The Elderly Scrawls: Skewrim — The Unmodded Truth

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

“Look, Bessie. Home!” said Mell as they drew near to Riverweed. Bessie mooed.

“This one wonders how that cow sees anything,” began Ti’lief. “What with all that hair where her eyes should be.”

They’d covered the distance between Austengrave and Whiteruin in less than three hours but Draloth had insisted they take Bessie with them for the final leg of the journey to Riverweed. She was needed to carry all their loot, he had argued. Otherwise, they were ‘leaving money on the table’. They had indeed collected quite a bit of gold at Austengrave. Mell had also picked up a lovely periwinkle-blue bonnet as a souvenir of their visit.

Kharla had been happy to ride from Whiteruin to Riverweed, despite Bessie’s slow pace. Kharla had more than once thought about using her new spear to goad the animal along a little faster, but she hadn’t done so—mainly because she doubted the weapon would even penetrate the great mat of thick hair that covered the creature.

“She’s probably got a strong sense of smell,” Mell said to Ti’lief.

“Well, she has a strong smell, that’s for sure,” said Draloth, who was walking downwind of the cow.

“Hallo!” shouted Eilgird as they reached Riverweed.

“Hallo!” shouted back the two guards at the entrance.

“Is that you, Eilgird?” asked the guard on the wooden platform above the gateway.

“It is! Is that you, Reginald?” asked Eilgird.

“That it is!”

Draloth rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure you weren’t here before,” said Eilgird.

Reginald rested his hands on the railing. “No, I wasn’t. One of the guards here had to return home after some prankster snuck a hornet’s nest into his bed. Not the sort of thing you want to find when you crawl under your furs at the end of the working day. Poor fellow was covered in blotches.”

“Oh dear,” said Eilgird. “Did you find out who did it?”

“No, but when we do they are going to be in a whole lot of trouble I can tell you!” Reginald’s visored face scanned Eilgird’s companions. “Hey, I heard about your assignment to accompany the Dragonbore. Is that him? The big guy?”

Thral waved.

“It must be a great honor,” said the guard in the gateway.

Eilgird nodded. “Yes, it is a great honor for the Dragonbore to have my company.”

The guards laughed. Thral waved again.

After Thral finished ‘signing’ the guards’ journals, Kharla tied Bessie up outside the Leaping Giant Inn and they made their way inside.

The inn had a single patron. A middle-aged man in farming clothes. Behind the counter stood the Nord who’d served them last time they were here. A blonde Breton woman in a simple blue dress had her back to them as she spoke to the Nord.

“Ughnah. Ughnah! Are you listening?”

“Ugh…nah,” he replied.

“The ale’s going bad. We need a new batch. Did you hear me that time?”

“Yep, the mail’s going back and we need a new latch.”

The Breton woman sighed. “Next time you take a nap, lock the door so Freddy can’t try to force potatoes into your ears.”

The Breton woman turned as Kharla and the others approached. She looked familiar. Maybe Kharla had seen her on their previous visits to Riverweed.

“We’re looking to rent your attic room,” Kharla asked the man but it was the Breton who answered.

“You blind? We don’t have an attic. You can have this room over here though,” the Breton said, indicating for them to follow her to a small room with a single bed to their left.

Once they were all squeezed tightly into the room, the Breton closed the door. “Which of you is the Dragonbore?”

“It’s Thral here,” said Kharla, gesturing toward the Nord. “Did you want your journal signed?”

The Breton woman frowned. “I need to speak to the Dragonbore.”

“I’m his representative,” replied Kharla.

Thral nodded and stuck his thumb up in approval.

The Breton looked over the group and then pulled out an ancient-looking trumpet from the bag at her hip. “I believe you were looking for this.” She gave the trumpet to Thral who looked at it and gave it to Kharla.

“The Trumpet of Jargon Namecaller?” asked Kharla.

“Yes,” said the Breton girl. “Now, please follow me. I would speak with you somewhere more secure. You never know who’s listening.”

They followed the woman out of the room, past the counter, to a large room on the other side of the inn. The woman went to a wardrobe but then turned to tell them to close the door. Ti’lief obliged. The Breton woman turned back to the wardrobe, opened it, and clicked something at the back. The rear of the wardrobe slid away to reveal a narrow flight of wooden steps leading down. “We can talk down here.”

