The Dragon Slayings of Ozruk’Makai the Mad Fist
I was born in a small valley deep inside the Dragontail Mountains. An Orsimer from a proud family of warriors. Our land has been in turmoil for centuries, tugged on like a piece of meat between the jaws of Hammerfell and Skryim. My people have never known peace.
We do not care. We are built for killing. That is all we know.
That is all I want.
I have spilled blood in most every corner of this rotten continent. There is always someone willing to pay good gold for an extra axe swung by an Orc who knows what he’s doing— a killer who’s tasted the sweet flavor of murder and greedily asked for another helping.
I came to Skyrim when the unrest was nothing more than a few bubbles of water in a pot set over a fire. There was no war yet, but pots of water on a fire only go one way, and I intended to be nearby when the thing boiled over.
Sure enough, Ulfric killed the boy-king and chaos broke loose. The Legion and the Stormcloaks don’t pay shit, so I spent a few fat months escorting rich merchants and nobles from one city to the next, killing bandits and soldiers if they gave me trouble.
Killing the nobles, too, if they tried to stiff me.
Then one day I start to hear talk of a dragon raping Helgen bloody and killing everyone inside.
Ominous news for most. Opportunity for me.
I quit my work as a bodyguard and headed into the wild, looking for a dragon to slay.
The first one was the hardest. I’ve killed nearly everything that walks or crawls this earth: skeevers, cliff racers, bears, sabercats, trolls, undead zombies, men, elves, Argonians, other Orcs.
You name it, I’ve cut it open and smiled while it died.
But nobody born in the last millennia had ever seen a live dragon, so this was new territory. An unblazed killing trail.
I tracked one of the beasts to a small foothill outside of Riften. Easy to find by the smell of brimstone and death on my nostrils. I’d bought a full set of ebony plate, an ebony bow and fifty ebony arrows dipped in a poison so strong a lick would kill you, and two Daedric war axes that cost more than all the rest combined.
Like I said, killing pays well.
The bastard was munching on a goat when my first arrow pierced its hide. Didn’t seem to do much but upset it, and then it was up in the air breathing fire down on me while I loosed arrow after arrow, missing most of the time and sweating under the weight of the armor and the heat of its breath. Bastard nearly did me in with a swing of its tail, but I managed to take cover under a rock outcropping and catch my breath.
Turns out the legendary monsters had some tracks on them. I feathered it with fifteen arrows but it just soaked up all that poison and kept coming. So I did what any Orc would do, I pulled off most of my armor and ran at it with axes drawn, yelling at him like an animal.
I mashed its skull in until there was nothing left but a red mash of pulp on the ground. A few splintered teeth.
Then I ate his heart, skinned him, and took as many of his bones as I could carry back to Riften. Heavy bastards, those bones.
That score paid for my ruined armor, all the arrows I’d pricked it with, and then some.
I’d found a new vocation.
There was talk of some Breton traipsing around calling himself Dragonborn and zapping one every once in a while with bolts of lightning, but he couldn’t get them all. Not by a long shot. So I stepped up. The Jarls put out bounties for them faster than a Khajiit brews skooma, and the shopkeepers would trade you their first born for the bones and hide.
I killed the next two with my twin axes, clean and easy.
The fourth one was some kind of ice monster I ran into east of Dawnstar. The cold demon froze my axes solid with its breath and they shattered when I cracked them over its skull. So I improvised—jumped on its back and beat its left eye in with my fist until it died.
That was bloody business, but a farm boy saw me do it and his loudmouth stories have brought me quite a reputation. Haven’t paid for a drink since.
Next I commissioned a blacksmith to make me a custom weapon. A hook made from Daedric steel attached to a fifty foot chain. A mage I’d fought with in Vallenwood told me about it, he’d read about it in tome on bear hunting in Solsteim and I had him describe the entire thing down to the angle of the hooks while we were stuck for a fortnight in the rain.
I’m a fast study when it comes to weapons, and the blacksmith didn’t have any trouble matching my description.
We had some fine old times, me and that hook. I’d throw it into their mouths, let them try to swallow it, then I’d rip it out and pull most of their throat with them. If they didn’t choke on their own blood, they ran out of it entirely soon enough.
Killed five of them with that hook.
Eventually an Elder Dragon came along and swallowed the whole damn thing, though. Then he took off north and I never did see him again. I’ll know it if I do, though. It had a red scale just under the left eye, and I’ll be sure to pay it back in kind should we meet again. I loved that hook.
I tried to have another made, but the blacksmith who’d been able to reforge Daedric metal had died of dysentery in the time between, and nobody else had the skill. So instead I had a slow-witted apprentice make me seven ash spears twice my height and tipped with silver.
The spears were the simplest and most dangerous to use. I’d just stand there like a kid playing with his dick while the scaly bastard circled around me. They’d set down eventually, thinking I was weak or sick or retarded, maybe.
I don’t know what dragons think.
Anyway, they’d set down and try to swallow me in one gulp. Nice easy dinner. Except they’d start eating ash spear before they got to me, and I’d duck out of the way while my silver point took a trip through the roof of their mouth and into their brain.
Seven dragons dead, and the hardest part was skinning their corpses afterwards.
I was slow on my last spear, though. Bastard nipped my leg a bit. And I was laid up in a Markarth bed a while healing and giving the blacksmith enough time to make me more spears. Fifty this time, I didn’t want to have to put in another order for a while.
I’d asked him about making another hook but he just shrugged, said that seemed pretty complicated.
I was just about healed and pretty well drunk on honey ale when the Dragonborn came to see me. He was impressive enough in his queer looking armor and magic-brimmed eyes. A formidable opponent in a scrape, I wagered.
Except he didn’t come for a fight.
“I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You’re Ozruk’Makai, the Mad Fist.”
“Some people call me that,” I said.
“I’d like you to join me,” the Dragonborn said, all prim and proper. Highborn for a certainty. “To join the Blades, and wipe out this bane upon our land once and for all.”
“Any gold in it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Just honor and glory.”
I spat and then polished off the rest of my ale. Motioned to the barkeep for another. It took the famous Dragonborn a good ten seconds to realize I’d given him my answer.
Never did see that Breton again. I heard he got eaten by some lord of dragons. Alduosh or something.
Honor and glory, he said. Typical.
I’ll stick to my spears and my gold.