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Since King Kurog signed the Daggerfall Covenant treaty, I've been taking advantage of our new lack of restrictions on travel to look for trading opportunities for Orsinium in High Rock and Hammerfell. As I expected, I've frequently had to put up with being snubbed or talked down to, and had to pretend I didn't hear the Orc jokes told loudly at a nearby table in a tavern, or didn't see the guardsman spit in my tracks after I passed. What I wasn't prepared for, however, was the number of Bretons and Redguards I've met who speak admiringly about Orcish forthrightness, and about the way we quickly settle our disagreements (albeit with blades) and then move on without holding a grudge.
Stupid humans.
They don't realize that forgiveness is only for other Orcs. They don't know that the Code of Mauloch demands that a price be paid for every grievance—no matter how long it takes to exact it. They think that, now we're enthusiastic members of their precious Covenant, we'll forget the razing of Orsinium and let bygones be bygones.
They smile at me with their foolish, tuskless grins, and I smile back, and nod, and make an Elf joke. But inside I know that the sack of Orsinium will be paid for, many times over. And the Bretons and the Redguards will never even see it coming. Because they don't know the secret motto that's graven on every Orc's heart:
"Wait till next time."