Tag: Heavy Armor

The year was 3E 399 and standing on a mountainside overlooking a vast tract of land between the lands of Menevia and Wayrest was a great and learned judge, an arbitrator and magistrate, impartial in his submission to the law. “You have a very strong claim to the land, my lad,” said the judge. “I won’t lie to you about that. But your competition has an equal claim. This is what makes my particular profession difficult at times.”

“You would call it my competition?” sneered Lord Bowyn, gesturing to the Orc. The creature, called Gortwog gro-Nagorm, looked up with baleful eyes.

“He has ample documentation to make a claim on the land,” the magistrate shrugged. “And the particular laws of our land do not discriminate between particular races. We had a Bosmer regency once, many generations ago.”

“But what if a pig or a slaughterfish turned up demanding the property? Would they have the same legal rights as I?”

“If they had the proper papers, I’m afraid so,” smiled the judge. “The law is very clear that if two claimants with equal titles to the property are set in deadlock, a duel must be held. Now, the rules are fairly archaic, but I’ve had opportunity to look them over, and I think they’re still valid. The Imperial council agrees.”

“What must we do?” asked the Orc, his voice low and harsh, unused to the tongue of the Cyrodiils.

“The first claimant, that’s you, Lord Gortwog, may choose the armor and weapon of the duelists. The second claimant, that’s you, Lord Bowyn, may choose the location. If you would prefer, either or both you may choose a champion or you may duel yourself.”

The Breton and the Orc looked at one another, evaluating. Finally, Gortwog spoke, “The armor will be Orcish and the weapons will be common steel long swords. No enchantments. No wizardry allowed.”

“The arena will be the central courtyard of my cousin Lord Berylth’s palace in Wayrest,” said Bowyn, looking Gortwog in the eye scornfully. “None of your kind will be allowed in to witness.”

So it was agreed. Gortwog declared that he would fight the duel himself, and Bowyn, who was a fairly young man and in better than average condition, felt that he could not keep his honor without competing himself as well. Still, upon arriving at his cousin’s palace a week before the duel was scheduled, he felt the need to practice. A suit of Orcish armor was purchased and for the first time in his life, Bowyn wore something of tremendous weight and limited facility.

Bowyn and Berylth sparred in the courtyard. In ten minutes times, Bowyn had to stop. He was red-faced and out of breath from trying to move in the armor: to add to his exasperation, he had not scored one blow on his cousin, and had dozens of feinted strikes scored on him.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Bowyn over dinner. “Even if I knew someone who could fight properly in that beastly steel, I couldn’t possibly send in a champion to battle Gortwog.”

Berylth commiserated. As the servants cleared the plates, Bowyn stood up in his seat and pointed at one of them: “You didn’t tell me you had an Orc in your household!”

“Sir?” whined the elderly specimen, turning to Lord Berylth, certain that he caused offense somehow.

“You mean Old Tunner?” laughed Berylith. “He’s been with my house for ages. Would you like him to give you training on how to move in Orcish armor?”

“Would you like me to?” asked Tunner obsequiously.

Unknown to Berylith but known to him now, his servant had once ridden with the legendary Cursed Legion of High Rock. He not only knew how to fight in Orcish armor himself, but he had acted as trainer to other Orcs before retiring into domestic service. Desperate, Bowyn immediately engaged him as his full-time trainer.

“Your [sic] try too hard, sir,” said the Orc on their first day in the arena. “It is easy to strain yourself in heavy mail. The joints are just so to let you to bend with only a little effort. If you fight against the joints, you won’t have any strength to fight your foe.”

Bowyn tried to follow Tunner’s instructions, but he quickly grew frustrated. And the more frustrated he got, the more intensity he put into his work, which tired him out even quicker. While he took a break to drink some water, Berylith spoke to his servant. If they were optimistic about Bowyn’s chances, their faces did not show it.

Tunner trained Bowyn hard the next two days, but her Ladyship Elysora’s birthday followed hard upon them, and Bowyn enjoyed the feast thoroughly. A liquor of poppies and goose fat, and cock tinsh with buttered hyssop for a first course; roasted pike, combwort, and balls of rabbit meat for a second; sliced fox tongues, ballom pudding with oyster gravy, battaglir weed and beans for the main course; collequiva ice and sugar fritters for dessert. As Bowyn was settling back afterwards, his eyes weary, he suddenly spied Gortwog and the judge entering the room.

