The Elderly Scrawls: Skewrim — The Unmodded Truth

Marmaladas, the 18th of Lost Speed, 4E 201

“You don’t think they’ll do anything to Bessie, do you?” Mell asked as they made their way south along the edges of the mountains.

“We’ll be back before they know we’ve gone,” Kharla assured the Breton. Teak Halls Barrow stood a shorter distance from Whiteruin than Riverweed if one followed the mountain path.

Kharla was glad Bessie had been left behind. Although the cow could’ve dealt with the climb, it would’ve been painfully slow. Speaking of painfully slow, Thral lumbered behind them seemingly in awe of every flower and tree and rock he passed. Mell, in contrast, looked downcast though the occasional brightly colored flower piqued her interest for a few seconds before returning to her sullen state. Ti’lief was speaking with her, something about his tips and tricks for getting stubborn stains out of clothing using Marrowind white vinegar and salt from the coasts of the Sea of Gusts. Draloth seemed lost in thought just behind Kharla. She decided to drop back and take the opportunity to get some answers to her questions.

“Last night,” she began as Draloth looked up at her with his red eyes. She didn’t like Dark Elf eyes. Maybe it was the color and the pottery class all over again. “I heard you talking to someone in your room.”

Draloth frowned as if annoyed. “It’s nothing. I talk in my sleep sometimes.”

“It sounded like two people to me. You and an older voice, one that was more haughty than yours.”

“More haughty? What are you saying?” The Dark Elf seemed offended.

“Sounded like an argument. Kind of heated,” Kharla pressed.

“Do you use the word ‘heated’ to subtly infer that what you heard may have led to the fire?”

Kharla, unfamiliar with the concept of subtext, scratched her head. “I don’t know what you mean, but it sure sounded like someone was in there with you.”

“Look, I talk in my sleep, do good voice impersonations, and must’ve knocked over the candle in a moment of heightened gesticulation during my speech-filled slumber.” Draloth scowled and dropped back to join the others.

The Dark Elf was hiding something. Well, if it put her at risk of being burned alive in her sleep again, Draloth Incando wasn’t going to get a choice of evading her questions next time.

It wasn’t long before they saw Riverweed far below. Kharla wondered what pranks Freddy was up to today, how Rolof had dealt with the whole Frostboot-dog situation, and if Rod and Gertrude had yet recovered from the loss of their household goods.

As they pressed forward the air grew colder and the ground more white and hardened. Up ahead, an old tower stood alone, a solitary refuge on the mountainside.

Kharla, leading the group, held up a hand and they all stopped. Even Thrall. He was learning. A Rudeguard woman leaned against the trunk of a fir tree next to the little stone bridge that led to the tower’s entrance. She was examining her nails, occasionally picking a bit of dirt from them.

Draloth moved up behind Kharla. “Bandit!”

“Are you sure?” Kharla grabbed the bow from her back and nocked an arrow.

“Yes,” the Dark Elf continued. “You can tell from the clothing. See how she’s wearing studded armor but it’s mismatched with fur shoes and gloves? Bandits often have limited choice. No self-respecting person in a settlement would engage in such bad sartorial coordination.”

“Right.” Kharla loosed the arrow. It missed and hit the tree above the bandit causing a branch to shake and offload its snow onto the branch below it, and then that branch on the one below it until half the snow on the tree came down upon the Rudeguard and buried her. “Well, that’ll have to do.”

An arrow zinged past Kharla’s head. Another bandit had appeared at the entrance to the tower, this time in mismatching hide and fur attire, and armed with a bow.

The company scattered for cover as Kharla and the bandit shot arrows at one another.

Kharla growled. “I wish he’d stand still!”

Finally, Kharla got lucky as the bandit lost his footing on a particularly wide sidestep and plummeted to his death.

“Good. Now let’s check the tower for anything valuable.” Draloth started walking toward the structure.

“Yes, Ti’lief agree. And also for anything stolen.”

“Wait!” Kharla said. The Dark Elf and the Cat stopped. “Thral, go check it’s safe.”

Thral nodded and lumbered his way over to the tower. They all watched as he disappeared inside. A few heartbeats later there was a scream and a bandit flew out of the window of the tower and landed not too far from where Kharla and the others stood.

Draloth stared at the dead bandit. “See, iron and hide this time.”

Ti’lief bent down and searched the man. “Pfft. Just a silver ring and a few coins.”

Mell looked at the dead bandit and then at the Cat. “Shouldn’t we return his body and belongings to his next of kin?”

