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Narrator: Spurius Toifel
Since I was big enough to lift my father books, I dreamed of one day authoring my own...a life spent in the company of literature and history. How proud my parents were when I alone was selected among hundreds to join the ranks of the great imperial historians. In truth, below my withering facade of humility there bubbled and emerging well-spring arrogance. What a fool I was.
Cloistered in my libraries and ignorant to the world, I read my books, wrote my treatises and passed judgment on the world mistaking hubris for knowledge. It was one of these treatises that earned me the privileged of leading the historical expedition to Skyrim to document the events of the Great Dying of 4E 200 to 202. Never before had the events of those days been committed to parchment and for some inexplicable reason, my superiors had selected me to complete this task. I was only twenty and two years of age. A young, idealistic, self-important youth with nothing but a treatise on Imperial Governmental Traditions of the 3rd Era to my credit. A wise man would have asked, "Why me?” What makes Spurius Toifel, third son of a fisherman with only a bland book on Governmental procedure qualified to record perhaps the two most important and mysterious years in our collective history? But in the pride and self-delusion of my youth, these were not questions to be voiced aloud, lest I acknowledge my fallibility.
At times, I long to be that young man once again, so confident, so very singular of purpose. Perhaps it is the mortal condition to recall with longing the days of our youth when faced with the truth of our own mortality. Perhaps for most this is the common refrain but I...I lament the loss of my ignorance. Before I understood the truth...before its burden became mine alone to bare. And so in lusting after ignorance I commit the greatest sin of the scholar...to wish for blindness. To crave the lie in my weakest moments.
This is my accounting, my final treatise to the world. A recorded account of the events and people of another time. Laying bare the truth of those days and of my own self-aggrandizement. I have observed genuine horror, true suffering and authentic heroism and even now, as I write these pages, I commit my final act of cowardice. With these words I inflict myself upon the world as a ravaging disease that corrupts the bliss of ignorance.
I am Spurious
Scene: 1
Solitude Docks - Present Day - Year 4E 248
A ship arrives in the Solitude harbor carrying Spurious to Skyrim. We see an unfamiliar scene as the port has changed much in 50 years. Spurius exits the ship and looks around in wonder making his way to the road.
Narrator: Spurius Toifel
After weeks as sea I have finally disembarked in solitude to place my feet on Skyrim’s hallowed soil. The journey from Anvil by sea was a trying experience and yet fascinating. Never would I have expected to lay eyes upon such storied places as Stros M’Kai and Dagger Fall. Few of my humble family have set foot outside the Imperial City to say nothing of taking to sea in any vessel other than a fishing boat. Even so, I am grateful to finally walk the soil again. I don’t think I could have taken another day aboard ship.
The port is larger than I would have thought possible. Solitude is so distant from the world I have known. I believe I had convinced myself that, despite the stories, I would only be convinced that civilization could exist this far north until I saw it with my own eyes. The city is perched upon a bridge of natural rock and appears to defy the laws of nature. It is truly a magnificent feat of construction and engineering.
Superior Midderlan instructed me to make contact with a man named Stacks upon my arrival. Once again, my expectations were far removed from reality. Stacks is a rather large and rough looking Nord gentleman. At some point I imagine I will have to ask him of his story as well but so far he has said almost nothing. His answers to my questions are mostly single word responses and at this rate I will never learn anything new.
I am just guessing but I would have placed his age at around 60, however he seemed quite fit and was bedecked in full armor. I must confess to a bit of worry about the armor. I don’t know much of the ways of the soldier but it appeared to be well used. Perhaps it is naive but I was hoping that armor was no longer a necessity in Skyrim. After all, it’s has been almost 50 years since the close of the civil war and...other events.
Mr. Stacks presented me with a horse and we set off with no preamble. Both mounts where loaded with provisions and equipment of all types including a rather stout shovel of all things. I had hoped to visit the capital but that does not appear to be on his agenda. The mares name is daisy and she seems well bred but a bit aggressive. Mr. Stacks seemed to find it amusing when she nearly bit off my fingers as I endeavored to stroke her nose. Perhaps I will leave care of these animals to him.
