The Elderly Scrawls: Skewrim — The Unmodded Truth

Sodas, the 17th of Lost Speed, 4E 201

“Hey, Orc. Get up! Come on, the gods won’t give us another chance!”

Rolof’s voice pierced through the blackness and the world came back to life. Kharla pushed herself up and saw the headsman lying face down in the dirt just a few feet from her.

“This way!” Rolof shouted as he ran toward the tower near the inn.

Kharla followed, narrowly missing the impact of a fiery meteorite that sent stone and dirt out across the square. The outpost was in chaos. Impeccables, Torncloaks, village folk, dwarfs, clowns, and bearded women cried in terror as they tried to find shelter from the descending balls of fire whilst the mime artists threw their arms up with open mouths to imitate the act of panicked screaming.

Kharla reached the tower and slipped through the entrance after Rolof. Inside stood Oldthred and several Torncloaks, some injured. Kharla also noticed the Dark Elf, the Nord strongman, the Breton girl and the short hooded figure who she could now see was one of those Cat-men. A circus dwarf had also found his way into the tower and now sat cowering on the bottom step of the stairs.

“Jarl Oldthred! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?” Rolof said.

Oldthred, now unbound and no longer gagged, spoke in as deep and steady a voice as Kharla had ever heard from a non-Orc. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

The dragon roared again and the ground shook. It sounded as if the beast was just outside the door.

“We need to move. Now!” Oldthred commanded.

Rolof nodded. “Right, everyone! Up the tower. Let’s go!”

Kharla looked for something to cut her binds but couldn’t see anything so she pounded up the stairs with the rest. They’d not gone very far before they saw the stairway about the bend was blocked with rubble. The upper part of the tower must’ve partially collapsed.

“We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way!” the Torncloak that led them said just before the tower wall on the stairs broke open and a great and dark voice shouted something that sounded like “Yell torch all!”—although Kharla was sure she misheard it—and fire spewed into the tower through the hole.

Kharla fell back with the others. When the fire cleared Rolof climbed past her and looked out of the hole.

“Quick! Before it comes back or we’ll all be roasted to death in here.”

Kharla forced herself back up.

Rolof looked at her and then back out of the hole again. “See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! We’re not too high, the jump won’t kill you. Go! We’ll follow when we can!”

The inn’s roof was burned but some of the thatch remained and some had collapsed into the floor. Kharla jumped first. Not a hard feat for her normally but with her hands bound she lost her balance and fell to her knees as she landed.

She was joined by the dwarf who flew over her and landed in a patch of collapsed roof near the hearth.

“That Nord brute threw me!” the dwarf protested, picking himself up and pulling bits of thatch out of his beard.

The Nord followed, almost breaking the floorboards as he landed. Then came the Dark Elf and the Breton girl who both landed somewhat awkwardly but recovered quickly. Then the Cat-man descended, landing of course on his feet in a perfect poise. Show off, thought Kharla.

“Right, let’s go!” Kharla shouted. She led them out of the inn but held up her hand, well both hands seeing as they were still tied together, to indicate for the others to stop. They all halted apart from the Nord who bumped into her and looked at her in surprise.

Kharla grimaced and nodded her head to the road so that the Nord could plainly see why she’d stopped. The dragon had landed and blocked the road. The creature was huge. Far bigger than a mammoth, which was probably the biggest living thing Kharla had seen.

Then she noticed the child on the road. The same child they’d seen earlier.

“Gaming, you need to get over her now!” came Hasvar’s gravelly, slightly strained voice. The Impeccable soldier stood by the side of a house, what was left of it at least, gesturing wildly for the boy to come to him. Another older man in hides crouched near him.

The boy started moving toward Hasvar.

“Attaboy! You’re doing great.”

Then Kharla saw the boy’s father on the road. He’d been injured and the dragon was looking right at him.

“Terence!” Kharla heard Hasvar shout but it was too late as fire rolled fire down the road consuming the father and everything else in its path.

Hasvar grabbed the boy, shot behind the house, and came face to face with Kharla. “Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

Archers on the tower rained arrows down upon the dragon that almost certainly had no chance of penetrating its thick scaly hide but it took flight again and started circling.

“Gunner, take care of the boy. Make sure he doesn’t try to kick the dragon again. And keep him away from the executioner’s block too. I have to find General Dullius and join the defense.” Hasvar gave the boy to the older man.

“Gods guide you, Hasvar,” said Gunner.