“What are you doing here?” he cried. “The duel’s not for another two days!”

“Lord Gortwog asked that we move it to tonight,” said the judge. “You were training when my emisary [sic] arrived two days ago, but his lordship your cousin spoke for you, agreeing to the change of date.”

“But there’s no time to assemble my supporters,” complained Bowyn. “And I’ve just devoured a feast that would kill a lesser man. Cousin, how could you neglect to tell me?”

“I spoke to Tunner about it,” said Berylith, blushing, unused to deception. “We decided that you would be best served under these conditions.”

The battle in the arena was sparsely attended. Saturated with food, Bowyn found himself unable to move very quickly. To his surprise, the armor responded to his lethargy, rotating smoothly and elegantly to each stagger. The more he successfully maneuvered, the more he allowed his mind and not his body to control his defensive and offensive actions. For the first time in his life, Bowyn saw what it was to look through the helmet of an Orc.

Of course, he lost, and rather badly if scores had been tabulated. Gortwog was a master of such battle. But Bowyn fought on for more than three hours before the judge reluctantly called a winner.

“I will name the land Orsinium after the land of my fathers,” said the victor.

Bowyn’s first thought was that if he must lose to an Orc, it was best that the battle was largely unwatched by his friends and family. As he left the courtyard to go to the bed he had longed for earlier in the evening, he saw Gortwog speaking to Tunner. Though he did not understand the language, he could see that they knew each other. When the Breton was in bed, he had a servant bring the old Orc to him.

“Tunner,” he said kindly. “Speak frankly to me. You wanted Lord Gortwog to win.”

“That is true,” said Tunner. “But I did not fail you. You fought better than you would have fought two days hence, sir. I did not want Orsinium to be won by its king without a fight.”

HALLGERD’S TALE

by
Tavi Dromio

“I think the greatest warrior who ever lived had to be Vilus Nommenus,” offered Xiomara. “Name one other warrior who conquered more territory.”

“Tiber Septim, obviously,” said Hallgerd.

“He wasn’t a warrior. He was an administrator… a politician,” said Garaz. “And besides, acreage conquered can’t be final means of determining the best warrior. How about skill with a blade?”

“There are other weapons than blades,” objected Xiomara. “Why not skill with an axe or a bow? Who was the greatest master of all weaponry?”

“I can’t think of one greatest master of all weaponry,” said Hallgerd. “Balaxes of Agia Nero in Black Marsh was the greatest wielder of a lance. Ernse Llervu of the Ashlands is the greatest master of the club I’ve ever seen. The greatest master of the katana is probably an Akaviri warlord we’ve never heard of. As far as archery goes –”

“Pelinal Whitestrake supposedly conquered all of Tamriel by himself,” interrupted Xiomara.

“That was before the First Era,” said Garaz. “It’s probably mostly myth. But there are all sorts of great warriors of the modern eras. The Camoran Usurper? The unknown hero who brought the Staff of Chaos defeated Jagar Tharn?”

“We can’t declare an unknown champion as the greatest warrior. What about Nandor Beraid, the Empress Katariah’s champion?” suggested Xiomara. “They said he could use any weapon ever invented.”

“But what happened to him?” smiled Garaz. “He was drowned in the Sea of Ghosts because he couldn’t get his armor off. Call me overly particular, but I think the greatest warrior in the world should know how to take armor off.”

“It’s kinda hard to judge ability to wear armor as a skill,” said Xiomara. “Either you have basic functionality in a suit of armor or you don’t.”

“That’s not true,” said Hallgerd. “There are masters in that as well, people who can do things while wearing armor better than we can out of armor. Have you ever heard of Hlaalu Pasoroth, the King’s great grandfather?”

Xiomara and Garaz admitted that they had not.

