Matius clear out the last of the creatures, he's bleeding from a dozen places in armour that's shot to hell. From his wet and ragged breathing, he thinks something's wrong internally too. There's a priest and a healer, but they're next to useless – already up to their armpits in other people's blood and magicka all tapped out. Kicks is told to pray at the altar to the divines, a prospect he views with some scepticism; Prince Mauloch, of course, has always been the orismer's patron. Still, it's better than bleeding out on the floor, so he does as bid and is pleasantly surprised when he feels the touch of the divines banishing his pains and woes. His armour's still shot to shit, but he'll take what he can get.

–

By the time Kicks has helped Matius take back Castle Kvatch, the Chapel survivors have been moved down to an encampment at the bottom of the mount. It is to here he carries Matius, the man's arm so mangled by the jaws of some hellish beast, he'll probably lose it.

The orismer smith won't take coin for the meager patch-job she wrangles on his armour – "Where would I spend it, eh?" – so he trades her the last of his food instead.

While Kicks waits, resting in the shade of her tent, the priest comes with linen strips and brackish water. Now he can be seen in the light, Kicks thinks they may have met before, but the when or where of it he can't place. Maybe it's the nose, maybe it's the eyes… Maybe all Imperials just look the damned same. "I thought you may need some assistance with your wounds," the priest says, lifting his saucepan of water in explanation. Kicks has been using his severely depleted magicka reserves to slowly heal himself, though he's not getting very far. Now the excitement of battle has worn off, he's tired and sore. Kicks grunts. "You're right there, Grilikamaug. Though I've no more food to barter with." As the priest kneels down, he says, "Without your bravery this day, I and my fellow citizens would still be stuck in the Chapel. Or worse. So you've no need to barter further, my friend. May I?" Kicks is already shirtless from sluicing the blood and grime from his skin, so this last is in reference to dressing his wounds. "Sure. Call me Kicks." The priest nods. "I'm Brother Martin."

–

Kicks spends a few more days in the encampment, busing himself with making mediocre healing potions and hunting deer, before reinforcements from Anvil and Skingrad arrive.

The morning he chooses to leave, he presents Batul with a topaz gem, prised and pled from the gold setting of that giant ruby. "Trade it, sell it – or keep it. Your choice." "Then why give it at all?" It seems like she's laughing at him, so he smiles. "Good work under dire conditions deserves to be honoured in kind." "Pah!" She punches him lightly on the arm. "It's no less than my ancestors would expect, and you'll still need to see another smith. But I accept your recognition." Batul is still smiling as she inclines her head. He bids her farewell with a plea to Mauloch to keep her forge-fires strong, and heads off, along the road to Anvil, wondering if he can convince the spirit-infested ruby to part with another gem for his armour's upkeep.

[nine-blessed-hero]

Now available to read on AO3

An Odd Thing Happened on the Way to Anvil

CW Genre-typical mentions of violence, injury & blood; fantasy religion Universe: Vanilla Oblivion Comment: This is less of a fic and more of a description of events that I just needed out of my head. "Grilikamaug" = Shamen, Orcish. Or read on AO3

Kick's penance for marring his clean record and besmirching the good name of the Fighter's Guild is to be bumped back to Associate and sent off to Anvil for some rookie tasks. Quite frankly he's a bit insulted by that, but mostly he's just glad the Guildmaster didn't throw him out on his ass. He's definitely not a good enough mage to enter their guild…

As a shortcut, he's shlepped his way over the Colovian heaths, accidentally tangling with some bandits on the way. They were living on a handful of withered carrots and a cob of bread so hard it got used as a cosh, so now that he can spy the outline of Kvatch sitting high on its mount, his mouth wets with the thought of fresh game pie and a tot of Flin. It's not until he's halfway up the mount that a problem emerges. The perfect blue colovy sky darkens, turning an eerie shade of thunderous red. The wind, which should have a bracing nip, is warm and smells of egg and ash. It's further confirmed by the defences at Kvatch's gate and the burning oval – a portal, according to the guard who gives him the story and begs for aid.

He's not supposed to take contracts not approved by the Guild, but the sporadic waves of creatures that spew forth convinces him that there's no time to request permission. Especially not when his query into Kvatch's Guild chapter head is met with a shrug and, "I hope you weren't close," from another of the guards. So he agrees to see what can be done about closing this portal, because he's the freshest one here and there are no armies on the horizon. And because looking at the thing is making him feel nauseous and itchy. The kind of itch you get from a wound trying to heal.

–

When he stumbles into the church after closing the portal and helping Matius clear out the last of the creatures, he's bleeding from a dozen places in armour that's shot to hell. From his wet and ragged breathing, he thinks something's wrong internally too. There's a priest and a healer, but they're next to useless – already up to their armpits in other people's blood and magicka all tapped out. Kicks is told to pray at the altar to the divines, a prospect he views with some scepticism; Prince Mauloch, of course, has always been the orismer's patron. Still, it's better than bleeding out on the floor, so he does as bid and is pleasantly surprised when he feels the touch of the divines banishing his pains and woes. His armour's still shot to shit, but he'll take what he can get.

–

By the time Kicks has helped Matius take back Castle Kvatch, the Chapel survivors have been moved down to an encampment at the bottom of the mount. It is to here he carries Matius, the man's arm so mangled by the jaws of some hellish beast, he'll probably lose it.

The orismer smith won't take coin for the meager patch-job she wrangles on his armour – "Where would I spend it, eh?" – so he trades her the last of his food instead.

While Kicks waits, resting in the shade of her tent, the priest comes with linen strips and brackish water. Now he can be seen in the light, Kicks thinks they may have met before, but the when or where of it he can't place. Maybe it's the nose, maybe it's the eyes… Maybe all Imperials just look the damned same. "I thought you may need some assistance with your wounds," the priest says, lifting his saucepan of water in explanation. Kicks has been using his severely depleted magicka reserves to slowly heal himself, though he's not getting very far. Now the excitement of battle has worn off, he's tired and sore. Kicks grunts. "You're right there, Grilikamaug. Though I've no more food to barter with." As the priest kneels down, he says, "Without your bravery this day, I and my fellow citizens would still be stuck in the Chapel. Or worse. So you've no need to barter further, my friend. May I?" Kicks is already shirtless from sluicing the blood and grime from his skin, so this last is in reference to dressing his wounds. "Sure. Call me Kicks." The priest nods. "I'm Brother Martin."

–

Kicks spends a few more days in the encampment, busing himself with making mediocre healing potions and hunting deer, before reinforcements from Anvil and Skingrad arrive.

The morning he chooses to leave, he presents Batul with a topaz gem, prised and pled from the gold setting of that giant ruby. "Trade it, sell it – or keep it. Your choice." "Then why give it at all?" It seems like she's laughing at him, so he smiles. "Good work under dire conditions deserves to be honoured in kind." "Pah!" She punches him lightly on the arm. "It's no less than my ancestors would expect, and you'll still need to see another smith. But I accept your recognition." Batul is still smiling as she inclines her head. He bids her farewell with a plea to Mauloch to keep her forge-fires strong, and heads off, along the road to Anvil, wondering if he can convince the spirit-infested ruby to part with another gem for his armour's upkeep.