I nearly turned around and went back to Cyrodiil because Bjormund wouldn't shut up. From dawn to dusk it was Skyrim this and Skyrim that. We hadn't even crossed the mountains yet, and I felt like I'd spent an eternity in the place. But by Malacath, he kept going.
He went on about all the different legends and the hundreds of Ragnars involved in them. He talked for hours about his family, and for days about his mead. Sometimes he even sang about them. Silence was not an option. Perhaps if they put that on my bounty, I might have been okay with the rest of it.
But as a blacksmith, there was one story I didn't get tired of. The one about the Skyforge.
"It's an ancient relic, watched over by a great stone eagle," he said. "Come spring, you will be forging weapons under its wings," he said.
I ate it up, even though I knew it was a lie. The Skyforge was for legendary smiths, and I was a wanted criminal. Unless the guard decide to quit looking for us, I was going to spend the rest of my life crafting Orcish Plate for bandits, idiots who didn't deserve my work and lacked the brains to value it.
Maybe that's what pissed me off the most about Bjormund's tales of hearth and home. We weren't going to be welcome in Skyrim, or anywhere for that matter. We were Crimson Dirks. We had a home, and now it was gone.
This book was included in Alternative Armor: Orcish from the Creation Club