Ti’lief stared back at her, eyebrows raised questioningly above his large amber eyes.

“That’s not in the ‘Rules of Conduct’ either, I guess?” the Breton said.

“No,” said the Khapiit, “nor anyone else’s ‘Rules of Conduct’ that Ti’lief knows of. And, even if this one wanted to do as you suggest, he doesn’t know who this bandit is. It’s not as if these illiterate outlaws keep journals with their names and history all neatly written down for us.”

The exploration of the tower resulted in little treasure. A few coins in a bag and a few more in a chest at the top. “This isn’t nearly enough,” Draloth said as he looked at the coins. “We’ll need at least ten times this amount to pay for the damage, I reckon.”

So they all pressed on up the mountain path until the snow lay thick upon the ground. They turned a corner and the large Nordic ruin of Teak Halls Barrow filled the plateau before them.

Snowflakes began to fall from the sky as they walked toward the wide steps of the old temple ruin. Ti’lief shivered. “The cold white sand, it is strange to us Khapiit.”

“It’s called snow,” said Kharla.

“This one knows this. This one was being poetic.”

Kharla rolled her eyes just as a bandit holding an iron battleaxe appeared at the top of the steps.

“You picked a bad place to get lost, friends!”

“We’re not lost.” Draloth sounded offended. “We know exactly where we are and where we’re going.” He looked at Thral who opened his mouth to say something but the Dark Elf anticipated his words and added, “Most of us know exactly where we are and where we’re going.”

“Is that so?” the bandit said. He wore hide boots, fur gauntlets, studded armor across his torso and loins, and an iron helm. A combination reflected in several permutations by the two other bandits who now joined him, one with a sword and shield and the other with a drawn bow. “Well, I do too—where you is, is in trouble, and where you’re going is to Oblivious.”

“That’s a terrible sentence structure,” Draloth protested but the bandit wasn’t listening. He was charging down the steps at speed, his battleaxe swinging in a powerful arc down upon the Dark Elf’s head. The weapon never made contact though, for the bandit went flying back up the stairs, over the heads of his comrades, and crashed into a stone pillar, which he slid down and then remained still. Thral stood there next to Draloth, warhammer in hand.

The bandit archer shot at the Nord. She missed. Kharla threw one of her axes and it took her down. Meanwhile, Thral had started advancing toward the bandit with the sword and shield who didn’t seem very keen to engage the Nord strongman. Thral shattered the man’s shield and shield arm on his first strike and then shattered his head on the second.

They checked the bodies for loot but found little beyond a couple of inexpensive trinkets.

The Cat stared at the bodies. “Do you think Ti’lief should sort them out?”

“What do you mean?” asked Draloth.

“Rearrange the clothing and armor so they all have matching sets, of course. It is so distracting the way they have it. This one thinks they could have sorted something out between them when they still breathed. It’s so terribly disorganized. It pains Ti’lief’s eyes.”

Draloth looked at the Cat as if he were crazy. “Maybe you should write a book and distribute it to all the bandit bands in Skewrim? You could call it ‘The Bandit’s Guide to Congruous Clothing and Accordant Armor’.”

Ti’lief’s amber eyes lit up as the snow collected on his exposed fur. “Ooh, this one likes that idea very much. Thank you. Ti’lief will take down note in his little book.”

Kharla yanked her axe out of the archer. “Let’s get out of this snow before my green skin turns yellow and before the Cat turns into a walking snowman.”

At the top of the second set of steps they were met with a pair of solid intricately carved iron doors, the height of three men and almost the same in width. Kharla pushed but the door barely moved.

“Help Orc lady,” said Thral as he shoved Kharla into the door.

With her face pressed into the metal, the door swung open. The Nord let her go and she dropped to her knees. “Thanks, Thral.”

Her sarcasm was lost on the strongman who grinned back.

The frost and snow had invaded the ground near the doors, where two Skreevers and a dead bandit lay, the latter’s face and arms covered in black graffiti.

Skreevers are large rat-like creatures, not too dangerous alone (unless you meet one of the really big ones) but deadly when encountered in packs. They are known for their habit of making charcoal sticks from burned wood and scrawling obscene and toxic images and messages on walls, floors, rolls of paper, and even on enemies. If bitten by a Skreever a person may develop dyspraxia, a disease that causes the infected person to incrementally lose all sense of spatial awareness—this can result in death, not because the infection is deadly, but rather because the infected person is sooner or later very likely to walk off a cliff or take on an enemy far bigger than them, or really anything else that involves judging size and distance.

