The Elderly Scrawls: Skewrim — The Unmodded Truth

Verandas, the 20th of Lost Speed, 4E 201

Ti’lief was on the wizard. Literally. The Cat had jumped onto the dark-robed mage and the two now struggled on the ground. Eilgird and Kharla re-dispatched the bandits while Thral, having killed again the bandit he’d just already killed, stood looking confused over the pile of ash at his feet.

Kharla tried to gut the robed man but he and the Cat were thrashing around on the ground too fast to get a clean strike. Finally, a much-scratched mage broke free from the Khapiit and Draloth stabbed him in the back.

“Thank you,” said Ti’lief.

“Don’t mention it,” said the merchant.

Eilgird kicked the body of the robed man. “Filthy criminal necromancer!”

Kharla moved to the barrow. Steps led down to a door where another body of a bandit lay next to a wooden chest. Draloth checked both as Kharla pushed open the door and stepped into Austengrave. Inside a tunnel led down, past two more dead bandits, to a large chamber where yet another dead bandit lay.

“This place is beginning to resemble a morgue,” said Mell.

At the far end of the chamber, Kharla saw two more robed figures and a bandit. They crept forward, hiding behind the pillar-like rocks that connected the roof of the chamber with the ground. One of the robed figures, a tall woman, was dancing with the blank-eyed bandit, but it was the other mage who spoke.

“These thralls of yours are slower than Nords in a university. This is a stupid idea, Edita.”

“It’s not my fault, Dulaine. How was I supposed to find a dance partner at such short notice? No one even signed up for the classes! Not even you!”

“Pfft. You wouldn’t catch me dead on a dance floor,” said Dulaine.

The irony of his comment seemed to escape both of them as Kharla surveyed the chamber to see how she could get close enough to them to ensure they didn’t have a chance to use their magic.

“It’s the Annual Necromancers’ Ball Danceoffs, for Molek Ule’s sake! The judges are going to see your partner’s no longer in the land of the living.”

Molek Ule, the God of Small Things, a Prince of the Deirdra, associated with enslavement and domination, but also a rather keen chemist. Though he may project a large image of himself, the reality is that he is the smallest of all the Deirdra, hence his tendency to appear wearing very little due to the difficulty of finding clothing in his size.

“You just keep providing new bodies for me to raise and I’ll worry about that. I just need to get the Pasodoble down and I think I’ll be there.”

Dulaine sighed. “It’s the Jarl’s job to clear out bandit hideouts, not mine.”

“I’m going to win that award, Dulaine. And remember, you’ll get a cut of the prize too. I’ll be the first female High Elf to win in its history! Just you wait and see!”

“Right,” said Dulaine. “So where are the others?”

Kharla froze. Others? There were more of them?

“Oh, doing what warlocks do—off teasing some Daughtr that wandered in here from below during the Foxtrot. They chased it back down the tunnel. I brought them along to provide the music, not to play games.” Edita executed a dramatic pivot and her dead partner tripped and turned to ash. “Drat!”

Dulaine raised another dead body. A Wood Elf, by the look of him.

“I’ve told you, I need ones my height. This one’s too short! Do you know how hard it is to dance with someone whose skull only comes up to the skull on my robes? Oh, of course you don’t. You probably never even danced at your own wedding!”

“Well, you’ve gone through quite a lot of ‘partners’ and it’s hard finding bandits as tall as you. And, for your information, my wife is short and I did dance at my wedding—or so I am told. I can’t say I remember it, or, now I come to think of it, if it was actually with my wife…”

Edita rolled her eyes and grabbed the zombified Wood Elf. “Sometimes I think I’m the only person taking this seriously. Doesn’t anyone understand how hard it is to not only have to train yourself but also to remember all the complexities of controlling the animation of a thrall? I really should get two awards when I win, not one.”

But Edita never did get a chance to win two awards (or even one) because she and her already dead partner were run through with Kharla’s spear as they engaged in a counter promenade and the High Elf collapsed dead into the ashes of her unwilling partner.

