The Elderly Scrawls: Skewrim — The Unmodded Truth

Floridas, the 22nd of Lost Speed, 4E 201

Kharla, Draloth and Etonian sat in front of the fire at the Stinkin’ Skreever, now warm, fed and clothed. Kharla had given Etonian the old tunic and trousers she’d found in the cupboard in her room—compliments of the inn. Kharla had even thrown in the leather shoes and the full-length tan socks from the embassy attire. Malebun had left the three of them on the edge of the city, which was just as well as Kharla had been at the point where she was about to cut off his bun. The Wood Elf had complained non-stop all the way back down the mountain. He’d have to go into hiding, he whined. Start his milk-delivery business afresh somewhere else, he moaned. Find a new barber, he lamented. Though he seemed mostly upset about missing out on the goody bag at the end of the evening, not to mention this year’s trifle (which he did mention, twice).

However, Kharla and the others were taking no idle rest in front of the fire. No, they were speaking with some haste, planning out their next move before the Tallmor or their Immaculate Legion lackeys turned up at the inn—except for Thral, who seemed fascinated by the butterfly and fox masks as they burned in the fire.

“I think we all need to leave,” said Mell. “If they catch just one of us, they’d extract everything they need to know and put the rest of us in danger. I know I wouldn’t last a minute before I told them everything.”

Draloth raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well, you make a good point. None of us want to be tortured, that’s for sure.”

“Agreed,” said Kharla. “We need to leave.” She turned to Etonian. “Where will you go?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, old chap. The Old Boys’ Network will sort me out. I’ll probably make my way back to Driftin eventually, when things have cooled down a bit— including the blisters on my legs and, ahem, other parts; though the snow was a welcome relief, I can tell you. I’ve a contact in Solicitude, actually, an old college chum of mine. I’m sure he’ll let me stay the night—actually, I’d better get going. I just remembered he likes to retire early.” Etonian stood. “Once again, my profound gratitude for the tip-top rescue and the quality socks. Say, if you do go to Driftin to find Usborne, speak to a man called Bryngolf. You can’t miss him. He’ll be the red-haired Nord in the market making outrageous claims about his wares. Tell him that Etonian said you were ‘tickety-boo’. He’ll know what I mean.”

“So Usborne is in Driftin?” asked Draloth.

“He goes under the name of ‘Max’. Been down in the Ratwee for some years now. Pays Bryngolf’s outfit well to look the other way and stay quiet. He let slip his name once. We used to meet and talk about books a great deal. I read one of the volumes in his collection and it was clear he was the author. He swore me to secrecy when I confronted him. But now the Tallmor know, well I guess it no longer matters. Do say ‘hello’ from me if you get to him before the Tallmor. But toodle-oo for now!”

They all said goodbye and the Breton left the inn.

Kharla stood. “Right, we Sprint to Riverweed right away. Let’s get Bessie.”

***

Kharla and the others were all seated in the Leaping Giant Inn when Darleen walked in.

She looked at them, frowned at Kharla and Draloth, and walked over to the table. “How?—no, wait, let’s go down to the safe room.”

Darleen led them all down to the secret room and turned to look at them. “What happened? How did you get here before me? Did you even go to the embassy? I ran most of the way back. Did you take horses?”

“A cow, actually,” said the Dark Elf.

Darleen frowned. “And you’re sure you weren’t followed?”

“Oh, quite sure,” said Kharla.

“Here is the information you wanted.” Draloth put the dossiers on the table.

Darleen’s frown turned to a look of wonder. She picked them up and started reading.

“Seems the Tallmor thought the Blades were behind the dragons returning, just as you thought the Tallmor were,” the Dark Elf explained.

Darleen shook her head. “I was certain they would be behind it. Are you sure? Maybe it’s a ruse?”

“No,” said Kharla. “We saw and heard enough to know they are as clueless as we are…but they have a lead on someone who might know more.” She pushed the dossier about Usborne toward Darleen.

“What?” said Darleen as she opened the dossier. “Usborne? Still alive? I thought they’d have got him years ago.”

“Do you think he can help?” asked Kharla.

