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Snippet #1513044

located in Tamriel, a part of Elder Scrolls: Elite, one of the many universes on RPG.

Tamriel

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Maknok gro-Khash had finally arrived at the Anvil gates, the guards nodding to him in recognition. This wasn't his first time coming through the city, and he'd made a name for himself wiping out marauders and bandits that had threatened goods being exported from the docks to the Imperial City. The burly Orsimer pushed up and off of his mighty black warhorse clad in steel armor, and then landed on his feet with ground-shaking force, his own dark-colored, orc-made armor ringing out in protest at his sudden movements. Gro-Khash led his horse to the stables, slapping gold into the stableboy's hand and then heading for the gates without a word. The guards no longer seemed to mind his weapons, the jagged-edged longsword sheathed at his side, and the fierce, shattered-looking battleaxe hanging loosely on his back. Small cracks were spread all through the glass axe, giving it a spider web appearance, but repairs were not needed. Gro-Khash hadn't particularly listened to the guard's greetings, but he snorted acknowledgement towards them, and then walked through the gates.

Anvil, the same as always. But he was here for a slightly different purpose than usual. He had never been directly employed by a noble, and had never met the nobles of Anvil. Not that he cared. All it meant was that he was getting a large coinpurse in exchange for services rendered. This noble probably didn't even have any particular task he wanted completed, he probably just wanted to have a rugged, veteran orc standing at his side during some meeting or whatnot. Maknok's deepset eyes rolled as he thought how tedious that would be, and he stomped down the cobblestone street to the gate leading to the docks.

The orc stopped in front of the water, and then looked down at his wavering reflection. His lower teeth jutted from beneath his lower lip, the two largest ones coming up to vicious points. His dark, greenish skin shone slightly from the setting sun. The black ink tattoos on each of his eyes resembled war paint, as he had intended when he did them, completely surrounding each of his eyes individually, and then going outwards from his nose to the side of his face, and then dropping down in teardrop-like design. The row of golden rings pierced in his right ear glittered brightly. He smiled, in the Orsimer fashion, baring his teeth and scrunching up his face into what would easily be mistaken as a snarl to any of the 'civilized' races. Of course, a fellow Orsimer would be able to tell the subtle differences between a smile and a snarl, but the passrsby that gave slightly perturbed looks at the orc snarling at his reflection in the water had no clue.

Maknok snorted again, and then reverted back to his blank facial expression. That's why my kin can't smile in public. He thought vacantly, then pulled out the envelope and the yellow cloth. He didn't bother tying it to his elbow, he just walked into the now packed Flowing Bowl holding the yellow identifier in his steel covered fist. He strode past a familiar guard, a guard who had no identifying marks on his armor, and had a particularly displeased look on his face. He had worked for that guard once, he thought. But gro-Khash didn't much care for committing human faces to memory, not unless they could really hold their own in a fight. His black, shiny eyes quickly focused on the table of yellow cloths, and he walked up to it, dragging a chair from across the Flowing Bowl with him, pushing through a thick crowd of puny ones without any difficulties.

The six and a half foot orc slammed the chair, without meaning to, into position at the table, next to a robed woman, a Breton, definitely a mage, and then threw his cloth onto the very edge of the table, so as not to risk getting it into their drinks. He knew the scent of the brandy from across the room. He spun his cracked glass battleaxe over his shoulder and off his back, and then planted the head of the axe on the floor in front of the chair as he sat down. He leaned forward over the table slightly, both his hands resting on the tip of the handle of the axe, and he studied all those gathered, not caring if they felt his eyes on them. No point in hiding what they all knew they were doing to eachother.

He hadn't heard the Imperial's introduction, but he was the only one that looked like a noble, aside from the Redguard, but she was definitely too familiar with combat to be one. He knew that was the employer. The Breton next to him seemed to already be under the influence of the brandy, those little people never could handle much drink. This made Maknok smirk, not that any race other than Orsimer could recognize the expression as a smirk, but his expression immediately became empty as he inhaled the scent of blood. Orsimer blood. Had this puny Breton killed a brother of Malcath? He took that into note, and then studied the others at the table, not bothering to introduce himself, as it seemed no one had gotten to that yet, except perhaps for the decent-looking Dunmer. His gaze shifted to the shadier looking Dunmer, eyes narrowing as he studied him up and down, and he did the same to the Argonian. He was always dubious of the other races, but more so around shady types. Not that he didn't like them, or that he didn't like the way they fought. It wasn't their fault that they were inherently weak and worthless in real combat. Maknok gro-Khash waited for someone to speak, his fingers tapping impatiently on the back of his other hand's gauntlet, making a metallic ring.