The Elderly Scrawls: Skewrim — The Unmodded Truth

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

“Ti’lief could’ve climbed over that wall in less time than it takes to say ‘Jarl Baldgoof’, yes,” said the Cat-man when the gate closed.

“And I could’ve hauled you off to the Dragonsearch dungeon in less time than it takes to say ‘fine rug’, Cat!” came the voice of the guard from the other side of the gate.

Ti’lief looked back. “That one has sharp hearing for a Nord,” he whispered. “Ti’lief must remember this.”

Kharla was less worried about the guard behind the gate than the Impeccable officer who stood with his back to them. He was talking to the blacksmith, a woman in her mid-thirties.

“We’ll pay whatever it takes, but we must have more swords for the Impeccable soldiers.”

“You know how I prefer making armor and shields,” the blacksmith replied. “Swords kill people. It just feels wrong. I like making things that defend people.”

“Technically,” the Impeccable countered, “you can defend yourself with a sword, such as with your basic parry.”

The blacksmith nodded. “You make a good point.”

“No, it’s you who makes the good points. That’s why we want you to forge these swords. I’d make a right pig’s ear of it.”

The blacksmith laughed. “Puns won’t get you anywhere. All right, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe make them a bit shorter to quicken up the process, but don’t expect a miracle.”

Kharla hurried Bessie on so that the Impeccable didn’t see them. “Where now?”

“The market’s up ahead,” said Draloth. “Just turn left there and go up the steps and you’ll be in the Wind District, go past the tree in the middle of the court, and then up several flights of steps to the Cloud District. That’s where you’ll find Dragonsearch and Jarl Baldgoof.”

“You’re not coming?” Kharla asked.

“I have to stay with Bessie. There’s no way she’s getting up all those steps. Besides, I want to check out the trader and market.”

“Ti’lief will ‘check out’ the market too, and also this inn he sees, yes, what is it? Ah, the Mannered Bear,” said the Khapiit squinting at the inn’s wooden sign.

A Rudeguard man, dressed in fine clothes, stopped in front of them as they approached the market. The smell of mothballs hit Kharla’s nostrils. “Do you get to the Cloud District very often?” He glanced at Bessie and wrinkled his nose. “Oh, what am I saying—of course you don’t.”

Kharla rested a hand on Bessie. “Actually, I’m going there now.”

“Sure you are. An Orc and a smelly cow? In the Cloud District? Maybe I could sell you some mothballs to mask the pungent odor?” the Rudeguard pulled a couple of lavender-white stringed mothballs from his garment, dangled them from his fingers, and laughed.

Bessie mooed and butted the Rudeguard into a fruit stall and he fell backwards into the crates. The man sat up, an apple stuck in his mouth.

“That apple and the damage will cost you, Nafthuleen,” said the stallholder.

“But it wasn’t my fault. That beast assaulted me!” Nafthuleen said.

“I saw it all, Naf.” The stallholder put her hands on her hips. “You walked into its path and then bounced off. Entirely your fault I reckon. Now pay up!”

The company moved on, and Kharla, distracted by the scene at the stall, bumped into a man dressed in dirty rags.

The beggar scowled. “I ain’t done nothin’!”

“So you have done something?” Draloth asked.

“What?” said the beggar.

“Well, it’s a double negative. You have not done nothing, therefore you must have done something.”

“I don’t want no trouble,” the beggar said.

“So you do want some trouble then?” the Dark Elf asked.

The beggar pushed past the company muttering an insult that wasn’t only unpleasant but also highly grammatically incorrect.

Kharla, Thral, and Mell left Draloth and Ti’lief at the market and continued up the steps to the Wind District. Just before they got to the top of the steps Kharla noticed a large round device hanging from the wall. It had two spindles on its face: one pointing to the words ‘gale force—heavyset visitors only’ and the second to the words ‘low visibility—fog torches advised’. Frowing, Kharla carried on and stepped into the Wind District.

True to its name, a mean gale blew across this level of Whiteruin. Its intensity seemed to increase as they proceeded. Mell had to hang onto Thral as they made their way toward the middle of the district where stood as sickly-looking a tree as Kharla had ever seen. Its rotting wood, covered in lichen, had few branches, the only leaves upon them pale and dead. A pair of old leather boots dangled by their laces from one of the higher branches.

“I’ll stop here,” said Mell, wrapping her arms around the tree. “I can’t go any farther.”

