I come across a small ransacked campsite in the middle of nowhere. The locals call this area Ash’abahs’ Oasis, despite the fact that there is no water in sight, and the bodies I find scattered about do not look to me like those of Redguards. Perhaps the misnomer is deliberate, for it is a scornful name for such a barren waste, and the Ash’abah are still held in unjust disdain throughout Hammerfell.
The orgres that ransacked this camp are still here plundering through what is left of the tents. As tall as they are broad, their muscles bulge under their thick blue leathery skin. They lumber ungainly, hunched at the shoulders, which leads many people to mistakenly mark them as being slow. But I have seen an ogre run as fast as a guar when in pursuit, and climb a mountain as nimbly as a goat when pursued.
The closer you get to an orge the more noisome becomes the reek of rancid meat, yet despite this stomach-churning stench, they seem to rely most heavily upon their sense of smell. Indeed, as I approach the ogre it sniffs the air and slowly turns to peer at me from under its protuberant brow, and bellows a challenge full of spite, malice, and putrid fetor.