“Where’s my father?” Gaming asked Gunner.

“He’s gone lad.”

The boy looked confused. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

The older man frowned. “How can I put this in a way that’ll you understand? Your father’s health bar reached zero. He lost all his hit points. He run out of lives.”

Gaming screamed. “I want to start a new game!”

Kharla didn’t hear the rest of the conversation as Hasvar shouted at her and the others.

“Follow me, prisoners!” He took off across the road and slipped down a gap between a house and the outpost’s stone wall. “Stay close to the wall!”

As they filed down the narrow gap the ground shook again as the dragon landed on the roof of the house. A large leathery wing swept down and Kharla and the others—except the dwarf—all had to duck.

“Yell..torch…all!” came the deep booming voice again and a nearby house was consumed in flames. They were not more than a few feet from the dragon now and Kharla could not help but be impressed with how magnificent a creature it was. As black as night and emanating a fearful awe that thrilled some part of Kharla. This would be a good death.

“Quickly, follow me!” Hasvar urged them all onward.

Kharla stepped over the body of a Legion soldier, his meticulously fine armor melted into his flesh as they pressed on through a burned home.

“How does it move so darn fast!” Kharla heard an archer exclaim from somewhere nearby.

“Such a big target but so hard to hit!” came another bowman’s voice.

“I’ve hit it five times already!” came the voice of a third archer.

“Oh, shut up!” came the voices of the first two.

They finally made it out of the burning house to the road before the gate and as they did so one of the circus women fled past screaming, her beard singed half off. Archers and battlemages stood on the road sending arrows and fiery balls skyward.

“Tell my family I fought bravely.”

It was the innkeeper, his breath shallow. He lay on the road not far from Kharla, an Impeccable soldier leaning over him.

“But you didn’t,” said the soldier. “You were high-tailing it toward the gate.”

“Yes, I know but tell my family I fought bravely,” the innkeeper insisted, his breath now even more shallow than it had been before.

“Ooh, I don’t know about that. The Legion takes a very dim view of lying. It’s bad manners, you see.”

But the innkeeper never heard the soldier beyond the word “Ooh” because he slumped and stopped breathing and passed over into the halls of Songunbard.

Or perhaps not.…for Songunbard is held by the Nords to be inhabited only by heroes and those who die valiantly in battle. Vilot, the innkeeper, failed on both counts. Though, to be fair, some did hold him to be a hero for his mead recipe. Anyway, whatever Vilot’s fate, it is worth mentioning a little more about Songunbard seeing as this tale is set in Skewrim, the land that belongs to the Nords (as they are so keen to so often remind us). Songunbard is essentially a big feast that never ends (I’ve been to some of those kinds myself) and, of course, includes songs and bards (the clue’s in the name). The vast hall of merriment, also known as the Hall of Velour due to its plush decor, sits in the middle of Songunbard and is found on the other side of the somewhat delicate Wishbone Bridge. The Hall is said to be home to mead that ‘flows like a waterfall’, though a competing translation of the old texts has this as mead ‘that tastes like water’. According to the Nords, Songunbard is ruled over by Shorn, one of the Eight Divas, and is also home to his favorite pet—a sheep whose name escapes me right now.

The dragon was letting no one leave the outpost, striking and burning any that attempted to make it to the gates.

General Dullius appeared, mounted on his steed. “Hasvar! Into the keep, soldier. We’re leaving!”

Hasvar nodded at the general and turned to Kharla and the others. “It’s you and me, prisoners. Stay close!”

“Run, you idiot!” shouted Dullius at Hasvar.

Kharla and the other prisoners rushed after Hasvar as he bolted around the corner and through an archway. Up above, the dragon landed on a tall tower and surveyed its work of destruction.

Kharla was so fixed on the beast that she almost tripped over a body—a mime artist, his body crushed and lifeless eyes staring up into the sky. Silenced forever.

“Dul Sigh Blah!” boomed the dragon’s voice, the sound wave barely missing Kharla but striking the dwarf who’d fallen behind, knocking him to the ground. It was a strange noise, not like the fire breath. There was no fire. Only a sort of wave of emptiness, a feeling of weariness, darkness, and despair all rolled into one.

The little man stood back up and looked around. “Oh, I’m so bored,” he wailed. “Life’s no fun anymore. I won’t go back to that dull old circus with those sad clowns. I won’t go back to the tedious mining in the small nooks and crannies that full-size people can’t fit into. I won’t go back to the filth-filled days of my life as a chimney sweep. Life is pointless. Empty. I might as well just drop down dead.”