“No one knows more about dragonlore than Usborne. It was an obsession of his. We all thought he was crazy. He was an archivist and publisher for the Blades back in the day. We need to get to him before the Tallmor. Do they know where he is?”

“Yes,” said Draloth. “I very much fear they do—some place called the Ratwee in Driftin.”

“Ah, yes. That’s where I’d hide too. Could take days down there in that dark, twisting knot of tunnels to find someone if you don’t know where to look. Hopefully, that works to our advantage.”

“We have a headstart on them,” said Draloth.

“Don’t be so sure. They have their ways and means. Probably had a team out that way already, especially as they seem to have had this ‘lead’ for some days now. With a carrier bird or some arcane magic…well, they might have gone into action already.”

Darleen sat down and looked at her map. “The path through the mountain past Helga is the most direct route, then follow the road east past Lake Honeyreek. But the first part is a treacherous path at night, both underfoot and due to the increase in bandits since Helga was abandoned. No, the journey will have to wait until dawn. I’m going to see if I can procure some horses. Meet me here just before dawn tomorrow. You can sleep at the inn tonight.”

***

Cicadas, the 23rd of Lost Speed, 4E 201

“So, I managed to secure three horses. Now, how to decide who goes…” said Darleen as they met in the safe room just before dawn the next day. “Too dangerous for me. I don’t want them wiping out the Blades in one single blow if Usborne and me both get cornered down there.”

“Well,” said Kharla, “from what you said about this Ratwee, it sounds like we might need Mell’s talents to light our way.”

“I’m up for that,” said Mell. “Sounds fun!”

“Right, so who else?” asked Darleen.

“The Cat,” said Kharla. Ti’lief looked at her but said nothing. “Someone who can unlock doors and gates, and tread carefully.”

“And maybe find some stolen goods and do a little cleaning on the way,” the Khapiit added.

Darleen stared at the Cat. “So, the third?”

“Maybe the Dragonbore himself?” suggested Draloth.

“It’s a good idea,” said Darleen looking Thral up and down. “It’d certainly impress Usborne. But the horse won’t take his weight, or if it did it wouldn’t move fast enough to make using them of any advantage in the first place.”

“I’ll go,” said Kharla. “If we run into the Tallmor we’ll need someone with a bit of fighting skill. No offense to Mell and the Cat.”

“They’ll be sure to have sent some of their most skilled wizards and soldiers, and they’ll likely outnumber you. I suggest stealth. Avoid direct confrontation if you can.”

“Yes,” said Eilgird. “But don’t let them get away with any crimes. And that includes any thieves you come across down there!”

Darleen folded her arms. “When you find Usborne, he won’t believe anything you say. He’s more paranoid than me. So tell him I told you to ask him where he was on the 30th of Fastfall. He’ll know what it means.”

They made fast progress over the mountain trail, skirting around Helga where the stench of burnt flesh still hung in the air, and then down the tree-lined road to Driftin. Outside the city sat a large livery stables where Kharla observed a man in a round pen breaking-in a horse. Nearby the carriage driver lazed on a carriage with a canvas cover.

As they neared the gate they passed a wooden sign nailed to a tree. It read ‘DRIFTIN’ at the top, with ‘Population:’ written beneath it followed underneath by a ‘161’ that had been struck through and ‘153’ written under it next to three small holes.

“Hold there, strangers!” said one of the guards at the gate. The Driftin guard wore a helm with a wide brim and a small crossbow-like weapon sat in a leather holster at his hip. A metal badge that read ‘Deputy’ adorned the breast of his purple uniform. “You can’t just drift in here you know.”

“The city’s literally called Driftin,” said Ti’lief.

“You know, he’s got a point there,” said the other guard. “I always wondered about that myself.”

The first guard frowned at his comrade. “You’re the new recruit, right?”

“Yes, partner, that’s right. Sworn in and deputized just this mornin’.”

“Remind me to have a word with you about how things work ‘round here.” The guard turned back to Kharla. “All right, I’ll let you in, but only because I’m feeling generous.”