The stairs ended in a basement. Charts, maps, and hundreds of newspaper clippings covered the walls, with strings, colored pins, and yellow sticky notes dotted on and around them. In the center of the room sat a table with a map upon it. Kharla recognized it as the one that was on the dragonstone.

“Wait,” said Kharla, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the Breton. “You were the one at Dragonsearch with Falconscar.”

The woman nodded. “I see I need to improve my disguise. Yes, you’re right. My name is Darleen.”

“Kharla,” said Kharla before she introduced the rest.

“So you went into Austengrave and got the Trumpet of Jargon Namecaller?” asked Draloth.

“Yes,” said Darleen. “I knew the Greatbeards would send the Dragonbore there. They’re nothing if not predictable.”

“But Falconscar said you told him about the dragonstone. Why didn’t you get that yourself too? Why’d he get us to do it?” asked Kharla.

“Tallmor,” she said. “They might have been watching Teak Halls Barrows if they knew the tablet was there. I couldn’t chance being captured or killed.”

“What have the Tallmor got to do with this?” asked Draloth.

“We’re old enemies. And I am convinced they have something to do with the dragons returning.” Darleen paused to gesture toward her walls. Kharla noticed that many of the newspaper headlines were about the Tallmor. “Sure was to their benefit to intervene in Oldthred’s execution and keep the Uncivil War going. A war that ultimately weakens the Empire so they can have an easier time of it when they decide to invade—which they will, believe me. Look, I’m happy to answer your questions but first I need to know if I can trust you.”

Eilgird put her hands on her hips. “Wait, how do we know we can trust you?”

“I gave you the Trumpet, didn’t I? Now I need to know if Thral really is the Dragonbore before I can trust you.”

“He is,” said Eilgird. The others nodded except for Thral who just smiled instead.

“I need to see it for myself. So I have a test. Pass the test and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“How’d you mean?” asked Kharla. She wanted to get back to High Healthspa with the Trumpet so she could speak with the Greatbeard leader Poorthorax about the big black dragon.

“We remember,” began Darleen, “what many have forgotten. That the Dragonbore is the ultimate dragonslayer, the only one that can kill a dragon permanently by devouring its soul.”

Kharla ran a hand down her ponytail. Maybe Darleen could be useful in finding out how to slay this black dragon. “So what is this test?”

“The dragons are not just returning, they are being brought back to life. I’ve visited the old burial mounds and found them empty. There’s a geographical pattern to these dragons coming back to life, and if I’m right the next one will be here”—Darleen pointed to a small town on the table’s map—“at the burial mound at Kensgroove. We are going to find that mound, kill that dragon when it rises, and then I can see whether or not Thral is the Dragonbore. That is the test.”

Long after the construction of the dragon burial mound, Ken, a Nord of Windfarm, founded Kensgroove Park in the same area, just south of Windfarm, to provide a venue for wedding receptions. Today the Park boasts a small woodland with scenic trails, a picnic area located in an idyllic wildflower meadow, a dedicated hunting ground, a skating lake, and several deluxe log cabins for honeymooners. The small town of Kensgroove grew to service the Park and is famed for its inn’s sumptuous bridal suite.

Kharla looked at the map. “So, if we do this, you tell us everything, right?”

“Yes,” said Darleen. “I suggest we head out. See if we can get a good way to Kensgroove before nightfall. Then finish the journey at dawn. I need to get into my traveling gear.”

“We’ll make our own way,” said Draloth, looking at Kharla. Kharla said nothing.

“Suit yourselves. Probably only slow me down, anyway,” said Darleen as she slipped behind a changing screen. “But don’t delay too much. We need to get there before that dragon comes back to life.”

While Darleen changed, Kharla looked at some of the newspaper headlines pinned to the walls. ‘Were the Tallmor the Real Orchestrators of the Murder of High King Toerag?’ read one. ‘Did the Tallmor Instigate the Last Bad Harvest in Skewrim?’ read another. ‘Is Skyrim Ruled by a Secret Cabal of Tallmor?’ read yet another. ‘Are the Tallmor Behind the Increase in Trolls and Wolves Near our Cities?’, ‘Are the Tallmor Funding Crime and Banditry in Skewrim?’, ‘Is Tallmor Influence Behind the Recent Flood of Scrumpy Coming into Skewrim?’ read another three. The walls painted a clear picture: the Tallmor could be responsible for every bad thing that happened in Skewrim. But she could see nothing about dragons.