And, so saying, he did just that and dropped down as dead as a Honker in the Alliscleer Desert.

Honkers are sea animals, somewhat similar to a seal but far bigger and uglier—and with tusks. Often found on beaches or the mouths of rivers in the more icy areas of Skewrim, they have been known to grow as large as a hut. They make a honking sound from their large noses (hence the name) and are prized for their meat. The Alliscleer Desert, on the other hand, is a hot, arid area bordering the northern coast of Hammerhell, in which a Honker would most certainly within the span of a few brief heartbeats honk its last honk.

But there was no time to stop, for the dragon had taken to the sky again, circled around, and was now heading back toward them. General Dullius came clattering down the road as the dragon fixed him in the sights of its slit eyes. Then the General brought his horse to a rapid stop as a clown suddenly appeared a little ahead of him. Dullius looked from the clown to the approaching dragon, fear written deeply on his weathered face. Then, at the last moment, he turned his horse and sped in the direction of the square and the dragon followed after him.

“Coulrophobia,” Hasvar explained.

“You what?” said Kharla.

“An irrational fear of clowns. General’s struggled with it most of his life I hear.”

Kharla had no time to think on this bizarre piece of unsolicited information, however, for Rolof now stood on the road before the outpost’s keep and Hasvar did not look best pleased to see him.

“Rolof! You traitor. Out of my way!”

“We’re escaping, Hasvar. You’re not stopping us this time.”

“Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Songunbard.”

Rolof looked at Kharla and the others with Hasvar. “You! Come on, into the keep!”

“With me, prisoners. Let’s go!” countered Hasvar.

The other prisoners looked to Kharla. She had a difficult choice to make, so she decided not to over-complicate things and chose her preferred color, which happened to be blue. Red always reminded her of clay, and clay brought back bad memories of a failed pottery class she’d taken as a young girl. Of course, her favorite colors were green and yellow, partially because they reminded her of trees and gold, but mainly because they brought to mind Orcs and cheese.

“Where are you going? The barracks is through here!” Hasvar shouted after them, but Kharla followed Rolof to the towered part of the keep and all the others went with her. Even the clown came plodding after them.

They followed Rolof through the door and found themselves in the round room of the tower. A dead Torncloak lay on the floor, succumbed to his wounds. Rolof squatted down next to him. “We’ll meet again in Songunbard, brother.”

Rolof looked around. “Looks like we’re the only ones who made it. That thing was a dragon. No doubt. Just like the children’s stories and the legends. The harbingers of the End Times. We better get moving. Come here, Orc. Let me see if I can get those bindings off.”

Rolof cut the bindings with his weapon and Kharla nursed her wrists. “There you go. You may as well take Ginjar’s gear. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

Kharla grabbed the axe that lay on the floor next to the body. Thral picked up a huge warhammer and smiled.

“Right, give that axe a few swings.”

Kharla worked the blood back into her wrists with a few swings in both hands. She was just as skilled with both hands. She had trained mostly with axes, though she was good with a spear too. But spears were seldom seen in Skewrim.

Spears and pole-arms in general were indeed rare in Skewrim. Why, you might ask? They are relatively simple to make, after all, and Skewrim boasts plenty of trees with fine wood. Moreover, such weapons are commonly used by the Agrarians in the lands of Bleak Marsh, not to mention the famous military company of Hard Rock, the Bretony Spears. So why this dearth of sharp sticks in Skewrim? Well, the answer is simple. Shorn. Shorn, the Nord God of the Afterlife and Sheep (well, livestock generally), is said to have decreed that no one can enter Sungunbard if they use a long pointy stick in battle. It’s not known exactly why this restriction applies, but it is speculated that it has something to do with his dislike of goads used to drive cattle.

The round chamber had two other exits. An iron gate to their right and a wooden gate to their left. Rolof checked the iron one to find it locked and the wooden one to find the opening mechanism on the other side of the gate. He cursed.

Kharla heard a noise. The distinctive clink of Impeccable armor coming their way. “Hide!”

They all followed her lead and pressed themselves against the walls on either side of the gate, except for the Nord who was still standing there smiling at his big warhammer. Rolof and Kharla guided him swiftly over to the wall. After a few heartbeats Kharla heard a familiar voice. A harsh woman’s voice giving orders. Then the gate opened and in walked the female Rudeguard captain and three Impeccable soldiers.