We are currently encamped outside an ancient Nord Barrow that Mr. Stacks calls Dead Man’s Respite. I would like nothing more than to go inside and explore but he has warned me against it so I have had to content myself with inspecting the carvings on the edifice. Many of the glyphs are weather worn to the point of be unrecognizable but within the entrance archway they are better preserved. I have studied many ancient cultures in my career but have never seen the work of the Nords in anything other than drawings. I think that many would consider their brand of construction primitive when compared to the Dwemer or Alliyeds however they are massive blocks of solid granite perfectly formed and fitted together with no mortar of any kind. The entire edifice is held together by engineering alone.
I believe the absence of intricate carvings is more like to be a practical side effect of the materials available here. Placing detailed ruined or pictograms on this granite would have been difficult to say the least. The Nord people strike me as too practical for such things. There is no doubt that Mr. Stacks is nothing if not pragmatic.
We had our longest conversation to date this evening when he suddenly stopped on an old stone bridge not far from this very barrow.
Stacks: “You have a cloak, yar?"
Spurius: “Actually, no. I have what you see here."
Stacks: “You come to Skyrim with no cloak? What is in the bag?"
Spurius: “Well, these are my books Goodman."
Stacks: “Books?"
Spurius: “Yes. I have books, paper, ink, quills, some charcoal…"
Stacks: “Enough, we camp here. I know a place."
Spurius: “But the day is young?"
Stacks: “And the Imperial is foolish. We camp here and when the sun rises we take a different route. No cloak…"
It’s clear he is annoyed with me. I suppose he is right. There are times when I have my nose buried so deeply in the past that I do not consider the present. He rapidly established a camp and within minutes had a fire kindled and some kind of stew in the works for which I was deeply grateful. This place is bitterly cold and the wind is biting and pitiless.
I am hoping that over a good meal he might open up to me a bit more. Obviously, this man works for Robbard Graves, it would be nice to have some background about the man before meeting him in person. At this point I know almost nothing.
Spurius: "This barrow is quite amazing."
Stacks: “Yar."
Spurius: “These stones must weigh hundreds of pounds. I wonder how many barrows like this are hidden across the landscape."
Stacks: “Yar."
Spurius: “So, what do you do for Robbard?"
Stacks: “Are you his friend?"
Spurius: “I am sorry, who’s friend?"
Stacks: “Master Graves"
Spurius: “Oh, no. I don’t even know the man but…"
Stacks: “Then he is Master Graves to you."
Spurius: “Ah, I am sorry, of course. Are you not a friend of Master Graves?"
Stacks: “I am an employee and loyal servant."
Spurius: “Really, how long have you worked in the employ of Master Graves?"
Stacks: “Forty seven years, three months and 15 days."
Spurius: “Oh a yes that’s very accurate. What exactly do you do for Master Graves?"
Stacks: “I swing axes and do the count."
Spurius: “The count?"
Stacks: “Yar."
Stacks: “45"
Spurius: “Excuse me?"
Stacks: “45 known barrows in Skyrim."
Spurius: “I see. Is that what you mean by The Count? You count barrows?"
Stacks: “No, that would be idiotic. I count everything."
Spurius: “You mean like a clerk? You count money?"
Stacks: “Everything. Money, product, efficiency, output, assets, allies, supplies, food stuffs... || employees, partners, rivals and their products, output, alliances, trade agreements…"
Spurius: “Ah yes, I see. You handle the books. Now books I can understand…"
Stacks: “No books."
Spurius: “Ah sorry, I mean Ledgers."
Stacks: “No, no ledgers."
Spurius: “You mean to tell me that you have all of Master Grave’s business affairs stored in your head?"
Stacks: “You don’t listen. How do you interview if you don’t listen? || Master Graves business affairs and the business affairs of his enemies."
Spurius: “All in your head?"