Draloth checked the bandit for coin and valuables. He tutted. “Four hundred more dead bandits and we should have enough to pay the owner of the Mannered Bear our debt.”

The chamber went back some way, held up by two vast pillars. Beyond the farthest of these pillars came the light of a flickering fire and voices. They all crept behind Kharla to get closer.

“So we’re just supposed to sit here while Taelor runs off with the golden claw?” came a male voice from the other side of the pillar.

“That dark elf wants to go on ahead, let him. Better than us risking our necks, Harknir,” a woman replied.

“What if Taelor doesn’t come back? I want my share from that claw, Soling!” said Harknir.

“Just shut it and keep an eye out for more Skreevers. We don’t wanna end up like Bjorn back there!” Soling replied.

Kharla heard a grunt behind her and turned to see that Draloth had fallen over some rubble in the gloom.

“Wait, what was that noise?” said Soling.

Detected, Kharla stepped out from behind the pillar and cut down Harknir with her axes while Thral reached the woman bandit in a few strides and bashed her on the head with his fist, rendering her unconscious.

“Thral not kill women,” the Nord stated. He picked her up and placed her in one of the bedrolls next to a fire with an empty spit above it. “She sleeps now. Maybe cook roasted Skreever for Thral on way back.”

Kharla stared at the Nord but before she could say anything Draloth ran over to a chest on the edge of the fire’s light.

“Ah, I wonder what treasure’s in here?” He tried to open it. “It’s locked.”

Draloth checked the bandits but they had no key and little in the way of coin or jewelry. “Ti’lief, can you open the chest?”

The Cat grinned and pulled a lockpick from his belt. “Of course!”

He had the chest open in no time.

“This will help,” said Draloth as he stashed some coins from the chest into his coin bag. “And look, a few lockpicks for you too, Cat!”

“Ti’lief not need them, as he is very good and not break lockpicks he already has…but he takes them in case he loses lockpicks in fight, yes.”

The company made their way down the tunnel at the end of the chamber, deeper into the bowels of the Nordic ruin. Mell threw up her hand and a glowing ball appeared and floated above them, illuminating the way. Thral stared fascinated at the ball of light before his face, then he sneezed and sent the orb flying down the tunnel. It returned to light their way, this time keeping its distance from the Nord.

“Look at these walls,” said Draloth, running a hand over the wooden paneling that now lined the tunnels. “That’s fine teak that is, in the ancient Nordic style. Note the rich silver-gray patina that the passage of time has brought out.”

Kharla cast a disinterested glance at the straight-grained panels. “Yeah, note the decorations on the lower part too.”

Draloth looked down to see the scribblings and rude images drawn in charcoal along the bottom of the teak. “Wretched Skreevers. No appreciation for quality wood.”

The passage twisted past two fine teak tables and another twist took them past a particularly fine unit of teak shelves.

“I wonder if these can be disassembled,” Draloth muttered to himself. “Might be able to sell them as flatpacks.”

“Bandit up ahead,” Ti’lief whispered loudly soon after they took another couple of short twists. The Cat had moved to the front to avoid the glare of Mell’s globe (and the very strong instinct to chase after it). Khapiit could see well enough in the dark without being blinded and tempted by such unnatural magical lights. It was also an opportunity to clean away some of the huge cobwebs, some of which spanned the entire width of the passage.

“What’s he doing?” Kharla said.

At the end of the passage, a doorway led to a small chamber. Inside, a bandit stood holding a torch. They all watched as he bent down to a large lever in the ground in front of a closed iron gate.

“You know,” said the Cat. “Ti’lief, he wouldn’t touch that lever. It looks like a trap to him.”

The bandit threw the lever and a dozen arrows loosed from holes in the chamber, cutting him down where he stood.

“You see, Ti’lief was right.”

Once the arrows had stopped zipping across the room, the party moved in. Ensconced in the wall to their left stood three pillars with symbols upon them. Above the gate hung two symbols, the place for a middle one empty as it had fallen: A smiley face, another smiley face (on the floor), and a sad face.

“A puzzle!” Mell sounded delighted. “Oh, but I fear not much of a challenge. I think Thral could even work this one out.”

Thral, it must be said, didn’t look like he had worked it out. Not even after Kharla rotated the puzzle pillars to match the faces symbols on the wall (and the floor) and threw the lever. Indeed, he looked shocked and his eyes briefly went to the arrow holes in the walls before bundling Kharla to the ground to protect her. The grill of the gate disappeared into the stonework above and Kharla persuaded Thral that everything was all right and he could get off her. Nursing a bruised knee Kharla moved through the gateway followed by the others.