They passed through the gate and rode down the street. To their right sat a man in fine clothing facing an armored, well-built Nord woman with black warpaint across her eyes in the likeness of a mask. A simple design. No elaborate butterflies or foxes. Kharla liked it.

“I had another run-in with the Hole-in-the-Well Gang,” said the woman.

“Be careful, Moll,” replied the man. “The Hole-in-the-Well Gang has Mavis Blackberry at their back. One snap of her fingers, and you could end up in the jailhouse…or worse.”

Moll sighed. “They represent the reason I’m here. I can’t just ignore them, Aaron.”

“I know,” said Aaron. “I just think you should be careful until you can muster some support and reveal who you really are. Keep that badge of yours hidden. You need to proceed with caution or you’ll end up dead like the rest of your comrades.”

The strange conversation drifted into the distance as Kharla rode on down the road, heading the small party.

“I reckon you’re strangers ‘round these parts,” came a gruff voice to their left.

Kharla turned her head to see a big Nord fellow, armored in steel, leaning against a post, and with a hat similar to the guards’, except made of leather.

“You in Driftin lookin’ for trouble?” he asked.

“Just passing through,” said Kharla.

“Yeah, well, perhaps it’s best that you do just that. Take my advice and stay on your horse. Last thing the Blackberries need is some strangers stickin’ their noses where they don’t belong. Me, I’m Mule. I watch the streets for ‘em. If you need dirt on anythin’, I’m your guy.”

“These Blackberries sound terrible—employing people to watch the streets and put dirt on them!” muttered Ti’lief looking down at the street as they rode on by.

“Maybe they put the dirt on the horse poop,” Mell offered. “Maybe that’s what he meant.”

Kharla shook her head and pressed her horse on to the inn. ‘Beau and Barb’s Last Chance Saloon’ read the sign above the doors. They tied their horses to the hitching post and pushed through the swing doors. As they entered the bard suddenly ceased playing, and everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at the visitors. There were quite a few people in the saloon. Lot of people seeking a last chance, perhaps. Some played card games around small round tables, others sat alone with their glass cups.

As Kharla, Mell and Ti’lief approached the counter the music started up again and everyone went back to their drinking and card playing.

“What’ll it be?” said the Ergonian woman behind the counter.

“Three meads please,” said Kharla.

“Neat or on the rocks?”

Kharla frowned.

“Oh, neat please!” said Ti’lief. “Let’s keep things tidy in here if not on the street.”

The Ergonian woman frowned at the Cat. She then walked over to the end of the counter and pulled a bottle from underneath it. She put three small shot glasses on the table and filled them all to the same height. She put the bottle down and then slid the glasses in quick succession toward Kharla and her companions, who just managed to catch them in time.

“How very strange,” said Mell.

Kharla looked at Mell and nodded her head toward the sign behind the counter. It read ‘In an effort to curb saloon fights and similar behavior, any customer unable to catch their glass will be deemed too drunk to be served further alcoholic beverages of any kind for a period of twenty-four hours.’

Kharla drained the whole quarter mouthful of mead that the small glass contained. It was a good strength, but another dozen would’ve been nice.

“New in town, eh?” said a middle-aged Nord man as he approached the counter. Like so many of the others, he also wore a wide-brimmed hat, though with a little fur about it. “Here for the shootin’, I guess? There’s nothing like shootin’ at the Driftin Shootery. You should try it sometime.”

Kharla put her shot glass back on the counter. “And you are?”

“They call me Blondie ‘round here. I work at the Shootery.”

Kharla didn’t ask why he had that name. Many Nord men had blond hair. Although, if that wasn’t confusing enough, Blondie had black hair.

“Come on,” Kharla said to Ti’lief and Mell. “Let’s go find this Bryngolf.”

They headed out of the saloon through another pair of swing doors at the other side of the building and found the market sprawled out before them.

Several stalls encircled a roofed well-like structure in the middle of the market. The stallholders shouted their pitches to potential customers who wandered around the market looking for a good deal.

“Come try my Foulmouth Blood Elixir! Run faster than a speeding bolt, leap tall buildings in a single bound, lift a mammoth with just one hand!” came a voice from one of the stalls.