Stacks: “Yar"
Spurius: “How is it possible for you to…"
Stacks: “Go to sleep now."
He abruptly ended the conversation and retired to his bedroll leaving me in the company of the crackling fire. I know sleeping would be the prudent thing but I cannot. Mr. Stacks does not talk much but what he did say speaks volumes about him and his employer. He obviously holds Master Graves in high regard. To think he has been in the employ of this man for more 47 years and does not refer to him by his first name, or as a friend for that matter. And could it really be possible that he had all the details of Graves business archived in his head? I have come to understand that certain business people tend to avoid committing such business details to paper but that is typically necessitated by nefarious business dealings and dodging the scrutiny of those entrusted with enforcement of imperial law. With any luck I will be able to press him for more tomorrow.
While Stacks slept, I wandered down to the riverbank. This is a peaceful place but I can feel the weight of history all around me. It’s as if the very ground radiates the spirit of the people and all the great events that have taken place here. I was able to see a pin point of light across the river. It was near the top of a rise just down river and was flickering. It must be a fire but seemed too small to be a camp such as ours. Perhaps a torch? I could see no way to cross the river to investigate and thought better of it after hearing what I am sure were bears on the opposite bank. Stacks does not seem alarmed in the least but it was enough to send me back to camp.
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This morning I awoke to the clamber of cooking. Stacks seems to be a man of many talents. No sooner had I opened my eyes and he wordlessly thrust a tankard into my hands filled with some kind of evil looking porridge that appeared to be the remains of last evenings stew mixed with some kind of meal. I expected the worst but it was a flavor sensation. When I ask him what was in it he looked at me flatly and replied, “Magic”. I am not sure if he hates me or if this is simply his way but a hot breakfast more than made up for his terse companionship.
I had expected that we would return to the road but instead we headed up stream. We stopped to speak with some locals and he traded for some crab legs the likes of which I have never seen. They were immense and the color of the stone that seems so prevalent in this area. Further upstream he pointed out the creatures and we gave them a wide berth. He calls them “Mud Crabs” and they were truly frightening. I confess that anything with more than two legs I find unnerving, including this horse.
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We passed an encampment today that looked quite extensive. Stacks instructed me to not look toward the palisade walls of the camp. Why would that matter? Is looking at someone a provocation in Skyrim? If so, this province is more dangerous that I thought. We forded the river near another stone bridge and joined a road traveling south. At this point I made yet another ill-fated attempt a conversation with the man.
Spurius: “So where are we headed? Why did we not go back to our previous course?"
Stacks: “We go south. South because the Imperial, “academic” has no cloak."
Spurius: “Ah, well yes, I am sorry about that. Is it a significant diversion from your planned course?"
Stacks: “13 & 3 miles, half a day lost."
Spurius: “I see."
Stacks: “Do you?"
Spurius: “Do I what?"
Stacks: “See"
Spurius: “I don’t understand."
Stacks: “The Imperial does not listen. Stacks hopes he sees twice as well to compensate."
Spurius: “Look Mr. Stacks, I am not sure why…"
Stacks: “No, not look. The Imperial speaks and Stacks listens. Look makes no sense. || Perhaps the academic is confused with the relationship between look and listen."
Spurius: “No, I am not confused. It’s merely a figure of speech."
Stacks: “It is wasted breath. Breath wasted on words unnecessary to communication."
Spurius: “Now listen here Mr. Stacks, you may not like me…"
Stacks: “Stacks has already established that he is listening. I do not require you to command me to do so."
Spurius: “By the gods you are impossible to talk to!"
Stacks: “Stop you mouth."
Even as I prepared to unleash upon him a diatribe of curses his mood shifted ever so slighting and given his perpetually stoic nature, that change alarmed me.
Stacks: “There are amateurs abroad. Prepare yourself."
Spurius: “Amateurs?"
At that moment he produced the rather prodigious shovel from its lashing and regarded me with that emotionless gaze and said.
Stacks: “Stay behind me and prepare to defend yourself…with your many books maybe."