A large teak table sat before them, a book, chest and bottle upon it, and to the left an old wooden spiral staircase led down a great big hole in the floor. The chest, also of teak, was unlocked; it had a little gold in it, but nothing to write home about. The bottle, containing a pink liquid, was likely a healing potion. Kharla checked the expiry date on its base and, as she feared, it had expired some years ago. Mell picked up the book and flicked through its pages.

“Skreevers!” Draloth shouted as three of the critters bounded from the staircase, baring sharp teeth and armed with charcoal sticks.

“Yowch!” Ti’lief cried as one of the Skreevers bit his toe.

Thral tried to smash it (the screever, not the toe) with his warhammer as the Khapiit flailed his leg about trying to shake the wretched creature off. Draloth held one at bay with his dagger as the little blighter tried to find an opening while the third Skreever grabbed Mell’s robes and started scribbling furiously on them with its little stick as the Breton tried to beat it off with the book. The Skreever grabbed the book and started scribbling on it just before Kharla cleaved it in two. Thral eventually hit the one attached to the Khapiit’s foot and Kharla took the Skreever assaulting Draloth from behind, burying her axe in its skull, the little stick of charcoal dropping from its claw to the floor and rolling away.

“Horrible pests!” Draloth shoved his dagger back in its sheath.

“This book is of no interest to me,” declared Mell, plucking it out of the dead Skreever’s claw and handing it to Ti’lief. “You might enjoy it.”

The Khapiit stared at the title. Thief. “Ti’lief is filled with much laughter, yes.” He dropped the book and followed the rest down the stairs.

The stairs were, of course, teak. They remained sturdy despite the passage of time, though they had a darker look to them than the wall panels. Years of dust and Skreever droppings had clearly taken their toll on the wood.

“I always get dizzy going down these spiral staircases,” Mell said, her hand holding the wall as she descended.

“What about going up?” Draloth asked.

“Not so much, more vertigo when I’m ascending. Though I find going up a little less depressing. Going down is like you’re falling or being swallowed up by some black void perhaps never to rise again, like losing all hope and the will to live. Does it make you feel that way?”

Draloth stared at her. “Well, it never used to…”

The stairs ended and before them sat a large teak table, a teak bookcase, and a teak cabinet in what looked like a little office space. Beyond, the passage continued. The whole area was covered in cobwebs and Ti’lief started clearing them away as the others paused and looked at a scroll on the table.

“A spell scroll!” said Draloth. “It may contain a powerful magic that could be useful.” He picked it up and opened it. “Blast!”

“Is that a spell?” asked Kharla.

“No,” the Dark Elf muttered, displaying the scroll to Kharla. “It means those pesky Skreevers have scrawled all over it! Now it’s worth no more than the paper it’s written on.” He threw the scroll down and Ti’lief picked it up and put it in what looked like a teak fretwork wastepaper basket by the side of the table.

“Let’s continue.” Kharla led the way now while Ti’lief held back to finish dusting the table.

The passageway dipped and the cobwebs grew thicker. Thral now looked about fifty what with all the cobwebs in his golden hair. Mell decided to switch the color of the light orb to blue. It helped highlight the web a little better.

A voice emanated from the bend to the left in the passageway. Male and whiny. A Dark Elf by the sound of it. “Is…is someone coming?” Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling? I know I’m annoying, treacherous, left you to deal with the Skreevers, and ran off with the claw, but I need help!”

Kharla cut through the thick web that covered the entrance to the chamber from which the voice had come. Inside, webs covered the walls, egg sacs sat in the corners, and human-shaped husks wrapped in web littered the floor.

“Gross,” said Mell as her orb took a circuit of the room.

“Over here!” came the voice again. Kharla saw the face of a Dark Elf suspended in the thick webbing across the far side of the chamber. “No! Here it comes again! Don’t let it kill me!”

Kharla watched as a huge Frostboot Spider descended from the ceiling. It landed on the floor and came forward, all eight white-colored boots a-kicking. Kharla really wished she had a spear right now. She slashed with her axes, eventually wounding the beast in one of its legs. Then the Frostboot Spider kicked her hard in her bruised knee and she went down with a grunt. She raised her axes as seven other legs prepared to boot her to death, but then Thral’s warhammer came down and caved in the creature’s head and it fell limp.