Mell picked up a book and held it up to read. Kharla noticed the title. The Bumper Book of Tallmor Jokes. A book of jokes made by the Tallmor? Highly unlikely. Probably a book of jokes about them.

Mell giggled. Well, at least it might cheer her up. Kharla was for anything that kept the Breton from getting depressed. Depression tended to spread. And that wasn’t good for the group.

“Right,” said Darleen as she stepped out from behind the screen in brown leathers and a hood of the same color. Two short bladed devices hung from her belt and a long wrapped bundle was strapped to her back, perhaps covering a large sword.

The mysterious innkeeper saw them all back up out of her safe room and left them by the fire pit as she headed out with a final reminder to them not to delay.

“So why aren’t we going with her?” Kharla asked Draloth as Darleen closed the door.

“I don’t trust her,” replied the Dark Elf. “Besides, we would slow her down with Bessie.”

Kharla sat down at a table. “We’re taking Bessie then?”

“Of course,” said the merchant. “We can load her up with dragonscales and dragonbone when Thral kills that dragon. Get a pretty penny for those, I tell you.”

“We’ll have to travel by night to get there by dawn,” said Eilgird. “And bandits and other filthy criminals will be more active under cover of darkness.”

Draloth took a seat. “I happened to have spent some time looking through that book on inns and taverns. There’s an inn in Kensgroove. And I pointed it out to Thral and, you will be unsurprised to hear, he’s been there.”

“But if we Sprint, we will need to leave the cow behind, no?” asked Ti’lief.

Draloth smiled. “Oh, I’ve thought about that too and I’ve got a plan.”

***

Tarantadas, the 21st of Lost Speed, 4E 201

The next day at the break of dawn, on the edge of Riverweed, and according to Draloth’s instructions, Thral sat on Bessie, his legs gripped around the beast tightly, hands on the cow’s horns, while the rest of them sat behind him, arms wrapped around the person in front.

“Ti’lief is not sure about this,” said the Cat who was seated at the end.

“It’ll be fine,” said the Dark Elf, sat between Kharla and Eilgird. “If you lose your grip on Eilgird, you can always grab Bessie’s tail.”

Thral already knew where he was going. They’d shown him the sketch of the inn again and made sure he’d had no mead before they left the Leaping Giant.

They all started chanting “Fars Trha Vel” as Mell’s orb sprung up before Thral’s face. Thral sneezed, Bessie mooed, and Kharla and the others sprung forward as the world about them faded to black in one elongated sound of a distressed moo.

Kharla opened her eyes and to her surprise found them all still seated on Bessie.

“Fascinating,” said Draloth. “Bessie’s extra mass must’ve helped stabilize the Sprint. An unexpected but most welcome side effect!”

“Keep those claws retracted next time, Khapiit!” said Eilgird as they all climbed off. “I don’t want my uniform ripped to shreds.”

“Ti’lief is sorry. Next time he will hold onto Eilgird’s head instead. Claws not shred helmet.”

Thral headed toward the inn and Kharla and the others followed him, leaving Bessie to chew on the grass outside.

“Just one mug, Thral,” Kharla said as they entered. “We need to find Darleen.”

“Welcome to Bridewed Inn,” said a dark-haired Nord woman dressed in an ivory-colored dress with a large dust-pink carnation pinned to it. She looked at Thral and Kharla and indicated toward a large door up a flight of steps. “Let me show you to your bridal suite. The color of the decor and bedding has been changed to the dust-pink theme as per your instructions and—”

“We’re not married,” said Kharla. She was going to have malachite-green at her wedding if she ever got married, not soppy dust-pink.

“Ah, I see,” said the innkeeper, frowning as she looked over the party. “I am sorry. So which of you are the newlyweds?”

Draloth sighed. “Do any of us look like newlyweds?”

“Well, you’d be surprised,” the innkeeper said but didn’t elaborate. “We were expecting a bridal party first thing this morning and I thought…hey, where’d the big Nord go?”

Kharla looked around to see Thral making his way up the stairs to the bridal suite. “Thral, come back!”

He disappeared through the door and then came out again a heartbeat later with a smile on his face and looked at Kharla. “We come here when we are married. Bed big enough for Thral!”

“I can book it for next season now, if you’d like?” the innkeeper asked Kharla.