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I have never seen a battle in reality and this one in particular, would not be believed by any who read the account. It was frightening beyond description but even more compelling was the way in which it was fought. Stacks wielded his shovel like the Nordic warriors of legend. The image, in my mind’s eye, of the mighty Ysgramour striding the battlefield was tempered by the peculiar and yet distinctive “clank" of the shovel as it met skulls. I truly felt sorry for these unfortunates. It was clear that they had gotten much more than they bargained for.
Mr. Stacks directed me to wait in a location that afforded me a distant view of the fight but in the heavy snow and growing wind it soon became very difficult to discern the details of the battle. I saw him appear once again on the road and breathed a sigh of relief as be began coming back. I must admit that despite my concealed location I felt rather exposed and with that brooding fort at my back, I could not help but wish for the secure company of my guide. However, even as I began to feel some remote sense of relief, he stopped and dropped his shovel. The bile of panic rose in my throat. Had he been injured? Why would he stop, something must be wrong. To my horror he wrenched a huge sword from a body in the road and began to climb the hill once again.
I soon lost sight of Mr. Stacks in the blinding snow. Mr. Stacks was...is my lifeline in this harsh place. With creeping inexorable horror it began to dawn upon me that should anything happen to this old man, Spurius Toifel would be dead or worse. What have I done? What am I doing here? There is something very sickeningly wrong with this place. I have done enough research to know that even this far north there is not supposed to be bitter cold and blizzards in Sun's Height! It is the height of summer and I have read the histories, seen the drawings of the tundra grasses and wild flowers in rainbows of color across the endless plain.
That was perhaps the longest afternoon of my life. The snow dampened my senses and even as I strained to hear or see any sign of him, the weather and sounds of the river conspired to keep me in the darkness of my own imagined horrors. I could not move, I could not eat...I could do nothing but wait and pray to all the gods for his return and my swift delivery from this nightmare. More than once I thought I perceived the sounds of a distant and terrible battle but the weather and my palpable fear robbed me of any desire comprehend more.
The infernal weather makes the perception of time virtually impossible. I occurs to me now that I had no seen a glimpse of the son in a very long time but after what seemed an eternity, I saw Mr. Stacks striding back down the road. He beckoned to me and I cautiously approach with the horses in tow. As I approached, I could see that he was splattered in gore. Sweat ran down his nose from beneath his demonic looking helm and his barrel chest heaved.
Stacks: "Come" he said, "We must move, this is not over."
Spurius: "What happened?" I asked, with undisguised panic.
Stacks: "We are ambushed. This is not an attack of opportunity." he replied in his infuriatingly placid manner.
Are ambushed? Not over? As we reached the crossroad I was frightfully and horribly assailed by the scale of our situation. Lying in the road were bodies. In the moment I was unable to take in the full magnitude of the scene but as I write this my admittedly unreliable memories tells me there had to be at least ten. They had been placed in a grizzly line across the road. They were male, female and of mixed races and in various types of mismatched armor and clothing. But there were other who wore a uniform. It was like nothing I was familiar with but it was a uniform. Who were they and why had they attacked us. I had so many questions but Mr. Stacks was in no mood to answer them. He quickly began pulling gear from the bodies with practiced efficiency...that was when my nightmare became even more vivid.
The silence was suddenly broken by screams from the horses. Stacks shouted at me to stay close and drew his massive blade, rushing the picketed mounts. Into the darkness this old man launch himself and like an angry bull slammed himself into the villains. The ring of steel was deafening and suddenly overshadowed by terrible sound of rending flesh. In those desperate and horrifying moments I suffered a mental collapse that cannot be explained. I watched as this huge scarred and stoic man mechanically ran a man through and lifted him bodily from the ground. He turned to shout something at me but I could hear nothing. Even as I saw his lips moving I could hear only that ringing. He suddenly turned from me and began to charge once again up the hill and into the darkness. He must have been meeting another attack, I cannot be sure for I ran without direction and without plan...blind panic had finally overtaken me completely.