“This was hundreds and hundreds of years ago, and Pasoroth was the ruler of a great estate which he had won by right of being the greatest warrior in the land. It’s been said, and truly, that much of the House’s current power is based on Pasoroth’s earnings as a warrior. Every week he held games at his castle, pitting his skill against the champions of the neighboring estates, and every week, he won something.

His great skill wasn’t in the use of weaponry, though he was decent enough with an axe and a long sword, but in his ability to move quickly and with great agility wearing a full suit of heavy mail. There were some who said that he moved faster while wearing armor than he did out of it.

“Some months before this story begins, he had won the daughter of one of his neighbors, a beautiful creature named Mena who he had made his wife. He loved her very much, but he was intensely jealous, and with good reason. She wasn’t very pleased with his husbandly skills, and the only reason Mena never strayed was because Pasoroth kept a close eye on her. She was, to put it kindly, naturally amorous and resentful of her position as a prize. Wherever he went, he always brought her with him. At the games, she was placed in a special box so that he could see her even while he competed.

“But his real competition though he didn’t know it, was from a handsome young armorer he also had won at one of his competitions. Mena had noticed him, and the armorer, whose name was Taren, had certainly noticed her.”

“This has all the makings of a dirty joke, Hallgerd,” said Xiomara, with a smile.

“I swear that it’s entirely true,” said Hallgerd. “The problem facing the lovers was, of course, that they could never be alone. Perhaps because of this, it became a burning obsession to both of them. Taren decided that the best time for them to consummate their love was during the games. Mena feigned illness, so she didn’t have to stay in the box, but Pasoroth visited the sickroom every few minutes between fights, so Taren and Mena could never get together. The sound of Pasoroth’s armor clunking up the stairs to visit his sick wife gave Taren the idea.

“He crafted his lord a new suit of armor, strong, and bright, and beautifully decorated. For his purposes, Taren rubbed the leg joints with luca dust so the more he sweated and the more he moved them, the more they’d get stick together. After a little while, Taren figured, Pasoroth wouldn’t be able to walk very quickly, and wouldn’t have enough time in between fights to visit his wife. But just in case, Taren also added bells to the legs which rung loudly when they moved, so the couple would be able to hear him coming in plenty of time.

“When the games commenced the following week, Mena feigned illness again and Taren presented his lord with the new armor. Pasoroth was delighted with it, as Taren hoped he would be, and donned it for his first fight, Taren then stole upstairs to Mena’s bedchamber.

“All was silent outside as the two began to make love. Suddenly, Mena noticed a peculiar expression on Taren’s face and before she had a chance to ask him about it, his head fell off at the neck. Pasoroth was standing behind him with his axe in hand.”

“How did he get upstairs so quickly, with his leg joints gummed up? And didn’t they hear the bells ringing?” asked Garaz.

“Well, you see, when Pasoroth realized he couldn’t walk on his legs very quickly, he walked on his hands.”

“I don’t believe it,” laughed Xiomara.

“What happened next?” asked Garaz. “Did Pasoroth kill Mena also?”

“No one knows exactly what happened next,” said Hallgerd. “Pasoroth didn’t return for the next game, nor for the next. Finally, at the fourth game, he returned to fight, and Mena appeared in the box to watch. She didn’t appear to be sick anymore. In fact, she was smiling and had a light flush to her face.”

“They did it?” cried Xiomara.

“I don’t have all the salacious details, except that after the battle, it took ten squires thirteen hours to get Pasoroth’s armor off because of all the luca dust mixed with sweat.”

“I don’t understand, you mean, he didn’t take his armor off when they — but how?”

“Like I said,” replied Hallgerd. “This is a story about someone who was more agile and accomplished in his armor than out of it.”

“Now, that’s skill,” said Garaz.

After many battles, it was clear who would win the War. The Chimer had great skills in magick and bladery, but against the armored battalions of the Dwemer, clad in the finest shielding wrought by Jnaggo, there was little hope of their ever winning. In the interests of keeping some measure of peace in the Land, Sthovin the Warlord agreed to a truce with Karenithil Barif the Beast. In exchange for the Disputed Lands, Sthovin gave Barif a mighty golem, which would protect the Chimer’s territory from the excursions of the Northern Barbarians.