Dulaine turned, but Thral’s warhammer caught him in the chest, crushing his rib cage and sending him across the floor where he came to a stop by what was likely to have been Edita’s next partner—a dead Orc bandit with a rather large tusks.

Thral turned to Kharla and rested his warhammer back on his shoulder. “We make good team, no? Maybe we dance too?”

Kharla pulled her spear out of the necromancer. “Why don’t we talk about that in, say, a week or so?” Yes, that should be long enough for the last effects of the love potion to wear off. Like Dulaine, Kharla would rather die than get on the dance floor. But unlike Dulaine, she was still alive.

“Do you know why the skeleton didn’t go to the ball?” asked Draloth as they made their way into the side tunnel that led farther into Austengrave.

No one answered. Kharla had her hand on her axe. A good Orc war axe. She’d found it on the body of the Orc with the big tusks. She almost felt complete now, what with her spear too. Just needed to find one more Orc war axe and she’d be back to the way things were before General Dullius had interrupted her employment at the circus. Maybe she’d put one of those Orcish war axes in his skull.

“Because he had nobody to dance with!” Draloth said triumphantly. “Do you get it? No body...?”

No one laughed.

“Oh, come on,” began the merchant. “A little light humor in a dark place where we could all die at any given moment isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that joke predates the Elderly Scrawls,” said Eilgird.

“Fine.” Draloth walked on ahead and almost tripped over a dead body.

The deceased warlock, a lute slung across his back, lay next to the burned frame of a Daughtr, the smell of charred remains filling the chamber. Voices and the sound of flames came from around the next bend. They cautiously pressed forward and then peeked ahead into the short corridor where two warlocks and a female mage were locked in battle with several Daughtr. The latter wore poke bonnets on their desiccated skulls as they scrambled around trying to find a weak point in the magic users’ assault. One Daughtr sporting a bonnet in sage green jumped at a warlock with a dulcimer in his hand, biting him on the ear. He screamed and tried to beat the undead girl off with the instrument. Another Daughtr, topped with a carnation-pink bonnet and a high-waisted dress in the same color, jumped him from behind and the warlock went down in a tangle of bone, strings and muslin.

Fire surged out of the female mage’s hands as she hurled curses at the undead, engulfing in flames a Daughtr in an apricot-peach bonnet with long ribbons. The animated being collapsed to the ground with a subdued scream. Then another Daughtr, this time bonnetless but mantled in a little teal-colored pelisse bodice, flew at her from behind and ripped the small harp from her back. The woman turned and snarled as the Daughtr ran off with the instrument just ahead of the flames she sent after it. Then the three remaining Daughtr jumped the woman as one as she summoned fire that exploded and burned all four of them to death.

The final warlock, a pipe and tabor at his waist, turned and fixed his eyes on Kharla and the others peeking around the corner. He stretched out his hands toward them. “I am master of fire, ice, and storm!”

An arrow took him through the heart. He dropped to the ground with a gurgle and went still.

Eilgird slipped her bow back over her shoulder. “Whereas I, on the other hand, am only fairly average with the bow.”

Draloth laughed. “Why don’t these mages ever wear any armor?”

There is a lot of speculation and many theories as to why those who specialize in the magic arts don’t wear much in the way of armor. The answer is actually quite simple: Arrogance. It seems the more magicka one builds up, the more arrogant a person becomes—an overt narcissism that invariably leads to a feeling of not just superiority but invulnerability. Some studies suggest that this isn’t just a character flaw (such as we see in the lightly-clad barbarian types—yes, I’m looking at you, Thral) but that magicka itself has an adverse effect on the brain. High Elves seem particularly susceptible to this narcissistic condition, hence their nickname, the ‘High and Mighty Elves’. Personally, I think height’s a factor too—those who physically look down on others must soon tend to look down on them in other ways too; though to be completely upfront, I should admit that I am myself rather short for a Dark Elf.

