We
Orcs are a violent race, and with good cause. We’re looked down on, we have to
fight hand and nail, with blood and sweat, to get anything in this life.
That’s
why we build our strongholds in the mountains, try and take those away from us
you snow-bound murderers. Sigh. I can’t even be angry in a convincing manner.
But I can cook.
No
one really knows who I am, just my author name: The Gourmet. I’m a chef of the
highest order. Not really something you’d expect from an Orc, am I right?
While
my brothers found joy in their blood rights and wolf taming, I baked. I baked
and I cooked and I created culinary delights. I was mocked, but my food was
always readily accepted.
Leaving
was a tough choice, but how else was I to follow my passion? Under darkness I
fled the mountain tops, and I found my way to Whiterun. I stayed there for a
while and wrote a cookery book that was published. This was my big break. My
cooking is now renowned across Tamriel.
But
nothing can beat this...I’m here in Skyrim to cook for Emperor Titus
Mede II. He’s cancelled his plans though, something about security issues, and
I’m staying in this inn awaiting the call. Me, Balagog gro-Nolob,
an Orc, cooking for the Emperor. What a thing. I’m proud beyond belief.
I’m
just going to stay here, in this basement, keeping myself hidden. Stupid though
it sounds, I’m nervous of even going outside in case something happens to me.
Haha, but what’s going to happen to me down here?
I
think I’ll sneak a glass of wine from the barrels to calm my nerves...
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