From The Short Tales about the War of Two Tibers, a curious series of minor battles between an Orcish general called Tiber gor-Alkoeg and Emperor Septim’s legion during the conquest of High Rock. Allegedly transcribed and submitted to the Imperial Library by an unconfirmed family member.
Days after our victorious celebration in the gray hills, my vile namesake’s hordes crept through the higher lands and raided our camps. The General of Blood had declared us enemy in all but words, as his kind values the swing of an arm more than a single forthright syllable. Against us, he raised the arm higher than ever before. In return for the affront, my blades carved up what meager fortifications dotted the crests of Wrothgar to leave him with my treaty, written in the language of Cyrod that all rulers knew. And he bade revenge, as all I offered him were twelve feet of land to be divided equally over the two kings.
War had spread my troops thin and he knew how to exploit this, for the same fate befell him. It became difficult to lead a decisive battle. Both of us knew High Rock well, from its terrain to its tricks, and we both had enemies at every corner still. Whenever I could reason one into allyship, he gained one out of spite as well. Alas, each relationship was born out of animosity. True to his nature, Tiber soon worked out a peculiar pact that drove a tribe of wild Reachmen into my fold, who tarnished this grace with murderous betrayal. It took several more weeks to satisfy my army’s hunger for revenge.
Skirmishes disrupted our progress, but discipline and loyalty carried my brave champions onward to the feet of Orsinium’s Folly. Black-throated Tiber’s commands echoed over hill to mount, summoning more bellowers whose hearts jumped at loud noises with frolic befitting eastern hounds at the scent of open wounds. Yet I couldn’t help but smile. Seeing my soldiers flooding into battle, coated in the vein’s red, evoked a pride in me beyond the mere satisfaction of a general.
From above, my stubborn equal compared the valley we fought in to a kettle, madly boiling with the enemy’s disgusting stew. His hatred for their kind may have even exceeded mine, and I was sure to make good use of it throughout this conflict. Their Tiber, scarred and wrathful, must have glared at me from atop his own hill, because I could feel an ill witchery grazing my soul. Death rose from the heated pot and weighed heavily on my shoulders. I knew then, no matter the outcome, that this war had to be settled soon. Once again, the present threatened to overwhelm our future.
Surprisingly, Tiber came to me. The first time I saw his face, it was marred by disdain for his own kin strewn about the valley. Nobody abhors themselves like he and his kin, my dear listeners, so show love and laughter to your own, something they will never be able to do in their unceasing lust for more, more, more. And that was what I saw. Nothing about him was regal. A man who barely escaped the term ‘ordinary’ in my well-traveled eyes, although there was a noticeably unkind strain to his brow. Standing alone in that blue or green or yellow tent, he and I did not shake hands or lower our chins. I recognized him as the proud man I harbored within myself, and I found him much like a fault in the Scrolls that had named a soul under the wrong skin. So much like me that we did not need to exchange arguments. So unlike me that he yielded before all was done.
Soon, I am going to kill Tiber the Mountain Strider. Remember me well.