Kharla noticed a book in one of the fallen Daughtr’s hands and bent to look at it. It had been burned but she could still make out the title: ‘Sense and Sensitivity’. She frowned. Why would a Daughtr have a book? Maybe to throw at someone.

The group continued on through the corridors and chambers. One chamber contained dozens of large pots.

“What is it with all the pots?” Ti’lief removed one of the lids, rummaged around inside, and pulled out a burgundy poke bonnet. He tried another and found an eggshell-colored bonnet with a large brim. Yet another contained a long pale-green muslin dress and another a russet pelisse. Ti’lief dropped the lid back down and looked at Kharla.

Kharla shrugged.

Mell sent up an orb of soft light to guide them as they traveled deeper into the barrow. Although the orb wasn’t bright, she kept it away from Thral. Just in case. The Sprint might not work indoors, but she wasn’t so sure about that Upending Force shout that Thral had accidentally unleashed on the bears at Ivor’s Shed. Being blown down the passageways of a Nordic ruin wasn’t her idea of fun.

They passed through more corridors and chambers, and dispatched several more Daughtr; some in similar dresses to the one they’d found in the pot, and nearly all with poke bonnets of varying sizes and hues. Eventually, they reached a metal door and passed down even farther into the depths of Austengrave.

“Well, would you look at that!” said Mell as they all looked out over a vast cavern of natural stone walkways dotted with trees.

“Come on,” said Kharla. “We can admire it when we get down there.”

“Ouch!” said Ti’lief as flames from a pressure plate singed his fur a little farther up the tunnel. “They need to get their underground heating fixed! It’s dangerous like this.”

“It’s not—”

Ti’lief interrupted Mell. “This one knows. Ti’lief thought he’d add a bit of light humor too. It’s your turn next.”

“I don’t really do humor,” said the Breton girl.

“You should try sometime. It might cheer you up.” The Khapiit licked his singed fur.

“Well, your and Draloth’s joke didn’t cheer me up. In fact, I think they made me feel more depressed.”

The Cat rolled his eyes. “Forget I said anything.”

They walked around the plates and soon came to a walkway over a chamber with stone tables. The walkway led to a corridor that led down to the dining chamber where another couple of Daughtr tried to ambush them, biting and screaming. Kharla, Eilgird and Thral made short work of them. Kharla noticed one of them clutched a book in its hand—‘Pied and Prodigious’. After a series of yet more tunnels and chambers they finally reached the walkway that led to the vast cavern they’d seen from above.

“It’s very big, yes?” Ti’lief stood wide-eyed as he gazed out over the scene before them.

They stood on a stone walkway, part of a series of walkways running across the cavern between natural pillars of rock. Some of the walkways had collapsed and others had gaps in them where portions had broken away.

A couple of armed skeletons headed toward them as they reached the end of the steeply sloping broken walkway that led to the ground.

“You should tell them your joke, Dark Elf,” Eilgird said before running forward and thrusting her sword into one as Kharla speared the other. The skeletons fell apart at the blows. Eilgird picked up the skeleton’s ribcage. “Maybe it will tickle their ribs.”

Draloth ignored the grinning Nord woman.

The sound of a waterfall came from below, but the party moved toward the huge earthen bridge that spanned the cavern. On the other side they found a closed gate and, by the look of it, two more gates behind it along a short tunnel.

“One gate not enough, eh?” said Ti’lief as they approached.

“What are these I wonder?” said Eilgird. Three standing stones thrust out from the floor before the gates. Eilgird reached out to touch the nearest one and the etchings upon it glowed red and the first gate opened. Within a few heartbeats, it closed again. Eilgird tried again and the same thing happened.

Kharla tried the other stones and they opened the other gates for just a couple of heartbeats before they closed again.

“Interesting,” said Ti’lief. “This one thinks he knows how to solve this. Ti’lief will stand by the first gate while Eilgird, Kharla and Mell approach each stone. The gates will all open momentarily and this one will dart through like a swift arrow in a favorable wind! Easy!”