The captain saw them and had her sword out in no time. “Put these prisoners down!”

They outnumbered the Impeccables, but only three of the prisoners were armed. The Legion soldiers rushed Rolof and the Nord whilst the captain came for Kharla. The Rudeguard attacked savagely but Kharla avoided her blows or caught them with her axe. The Orc struck the captain hard but the heavy armor protected the Impeccable.

Meanwhile, Rolof had killed one of the soldiers and the strongman Nord had knocked another soldier into the far side of the room where he lay in a crumpled heap.

“That all you got?” the Rudeguard taunted as Kharla’s axe hit her sword.

Kharla punched the woman in the face. “No.” The captain staggered and Kharla her axe down on the Rudeguard’s helmet. “That’s wasn’t all I got.” The woman groaned and collapsed. She wouldn’t be killing any more Torncloaks or members of the circus.

The third soldier, seeing his captain fall, lunged at Kharla. “For the Emp—” but he never finished the sentence because a huge warhammer crushed his head so powerfully that his knees hit the ground with a crunch. The body dropped forward to the floor before Kharla. The Nord was standing there. Still, somewhat unnervingly, smiling.

“Thank you,” Kharla said.

The strongman rested the warhammer on his shoulder. “I’m Thral. I’m a Nord.”

He didn’t seem too bright. Possibly a lot less bright than Lookir, but Kharla answered all the same. “I’m Kharla.” She didn’t add that she was an Orc.

“Ah, here it is!” Rolof grabbed a key from the captain’s belt. He tried it in the iron gate and it unlocked. “That’s it! Come on, let’s get out of here before the dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads the same way Thral brought his warhammer down on that soldier.”

With that image in mind, Kharla followed after Rolof with the others. They descended some stairs to a corridor below just as the dragon roared again and the far end of the corridor collapsed.

“Watch out!” warned Rolof.

When the dust cleared Kharla saw the passage was completely blocked.

“That dragon doesn’t give up easily!” Rolof said. A door had survived the cave-in and Rolof led them through it.

“Grab everything important and let’s move. That dragon’s burning everything to the ground,” said the Impeccable officer in the storeroom they had just entered.

“I just need to gather some more potions,” one of the two soldiers with him said before they noticed the prisoners.

The fight was over quickly. Rolof and Kharla took down the soldiers and Thral slammed his warhammer into the officer so hard that the man flew into a stack of barrels, breaking one of them. He didn’t get up.

“Grab some of those potions,” Rolof said, “and anything else that might be useful.”

The Breton girl and the Dark Elf placed a couple of potions in the bags on their belts before they all left through the far door that saw them past the collapsed part of the corridor. They took some more stairs down and heard the sound of fighting.

Rolof heard a woman cry and rushed the rest of the way, Kharla close behind. They were in a torture chamber. Two Torncloaks, a woman and a man, were fighting with the torturer and his assistant who were both putting up some stiff resistance. They were easily overcome, however, as Rolof and Kharla joined the fight.

“Was Jarl Oldthred with you?” Rolof asked the female Torncloak.

“No, I haven’t seen him since the dragon showed up.”

“Hey, you in the hood!”

“Me?” the Cat-man asked pointing to himself with a single claw.

“Yes, you. Can you pick that lock?” Rolog offered him some lockpicks from a table and pointed to a cage with a dead mage lying on the floor with some valuable belongings scattered around him.

“Why you think Ti’lief can pick locks? Is it because Ti’lief is Khapiit? Is this why you think him great picker of locks?” the Cat-man asked.

“Well, are you?” Rolof asked.

“Yes, Ti’lief one of the best lockpickers and have it open in a jiffy.”

Rolof rolled his eyes as Ti’lief made his way over to the cage. “Right, everyone, take anything you see that’s useful. There may be more Impeccables up ahead.”

The Clown picked up a knife and the Dark Elf a short sword. Once the cage was open the Breton girl gathered the dead mage’s belongings. The Cat-man stuffed the rest of the picks in his belt.

The two Torncloaks joined them as they moved out to the back of the chamber. A wall had a gaping hole in it that led down to a basement with river water running noisily through it. Four Impeccables were in the large underground chamber.

Kharla caught some words above the sound of the water from them as they entered—arguing about whether or not they should wait for General Dullius.