Barif was delighted with his gift and brought it back to his camp, where all his warriors gaped in awe at it. Sparkling gold in hue, it resembled a Dwemer cavalier with a proud aspect. To test its strength, they placed the golem in the center of an arena and flung magickal bolts of lightning at it. Its agility was such that few of the bolts struck it. It had the wherewithal to pivot on its hips to avoid the brunt of the attacks without losing its balance, feet firmly planted on the ground. A vault of fireballs followed, which the golem ably dodged, bending its knees and its legs to spin around the blasts. The few times it was struck, it made certain to be hit in the chest and waist, the strongest parts of its body.

The troops cheered at the sight of such an agile and powerful creation. With it leading the defense, the Barbarians of Skyrim would never again successfully raid their villages. They named it Chimarvamidium, the Hope of the Chimer.

Barif has the golem brought to his chambers with all his housethanes. There they tested Chimarvamidium further, its strength, its speed, its resiliency. They could find no flaw with its design.

“Imagine when the naked barbarians first meet this on one of their raids,” laughed one of the housethanes.

“It is only unfortunate that it resembles a Dwemer instead of one of our own,” mused Karenithil Barif. “It is revolting to think that they will have a greater respect for our other enemies than us.”

“I think we should never accepted the peace terms that we did,” said another, one of the most aggressive of the housethanes. “Is it too late to surprise the warlord Sthovin with an attack?”

“It is never too late to attack,” said Barif. “But what of his great armored warriors?”

“I understand,” said Barif’s spymaster. “That his soldiers always wake at dawn. If we strike an hour before, we can catch them defenseless, before they’ve had a chance to bathe, let alone don their armor.”

“If we capture their armorer Jnaggo, then we too would know the secrets of blacksmithery,” said Barif. “Let it be done. We attack tomorrow, an hour before dawn.”

So it was settled. The Chimer army marched at night, and swarmed into the Dwemer camp. They were relying on Chimarvamidium to lead the first wave, but it malfunctioned and began attacking the Chimer’s own troops. Added to that, the Dwemer were fully armored, well-rested, and eager for battle. The surprise was turned, and most of the high-ranking Chimer, including Karenithil Barif the Beast, were captured.

Though they were too proud to ask, Sthovin explained to them that he had been warned of their attack by a Calling by one of his men.

“What man of yours is in our camp?” sneered Barif.

Chimarvamidium, standing erect by the side of the captured, removed its head. Within its metal body was Jnaggo, the armorer.

“A Dwemer child of eight can create a golem,” he explained. “But only a truly great warrior and armorer can pretend to be one.”

Publisher’s Note

This is one of the few tales in this collection, which can actually be traced to the Dwemer. The wording of the story is quite different from older versions in Aldmeris, but the essence is the same. “Chimarvamidium” may be the Dwemer “Nchmarthurnidamz.” This word occurs several times in plans of Dwemer armor and Animunculi, but it’s meaning is not known. It is almost certainly not “Hope of the Chimer,” however.

The Dwemer were probably the first to use heavy armors. It is important to note how a man dressed in armor could fool many of the Chimer in this story. Also note how the Chimer warriors react. When this story was first told, armor that covered the whole body must have still been uncommon and new, whereas even then, Dwemer creations like golems and centurions were well known.

In a rare scholarly moment, Marobar Sul leaves a few pieces of the original story intact, such as parts of the original line in Aldmeris, “A Dwemer of eight can create a golem, but an eight of Dwemer can become one.”

Another aspect of this legend that scholars like myself find interesting is the mention of “the Calling.” In this legend and in others, there is a suggestion that the Dwemer race as a whole had some sort of silent and magickal communication. There are records of the Psijic Order which suggest they, too, share this secret. Whatever the case, there are no documented spells of “calling.” The Cyrodiil historian Borgusilus Malier first proposed this as a solution to the disappearance of the Dwemer. He theorized that in 1E 668, the Dwemer enclaves were called together by one of their powerful philosopher-sorcerers (“Kagrnak” in some documents) to embark on a great journey, one of such sublime profundity that they abandoned all their cities and lands to join the quest to foreign climes as an entire culture.