Ti’lief rushed into the room, his claws out. “Oh, this is truly shocking. Ti’lief will not have time to clean this room, no. He will have to come back later.”

“You did it. You killed it!” shouted the Dark Elf suspended in the web. “Now cut me down before anything else shows up.”

Kharla approached the Dark Elf. “Who are you?”

“I am Taelor the Swift. Cut me down and I’ll help you find the treasure!”

Draloth made his way carefully past the dead Frostboot Spider to join Kharla. “Greetings, kin. What are you doing hanging around here?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke? It’s not funny. Can you cut me down? I don’t think this Orc’s intelligent enough to understand.”

Kharla grunted. “I don’t trust him. I say we leave him there.”

“You can’t! I have the golden claw! Without me, you won’t get the treasure.”

Draloth drew his dagger and started cutting the thick web around Taelor.

Taelor’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, brother. Yes, I can feel it loosening.”

“Is that a good idea?” Kharla asked. “Maybe there was a reason the spider wrapped him up like that.”

“Yes, to eat me later!” said Taelor.

“Are you sure it wasn’t because it was fed up with your whining or because it didn’t want to be stabbed in the back?” Kharla asked. Taelor ignored her.

The final strings of web broke free and Taelor the Swift dropped to the floor. He wasn’t very tall. Maybe Taelor the Short would’ve been a better name, thought Kharla. Or Taelor the Whiny, or Taelor the Swift to Stab You in the Back, or perhaps Taelor the Treacherous for the alliteration.

“You fools! Why should I share the treasure with anyone?” and so saying Taelor the Swift legged it through the tunnel behind him, disappearing into the gloom and laughing treacherously.

“Why did I know he was going to do that?” Kharla asked no one in particular. “Right, let’s get after him and see how swift he really is!”

They ran through two small chambers, then down into a large chamber lined with embalmed bodies. Up ahead they heard Taelor scream. They slowed. As they crept around the central pillars into the main part of the chamber, three corpses turned their heads toward them and fixed the party with their glowing ice-blue eyes.

Draloth gasped. “Daughtr!”

The dread Daughtr are the reanimated embalmed bodies of Nord girls who are said to have died in acts of extreme naughtiness, such as making up silly rhymes, teasing their parents, over-the-top screaming, and refusing to make their beds. These undead maidens stir to life to defend the tombs of powerful (and aromatic) Lychees. There are few enemies in all Skewrim so terrifying as the Daughtr. They are vulnerable to fire and partial to Sweet Rolls.

The three undead Nord girls started shambling toward them. The nearest carried a rotten doll in its skeletal hand, the fragments of a red dress clinging to its decaying form. It stopped, opened its mouth, and screamed. Kharla and the others put their hands to their ears. It was the sound of a thousand screaming girls who hadn’t got their way. Ti’lief, who probably had the best hearing, went down, whimpering on the floor.

The scream subsided and another Daughtr shuffled forward, this one’s decomposing hair fell to its waist where clung what was left of a yellow skirt. It wielded an old jumping rope, spinning it around like a lasso. The Daughtr lashed out with it, narrowly missing Mell, its wooden end sending dust flying as it smashed into one of the pillars.

The third animated undead girl wore a large pink band in its hair. The Daughtr carried no weapon but held up hands baring long sharp nails, faded nail polish of various hues upon them. Ti’lief, now back on his feet, raised his own (unpainted) claws to the undead creature.

Kharla knew the Daughtr were vulnerable to fire and partial to a sugary treat, but seeing as they had neither they’d have to rely upon a good bludgeon weapon to break their bones. “Thral! It’s time to smash!”

Thral stood there looking confused. “Thral not hurt girls.”

“They are animated by a dark force that protects this ruin, Thral. Who they were in life isn’t what you see before you now,” Draloth explained.

“You what?” said Thral.

Kharla sighed and then ducked to avoid the jumping rope as it flew overhead. “He means they’re not girls, Thral. They only look like it!”

“Oh, gotcha!” Thral said as he hefted his warhammer and took all three out in one large sweep of the weapon. They landed in a broken pile against the wall. There was a brief muffled scream from the first Daughtr, then it went silent and its eyes dimmed like the rest.

On the floor just past the crumpled Daughtr lay the body of Taelor the Swift. His face and upper arms were all lacerated, a rope mark about his neck, and blood coming from his ears.

“Well, he did say he wanted to be cut down,” remarked Draloth as he bent to loot the body.