“But how do the rest of us get through?” asked Eilgird.

The Khapiit put his paw to his chin. “Maybe there is a mechanism at the end that opens them?”

“All right, let’s try the Cat’s plan,” said Kharla.

They approached the stones as directed and Ti’lief raced through, but he wasn’t fast enough to get past more than one gate and so became trapped between the first and second as they all closed again.

Kharla touched the second stone again but nothing happened. Clearly they only worked in the right order.

“Ah, wait!” said Ti’lief. “There is a chain here on the wall.” He pulled it and the first gate opened and he slipped back out.

Draloth sighed. “Hmmm…I’ve got an idea. But we’ll need three stout logs about my height. We have some trees below…anyone fancy a bit of chopping?”

“Aye, Thral and me will do it. This Orc-made axe will make short of those trees,” replied Kharla, hefting her axe.

Not much later they were all at the stones again and Draloth had given them their instructions and got them all in the right place. “Right, go!”

Eilgird, Kharla and Mell approached the stones. The first gate, by which Thral was standing with his wooden log, opened and Thral held the pole under the gate. It came down and jammed on the wood. Thral moved to the next gate and did the same when they activated the stones anew, and finally to the third gate where they did the same again.

Draloth nodded, looking pleased with himself. “You are very welcome!”

“Excellent teamwork,” said Kharla. “Now, let’s go before these supports give way and before the Dark Elf’s head gets too big for him to get through.”

They moved through the gateways and up the tunnel where Ti’lief stopped as another chamber opened up. “Gah, more pressure plates. They are everywhere!”

“We’ll have to stick to the rocks and piles of dirt and pick our way across,” said Kharla, taking the lead. “Keep that light near me, Mell. I don’t want to fry myself.”

“Oh, I can do better than that,” Mell announced. The orb became six orbs and each positioned itself over the head of a party member. Kharla noticed the chamber was riddled with cobwebs.

They all managed to reach the raised far end of the chamber without much difficulty, but just as they relaxed a huge Frostboot Spider dropped from the ceiling. It had no chance to kick them though, as Thral batted the beast out onto the floor with his warhammer where it set off the pressure plates and burned to a crisp.

Thral sniffed the smell of the burned Frostboot Spider. “Thral like cooking feature in floor.”

“Ha, see!” said Ti’lief to Mell. “Thral makes a joke too!”

Mell looked at Thral (who was staring at the spider and licking his lips) and then back to the Cat.

Ti’lief shrugged. “All right, so he might not have intended it as a joke, but it’s still funny!”

Kharla looked around. There didn’t seem to be any way out. “Anyone see an exit?”

“Here,” said Eilgird. “I think there may be something behind all this web.” She sliced through it with her sword and finally they found a wooden door that led into a short passage that they exited by a gate that thankfully had a simple chain this time and didn’t involve any complexities involving glowing standing stones and support posts.

The large chamber shook as they entered and four huge puffin-shaped bookshelves rose out of the ground, each of their shelves lined with more books than Kharla had ever seen in one place before. As they walked down the path that led between the bookshelves Kharla could sense the end of their quest. The final chamber. At the end of the path stood a monument. No, a stone tomb. The coffin of Jargon Namecaller! It looked like a Weird Wall but in miniature. Engraved upon its gray surface were the words:

‘I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a resting place of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.’ — Here lies Jargon Namecaller, war leader, vocalist, trumpeter, and voracious reader of novels.

But something was wrong. A stone hand atop the coffin in which Kharla expected to see the Trumpet of Jargon Namecaller instead held a little yellow sticky note.

Kharla grabbed the note and read it aloud as the others gathered around. “Dragonbore, I need to speak to you urgently. Rent the attic room at the Leaping Giant Inn in Riverweed and I’ll meet you. — a friend. P.S. Just so you feel you didn’t entirely waste your time, I’ve not touched any of the goodies and gold in the pots and large chest just through the door behind the tomb. Hashtag somanypots. Smiley face.”