“No, I would not like,” Kharla growled. “Thral, grab a bottle. We’re going!”

Thral drank his bottle of mead as they walked along the path. The innkeeper had pointed them in the direction of the park before they left. They soon reached a little gate over which a sign read ‘Kensgroove Park — Where Wedded Bliss Begins’.

The Breton looked at the sign with a glum face. “And where it probably ends for some.”

“Always you delight us with your happy thoughts, Mell,” said Draloth.

A female Dark Elf in blue wizard robes appeared coming down the trail leading into the park. She was pulling an empty handcart.

“Hello, sister!” Draloth greeted.

She looked up at the party and fixed her eyes on Draloth. “Good to see a fellow Dark Elf out here!” she said. “I’m Davina the Caretaker. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for a Breton. Brown leathers. Bit of an attitude. Is she here?” asked Draloth.

“Ah, yes. She’s on Screamsplash Rink. I just loaded it up with some more frost salts for her. It’s at the back of the park. Hopefully the ice will hold long enough.”

“Right,” said Draloth. “Thank you.”

Kharla had no idea what she was talking about but they needed to press on, so thanked her and walked into the park. The main part of the park, not counting the woodland, wasn’t too large. Ti’lief spotted Darleen first. She was on what looked like a small frozen lake just past the picnic area, moving around as if she were flying over the ice. When Darleen saw them approaching she slid toward them on the ice, stopped, and plucked a couple of bladed devices from the bottom of her shoes, hanging them back on her belt where Kharla had seen them before.

“I’ve not had a good skate like that for years. The surface here’s perfectly level, if you can avoid the wet patches and holes. Makes for great spins.” Darleen stepped off the ice and picked up her long, wrapped bundle. “Good, you got here early. I’m impressed.”

“So where’s this burial mound?” asked Kharla.

“I asked at the inn, and the Caretaker, but they didn’t know about any ancient dragon mound. I’ve looked all over the park too. It’s strange. It should be here somewhere very close. I thought a bit of skating might give me some new idea where to look, but it hasn’t. But now we’re all here we can split up and—”

A scream tore through the peace of Kensgroove Park.

“That came from the direction of the inn!” said Darleen. “Let’s go!”

As they reached the inn they saw Davina running toward them from the other direction.

“Dragon!” she shouted as she bolted for the inn’s door.

“Wait!” Darleen grabbed the Dark Elf by the shoulders. “What happened?”

“I went to the Cake, just to make sure it was clean,” the Caretaker explained. “It’s being used later today. Then this huge black dragon came out of the sky toward me. I ran and never looked back.”

A huge black dragon. Could it be the one Kharla had seen at Helga and High Healthspa?

“What do you mean ‘Cake’?” Darleen pressed.

“Oh, it’s a giant wedding cake, made out of wood. It’s been there since the park was founded. I just give it a lick of white paint every year or two. The bride and groom stand on the top tier of the Cake and we commission a painting of them. It’s very popular.”

“And how big is this ‘Cake’ and where is it?”

“Oh, about the size of a small hill, I guess. Up there!” She pointed to a trail on the other side of the inn. “I must warn everyone inside to get into the basement!” And so saying she disappeared into the inn.

“Come on!” said Darleen. “To the Cake!”

“Cake!” shouted an enthusiastic Thral as he sped off after Darleen with the rest following.

“Bessie, hide!” Draloth shouted back at the cow still chewing the cud outside the inn.

The path climbed but soon leveled out. Before them was a scene indeed. The black dragon that had attacked them at Helga and High Healthspa hung in the sky over a giant Cake, as if wondering what it was. Kharla recognized the beast instantly. Its voice boomed into the structure beneath it—“Yel Tor Chorl!”—and fire engulfed the top tier of the giant wooden Cake.

“Quick, behind that large boulder!” shouted Darleen and they all took cover behind the outcrop of rock near the Cake.

Darleen and Kharla peeked around the boulder. The Cake began to collapse as it burned. The white paint on the lower tiers blistered, smoked, and began to catch fire. It wasn’t long before the whole Cake had collapsed revealing a circular mound. The dragon burial site!