Spurius. The words were distant, as if I were submerged. Spurius. It was my name. I slowly began to emerge from my fog to find myself cowering in the snow. It was dark, I was freezing and someone was calling my name. In a rush of muted understand the events of the day slowly returned and with them the rising panic.
"It's okay boy. It's over"
There he stood. Stacks, huge and horrifying. He was looking down at me with that eye...and those scars. I could smell the blood. That massive sword resting casually over his shoulder and he was attempting to offer me comfort but when I glanced up at him all I could imagine was that his face was the last thing that so many men and women had seen before their lives were brutally snuffed out. But at that moment something curious happened. He said, "You must calm your mind. Your mind is your weapon, you must not allow it to grow dull. The threat is passed. I stand vigil while you hone your weapon. We will continue when you are ready." It was a singularly strange thing to be comforted in this way by this man and had I not seen his lips move I would not have believe him capable of such words but they calmed me. He stood over me like a great tower and waited in silence as I gathered myself. Something told me that this brief mercy was his way offering sympathy. A man incapable of the more tender emotions but able to understand them on an intellectual level. Standing watch was his way of showing concern.
I retreated into my mind, meditating on the calming images that have so often assisted me in solving the complex riddles of history or in breaking through the most difficult bouts of writers block. Now I used them to focus and calm my nerves. We stayed in this state for a very long time but I seemed to be outside of time itself. When I emerged from the reverie it was very near dawn. Stacks stood there, massive sword on his shoulder, scanning the horizon.
Stacks: "You are ready?" he asked flatly.
Spurius: "Yes." I replied.
Stacks: "Come, we have word to do."
We ascended the hill once again and began the grizzly work of going through the bodies. I cannot say that I became accustomed to it, I was merely numb and I did what I could to assist him. The great was separated into neat piles based on some criteria I could not understand. It was as I observed Mr. Stacks going through their purses and packs that I realized, Skyrim is still a land of wild appetites and alpha dogs. I get the impression that one does not live here but rather survives by personal prowess or pack association. It seems that I have been taken in by the right pack and as unsavory as that fact is, I am profoundly grateful at the moment.
Stacks began to systematically pick through the pile and selected items that he held up to my my chest obviously testing for fit. In the end, he bestowed upon me a mismatched assortment of fur items that while warm, looked ridiculous on my. My displeasure must have been written upon my face as there was no end to his laughing. Had my pride not been so thoroughly crushed I would have marveled at the transformation of this man with a laugh. I did not think him capable of such a thing and I must admit that he looks even more frightening when he is amused.
I believe that my chaperone must have taken mercy on me and my frayed nerves as we stopped and settled into a inn in the small rural hamlet of Rorikstaad. The place is called the “Frost Fruit” inn and it is sparse and yet very comfortable when compared to the previous nights’ accommodations. We shared a lovely meal of cabbage soup, fresh bread and cheese, something called a “crostata” and a refreshing mead. I had not had mead before but I find it quite delightful!
Following our meal, I purchased several more meads in an effort to ply Stacks for information on Master Graves but I suspect that after the events of the last 24 hours, it was as much a subconscious balm to my mind as anything. He seemed to appreciate my expressions of gratitude and was a bit more forthcoming.
Spurius: “You must have great respect for Master Graves given your extensive tenure as an employee."
Stacks: “Yar"
Spurius: “What of his health? I was made to understand that he was having some difficultly."
Stacks: “Yar, Master Graves has been afflicted for years."
Spurius: “For years? What is this affliction?"
Stacks: “Nervous attacks. He shakes and becomes mad with anger and sadness."
Spurius: “Mad? What does he say in his fits of madness?"
Stacks: “It not for us to discuss the personal struggles of Master Graves. You may ask him yourself if you must know."
Spurius: “I understand. How did you come to be employed by Master Graves?"
Stacks: “It was Stack’s good fortune that brought Master Graves to him…"
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CUT TO DREAM SEQUENCE
~END~
Comments
Is Stacks autistic? (I also like him)