“It’s a shame isn’t it?” came a woman’s voice.

Kharla looked around and saw a priestess sitting on a seat near the tree. She had a rope around her waist that connected to the seat to stop her from being uprooted by the wind. Kharla wondered that the tree itself hadn’t been uprooted yet if it was always like this up here.

“This is the Geldedgreen,” the priestess continued, looking up at the tree. “It was planted as a seedling…”

Kharla and Thral pushed on, leaving the priestess to talk to Mell. Well, Kharla pushed on, Thral kind of just walked with a smile of satisfaction upon his face as the wind blew through his shoulder-length blond hair as if it were no more than a walk in a pleasant breeze. Meanwhile, Kharla’s jet-black ponytail was just about horizontal as she bent her frame against the squall.

Words carried in the wind. Kharla couldn’t catch all of them.

“Terrible…Toeless…man…”

Kharla saw a man in priest’s clothing to her right. Like the priestess he was also tethered about the waist but to a shrine that stood behind him. He was giving a speech and gesticulating wildly, though whether his arm movements were to emphasize his words or simply because of the powerful gusts of wind, she couldn’t say.

“Mighty…maggots…walk among the stars!”

The wind died as they began their ascent up the steps to the Cloud District and they were soon plunged into a fog so thick that Kharla couldn’t even see the steps beneath her feet. The sound of water filled her ears. Waterfalls gushing down over rocks and stones. That’s what it sounded like. She carefully made her way up the steps, feeling out each step as she went. Finally, she reached the top, unless of course it was just a very wide step.

“Thral?”

There was no reply.

“Thral?” she said louder.

“Who’s there?” came Thral’s voice.

Kharla sighed. “It’s Kharla!”

“Who?”

“The Orc! Now, where are you, Thral?”

“Not sure, but feet wet.”

“Stay where you are. Make a noise or something so I can find you.”

Thral started humming. “Hmm hmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmmmmm, hmm hmm hmmmmmm, hmm hmm hmmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmmm—”

“All right, got you.” Kharla clapped a hand on the Nord’s arm and he stopped humming the strange yet quite catchy tune. “All right, hang onto me. I think I found a handrail back there. It should lead to the door.”

As they neared the large doors to Dragonsearch the mist cleared. Thral threw his arms around Kharla and lifted her easily into the air. “Thank you! Orc lady save Thral!”

“Yes!” Kharla managed to get out, only her iron armor saving her ribs from being crushed. “You can put me down now!”

Thral put Kharla down, smiled, turned, and enthusiastically pushed the doors to Dragonsearch wide open.

“Ouch!” came a voice to their right. Kharla poked her head around the door. A Whiteruin guard sat on the floor with a hand to his nose.

“Sorry!” Kharla gave the guard a sheepish grin.

“What’s the meaning of this interruption? Jarl Baldgoof is not receiving visitors.”

Kharla looked up to see a Dark Elf in leather armor at the top of the short flight of wooden stairs that led to the upper part of the hall. Her sword was drawn and she had the look of thunder upon her face.

Kharla straightened. “We have news from Helga about the dragon attack.”

“Well, that explains why the guards let you in, though not why one of them’s on the floor with a broken nose.” She sheathed her sword. “Come on then, the Jarl will want to speak to you personally.”

“My lord. Please,” urged a middle-aged man in fine gray clothes as he spoke to the bald goofy-looking man slouching on the wooden throne. “You have to listen. I only counsel caution. We cannot afford to act rashly in times like these. If the news from Helga is true…well, there’s no telling what it means.”

“What would you have me do then, Preventus? Nothing?” the latter replied.

“My lord. Please. This is no time for rash action. I just think we need more information before we act. I just—”

The man on the throne spotted Kharla and Thral and cut off the other’s words. “Who’s this, then?”

The Dark Elf stepped forward. “Jarl Baldgoof, they have news about the dragon attack.”

The Jarl looked at Thral. “So, you were at Helga? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

“Yes,” said Kharla and the Jarl switched his attention to her, one eyebrow raising beneath his bald scalp. “It destroyed Helga. Last we saw it was heading this way. We escaped to Riverweed and they sent us to warn you and ask for aid.”

The Jarl turned to the Dark Elf and slung his leg over the arm of the throne. “Call me Ishmael, you were right Aerolith!”