Then the black dragon’s voice boomed and the surface of the mound shattered. From it crawled a dragon, light in color and though smaller than the black dragon, still vast in size. The dragons exchanged a few words. Kharla couldn’t understand what was being said but for some reason it reminded her of valleys, daffodils, brass bands, male choirs, mining communities, knotwork, and leeks. Then the black dragon swung its huge head toward their hiding place. They had been discovered! “You do not even know our tongue, do you?” the black dragon said as they all sat frozen behind the boulder, except for Thral who was finishing his bottle of mead. “Such arrogance, to take for yourself the name of Dafyddkiin — Dragonbore.”

“Technically,” Draloth whispered to Kharla and the others, “he didn’t take the name, it was given to him.”

“Silence, Dark Elf!” the voice boomed back. The dragon had incredible hearing.

“Sawyloknir,” the black dragon said, its voice turning back in the direction of the other dragon again. “Kil da thoolls! Es pez alee da ped antik daak elff!”

“Hey, don’t think I didn’t hear what you did there!” shouted Draloth. “That wasn’t the dragon tongue!”

Kharla stole a glance around the boulder to see the black dragon beat its wings powerfully and lift itself away at a terrifying speed, laughing as he went. Then the other dragon was upon them, a cold blast of ice covering the boulder and sweeping around its edges.

“Ooh, that’s cold!” said Ti’lief, pulling in his tail.

“I am Sawyloknir. Hear my voice and despair!” came the lilting voice of the dragon. “My Lord Alun has told me what you did to my hallowed resting place. A centerpiece for a theme park! A giant wedding cake directly atop my tranquil repose! Such disrespect!”

Alun? Who was this Lord Alun? His leader? The black dragon? Did Kharla have a name at last? The dragon took to the sky and circled toward them.

“Run, hide, fight! Whatever!” shouted Kharla as the dragon closed in on them. They all ran, except Thral. He was too absorbed in getting the last drop out of his bottle. The dragon engulfed him in a blast of icy frost. Thral disappeared.

“My voice has been silenced for too long!” the dragon roared as it circled again.

“Yeah, well we’re going to silence it again!” shouted Eilgird as she shot an arrow at the beast. It bounced off its scales. “Somehow,” she added before bolting for cover.

Kharla cursed their oversight for not bringing weapons that would’ve actually been useful against an airborne enemy. She could throw her spear, but that was one shot. Best to hang onto it and gut the creature if it landed.

Darleen had unwrapped the bundle on her back to reveal two huge blades and two halves of a metal sphere. Kharla watched as the Breton fitted them together to form a cross shape with the sphere at its center. Darleen then threw it up into the air and the blades spun to life keeping it elevated above the ground. Then the Breton twiddled with a device in her hand and the spinning blades shot away toward the dragon. The contraption made contact with one of the dragon’s wings and the creature roared, batting away the annoyance. But its wing had been cut and it began to lose altitude.

The ground shook as Sawyloknir dropped to the ground. Darleen’s contraption moved in again but the dragon blasted it with its icy breath. The spinning blades iced up and it fell to the ground, breaking apart as it landed.

The dragon suddenly swiveled its head toward a nearby stand of trees as if it had seen something or someone. Kharla raced forward toward the rear of the Sawyloknir while it was distracted and stuck her spear in its flank. It barely made a scratch. Then Darleen was by her side, slicing at the dragon with her blades that she now held gripped in her hands. Knuckle blades. Kharla had seen similar weapons used by some clans of Orcs, but Darleen’s were smaller, thinner, and had a deadly sharp hardness to them. The blades severed some of the scales and the dragon roared and began to turn, snapping at Darleen as she and Kharla drew back.

Then a giant ball of light whizzed in front of the dragon’s snout and exploded like a small sun. Kharla was blinded. As her vision returned she saw Darleen on her knees nearby furiously blinking to recover her sight. The dazed-looking dragon was doing the same as its head swayed from one side to another. It tried to take flight again but failed, its head lolling toward the ground.

Then Kharla saw Thral stand up not far from where he’d disappeared. He was all wet and had bits of ice in his hair. He dropped the bottle in his hand, grabbed his warhammer from his back, took a short run toward the dragon, and then swung his warhammer at the beast’s head like he was hitting a ball in a child’s game. Sawyloknir collapsed with a guttural murmur and went still.

Darleen and the others watched what Kharla had already seen and experienced before, at the western watchtower near Whiteruin. The rushing sound, the swirling lights, and then the surge of power as the dragon’s essence poured into Thral.

“So you are the Dragonbore!” declared Darleen.

Thral belched.