The Legion soldiers turned as the prisoners appeared and the officer and another charged toward them, swords drawn as the other two on the far side drew their bows.

Rolof and the two Torncloaks engaged the two swordsmen while Kharla tried to get to the archers, but they had her pinned down. Then Ti’lief distracted one of the bowmen with a display of acrobatics that created great confusion as the Impeccable tried to shoot such a fast-moving target. Meanwhile, the Clown distracted the other bowman by honking a little hand horn as he moved between the stone supports and ducked beneath the walkways over the water. Kharla got to the Impeccables, put an axe in one, and jumped the other, drowning him in the water. By the time she was done the other Impeccables were dead too, though one of the Torncloaks had taken an arrow in the arm.

A wooden drawbridge stood raised on the other side of the basement chamber.

“We’ll wait here in case Oldthred comes this way,” the female Torncloak said. “Toeless guide you.”

Rolof nodded and wished her the same.

The wooden platform fell as Rolof threw the lever, opening to their view a cave. They all pushed through, but just as Kharla stepped off the other side of the bridge the ground shook again and rocks fell from the roof and came down on the bridge while the clown, slowed by his enormous shoes, was still on it. He never had a chance as the bridge collapsed taking him with it into the chasm below to the sound of colliding rocks and, Kharla thought, a small honk.

The rest of them followed the river but it led to a dead end. They took another way and found themselves confronted by three Frostboot Spiders. Rolof took out one with the bow he’d picked up from the dead Impeccable. The other two spat projectiles but they flew past Kharla and Rolof as they moved in and put down the arachnids with their axes.

The Dark Elf did not look happy when Kharla turned back to the others. He was covered in sticky Frostboot spittle and trying to wipe it off on a rock.

“I hate those things,” said Rolof. “It’s all the eyes.”

Eyes? Why do people always mention all the eyes? The scariest thing about Frostboot Spiders isn’t their stupid eyes. It’s the fact that they are like a hundred times bigger than the ones you find in your bathtub or on the bedroom floor just as you’re going to bed. Those aren’t going to hurt you because they are small. Frostboot Spiders can literally eat you because they are that big. Forget the eyes! And, yes, I wasn’t very happy. That spittle messed up my favorite tunic. Anyway, I intended to insert this note just to explain, for those who live outside of Skewrim, that the Frostboot Spider is a common denizen of this land often found in the wilderness and dungeons (and possibly in the bathtubs of giants?). They have little white stubby ends to their legs that enable them to walk on freshly fallen snow without sinking and also to deliver quite a nasty kick. They will also spit at enemies to cover them in a semi-liquid sticky web-like substance, either to slow them down or to ruin perfectly fine garments. Probably both. Another reason to hate them. Size, the kicks, and spittle. Not because of ‘all the eyes’.

They pressed on, following the growing light that must’ve been the cave’s exit. Kharla and Rolof led.

“Wait. Look up ahead. That’s a she-bear. We should try to sneak around it unless you want to try and take it out?” Rolof passed his bow and quiver to Kharla.

Kharla’s decision was taken out of her hands as Thral came up behind, pointed, and then shouted “Bear!”

Rolof watched as the bear rose up on its legs. “Sneaking is overrated, eh?”

They all dashed past Thral and headed toward the cave’s exit. Kharla cast a glance back to see that Thral had decided to run too, though whether out of fear or simply because he wanted to tag along, she couldn’t say.

As they piled out of the cave the dragon swept overhead, but the beast didn’t see them. Silently Kharla swore she would avenge the deaths of the circus troupe, and restore her own honor, by tracking down this dragon and helping defeat this General Dullius and his Impeccable Legion. After all, no one bested an Orc.

“There he goes. Looks like he’s gone for good this time. No way to know if anyone else made it out alive. But this place is going to be swarming with Impeccables soon enough. We’d better clear out of here. My sister Gertrude runs the mill in Riverweed, just up the road. I’m sure she’d help you all out. It’s probably best if we split up. Good luck. I wouldn’t have made it without your help today.”

“Maybe we should stick together? Might be safety in numbers.” Kharla suggested.

Rolof paused and looked at Thral. “Hmm. Maybe you’re right.”

“Is everyone all right with that?” Kharla asked.

The others nodded.

“Seems I don’t have much of a choice but to stick together, not until I get to some soap and water at least,” the Dark Elf said as he tried to separate his fingers covered in the glue-like spittle.

“Look, a cave!” said Thral.