In ancient Nord history, there is reference to a race of Elves who were hunted nearly to extinction by the Nords. This purge was in part so easily accomplished by the fact that these beings were not fast runners, earning them the name of Slow Elves by their Nord predators. The survivors fled underground and formed an alliance with the Dweeber. But the Dweeber betrayed them, using them as experimental subjects for their studies into mycology and fungiculture. This altered the Slow Elves physically. They became pale and bent—and they grew to love the dark more than the light. They had little to do with the world above as time marched on, except to hurl abuse at passing Nords from cavemouths and holes, which gained them the name of ‘Foulmouths’ from the native Nords, not knowing they were the Elves they had once hunted. After the disappearance of the Dweeber, the Foulmouths became skilled mushroom farmers. Their unique blood is highly prized for its many beneficial qualities.

“That sounds like our man,” said Kharla as she walked toward the sound of the voice.

The man who owned the voice had red hair, a red beard, and wore a red tartan kilt above thick green socks that came up past his low black boots to his calves. Kharla wondered if they were itchy. His stall was filled with red-colored potions and several tall leather bags each with a dozen metal sticks poking from them with varying shapes at the end, some fat and wooden-looking, others flat and metal.

“Never done an honest day’s work in your life for all that coin you’re carrying, eh lass?” said the stallholder.

Kharla frowned. “Excuse me? I’ve done plenty of ‘honest days’ of work, Nord—unlike you, if those outrageous claims are anything to go by.”

“Actually, if you listened carefully you’d have noticed that I never attached the so-called ‘claims’ to the product. I was merely making four wee statements. Whatever else people thought they heard is mere assumption on their part.”

Kharla grunted dismissively. “Well, can I make the assumption that you’re Bryngolf?”

“That is a correct assumption, lass. Trader, entrepreneur, and golfer!”

“Golfer?” asked Ti’lief.

“Yes, lad.” Bryngolf pulled one of the metal sticks from a leather bag and held it to the ground with both hands gripping the top. He then swung it back and forward with a high sweep upward. “Winner of the Golf and Go Cup three years running.”

Kharla, Ti’lief and Mell all gave him a blank stare.

He put the stick back in the bag. “Anyway, how can I help you today?”

“Etonian said you’d help us,” said Kharla.

“Etonian, eh?” His eyes narrowed. “So how do I know he sent you?”

“He said to say we were ‘tickety-boo’,” said Kharla.

Bryngolf put his hands on his hips. “Ha! He knows how much I hate that saying! That could only be him. So what did you need?”

“We’re looking for someone called Usborne. Lives in some place called the Ratwee,” Kharla said.

“Ah, that’s interesting. First thing this morning we had some unusual visitors asking after him too.”

Kharla’s heart quickened. “Tallmor?”

“That’s right, lassie. One of them wizards and two of their golden boys. How’d you know?”

“They’re after this Usborne too,” said Mell. “Did they get him? Are we too late?”

“No, no. Calm down, young lass. They came into the Shabby Shot Glass as bold as brass, for sure, but they soon turned and went back the other way after the reception we gave them.” Bryngolf laughed.

“So could you show us where this Usborne is?”

“For my old schoolmate, Etonian? Of course. Follow me!”

Bryngolf led them through the market and across some wooden walkways before leading them down wooden steps to a level beneath the city. “Welcome to Blaggards’ Row.”

The area consisted of wooden walkways either side of what looked like an open sewer or maybe just a very dirty part of the lake that the city partly sat upon. Several small, narrow boats of a strange shape glided on the water, pushed by men with long poles who stood on the end of the boats whilst couples sat in the vessels laughing, drinking, and kissing.

Bryngolf ignored the boats and led them through one of the several doors that lined both sides of the platforms either side of the waterway.

“It smells funny,” said Ti’lief as he stepped inside. “And the floor, it is sticky.”

“Aye, there’s a reason why it’s called the Ratwee,” said the red-haired Nord. “You’ll be all right as long as you don’t lick the floor.”

“So Usborne lives down here?” asked Kharla.