Ishmael, the Dragon of the North, is a title bestowed upon several heroes in Nordic history. Each time he comes as a bearded king with a penchant for whaling. These Ishmaels include Toby Septic, founder of the Third Empire of Man; Wulfitdown the Greedy, Dragonbore High King of ancient Skyrim who joined the ranks of the undead; and Perennial Whitesnake, an ancient hero who led his band of minstrels on yearly tours in Hard Rock.

The Jarl turned and slung his leg over the other arm of the throne. “What do you say now, Preventus? Shall we trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

The steward looked shocked. “Jarl Baldgoof, I would not trust the strength of our walls against a belligerent pigeon let alone a dragon.”

“My lord,” Aerolith interrupted. “We should send troops to Riverweed at once. It’s in the most immediate danger if that dragon is lurking in the mountains.”

The steward shook his head. “The Jarl of Foulkeith will view that as a provocation! He’ll assume we’re preparing to join Oldthred’s side and attack him. We should not—”

“Enough!” interrupted the Jarl. “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! It’s likely already invaded our air space!”

“But, my lord, you’re not standing idly by, you are sitting idly by—well, sort of slouching really...”

The Jarl ignored the steward. “Aerolith, scramble a detachment to Riverweed at once.”

The Dark Elf gave a sharp nod. “Yes, my Jarl.”

Aerolith departed and the steward excused himself to attend to his duties.

Thral by this time was looking very bored. He yawned as the Jarl turned back to look at them both. “Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You’ve both done Whiteruin a service, and I won’t forget it.”

“No problem, Jarl. Right, well we’ll be off then!” Kharla said.

The Jarl sat up. “Now wait a moment!”

Kharla frowned. She wanted to get to Windfarm so she could speak to Oldthred about the dragon. It would be a good death to take out that dragon, maybe Dullius too. Oldthred could help her with that. “We’ve done our bit. We’re going now and you can’t prevent us.”

“Yes?” asked the steward, poking his head around the corner. “Did someone call?”

“No, Preventus. Go back to your duties,” the Jarl snapped. He turned back to Kharla. “Now, er…what did you say your names were?”

“We never said, but I’m Kharla Ironback and this here is Thral.”

Thral smiled.

“Well, Kharla Ironback and Thral, I could offer you something from my armory for your service?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spear?” asked Kharla.

Baldgoof stroked his beard. “No, I don’t believe I do, those are pretty rare things to come by.”

“All right, so we’re done here then.” Kharla turned to go.

“But I think I know how you can get one,” the Jarl added quickly.

Kharla stopped.

“Come, let’s go find Falconscar, my court wizard. He’ll be able to help you.”

Kharla followed the Jarl and pulled Thral along with her, more out of the thought of getting a spear than anything else. It couldn’t hurt to just listen. There were a number of Whiteruin guards in the hall but with Thral’s help she could probably fight her way out if need be.

The Jarl led them into a side room with a large desk at its center behind which a man in blue wizard’s robes stood with palms flat on the table as he studied a large open book. His long face was scarred, as if large talons had run from his scalp to his chin. The Jarl whispered something in the wizard’s ear before speaking.

“Well, Falconscar, I think I’ve found you a couple of individuals who can help you with your drago—I mean who we can help find a spear. Go ahead, fill them in on the details. And, Falconscar, this is a priority now. Anything we can use to fight this drago—I mean anything we can do to find this spear. We need it, quickly. Before it’s too late.”

The wizard nodded. “Of course, Jarl Baldgoof. You seem to have found me two gullib—I mean two gallant assistants. I’m sure they will both prove very useful.”

The Jarl turned to Kharla and Thral. “Succeed at this, and you’ll be rewarded. Whiteruin will be in your debt.” The Jarl turned and left.

“Right, so how do I get this spear?” Kharla asked Falconscar.

“Ah, yes, well I need you to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin, through countless enemies and traps and a generally unsafe environment, in search of an ancient stone tablet, the Dragonstone, that may or may not actually be there. But, if it is, it’s probably interred in the main chamber. If not, then chalk it all up to experience and a bit of loot.”

Kharla put her hand to her hip. “What about the spear?”

“Ah, yes, the spear. Well once I have the stone I will be able to make the spear appear. A very special spear.”

“Hmph.” Kharla looked at the wizard. “And where’s this ruin?”

“Oh, not far. Do you know Teak Halls Barrow?”