“This is just the entrance,” said Bryngolf. “The man you’re looking for lives in the furthest reaches of the Ratwee. You’ll need me to get you in there.”

They crossed a wooden platform and Kharla looked down to where more of the Ratwee disappeared into the darkness. They turned left through a crude chamber and then through a door that led to a circular chamber with a large pool of water at its center. The Nord guided them across a path that skirted the pool to the far side where several dark-clad figures sat eating and drinking alone at small wooden tables upon which sat wide-brimmed leather hats. Behind them a man cleaned glasses at a counter.

“Welcome to the Shabby Shot Glass!” said Bryngolf. “My favorite drinking place!”

“Hey, Bryngolf. Sold any of that Foulmouth Blood Elixir yet?” said a man shuffling some cards at the nearest table.

“Not yet, Doc. But just you wait. They’ll be beating a path to my door before you know it.”

“Yes, they will. Especially when they find out the elixir’s just the juice of red onions, tomatoes, and forest fruits!” The man laughed and then coughed. “Wretched cough! Anyway, who’s this you’re with, Bryngolf?”

“Ah, this is—wait, I forgot to ask your names! How remiss of me!”

Kharla, Mell, and Ti’lief introduced themselves.

“And this is Doc Malloday,” said Bryngolf. “A tooth-puller by profession, but also a professional cardplayer and quite handy with the old pistol too.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” Doc said. “Have you come down here to play cards?”

“No, Doc. They’ve come to visit someone in the Vaults. I came with them so Dug wouldn’t smash their skulls in.”

Mell looked askance at Kharla and she returned the look.

“Very popular today, the Ratwee Vaults,” Doc said.

“You mean with that visit this morning?” asked Bryngolf.

“Yeah, and the pest-control crew that entered about an hour ago,” replied Doc.

The red-haired Nord frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Come to deal with a rat infestation. All dressed up in these orange suits and with a big cleaning cart.”

“Wait. What? Were they legit?”

“Yeah, they had a permit from the Town Hall. Even left their business card.” Doc passed Bryngolf a small white card. Bryngolf looked at it and passed it to Kharla. It read: ‘OMD Pest Control — Experts in Hunting down Dirty Rats’.

“This ‘pest control’ team...were they maybe all very tall, yes?” asked Ti’lief.

Doc frowned. “Come to think of it, yes. All taller than Geyser, and he’s not short.”

“Geyser?” said Kharla. “Dark-haired Nord. Scruffy looking?”

“Yes, that’s right. You know him? He’s their appointed guide,” replied Doc.

Kharla exhaled. “Bloody tusks!”

“What is it, lassie?”

“Geyser’s working for the Tallmor! Well, I think we all know what OMD stands for on this card.”

“Oh my days!” exclaimed Doc.

“No, Old Merry Delirium, Doc,” said Bryngolf.

“Yes, I meant…oh, never mind.” Doc gave Bryngolf a withering look.

“I’ll have Geyser’s head on a spike!” said Bryngolf. “How many were there, Doc?”

“Erm, let’s see, there was Geyser and five others.”

Bryngolf nodded. “If this permit was from the Town Hall then it means the Regulators have cut a deal with the Tallmor.”

“The Regulators?” asked Ti’lief.

“The outfit that controls the Town Hall under Lola Law-Grafter. They’re our biggest rival. Control many of the deputies. Well, we can’t have them trespassing on our patch. Our reputation’s at stake here. This Usborne pays us for a degree of protection as well as our silence,” Bryngolf explained.

“What do we do?” asked Doc.

“Grab your Colt, Doc, and some men. We’re going to flush out some rats of our own.”

Crossbows of Lightweight Technology, or Colts for short, are small lightweight automatic crossbow pistols that can be shot with one hand. Developed in Driftin, they really came into their own after the reloading chamber was invented, allowing six bolts to be shot before needing to reload. The Colt 45, now the standard in Driftin, is so-called because it shoots the efficient .45-inch-diameter minibolt. The convention in the city is to wear the pistol at the hip in a leather ‘holster’. Some carry two pistols, allowing for twelve shots before the need to reload.