The Elderly Scrawls: Skewrim — The Unmodded Truth

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

Kharla and Draloth sat in the luxurious carriage put on by the embassy. The white robes were equally high-end as were the masks. Draloth’s red eyes glowed with embarrassment from behind a fox mask, while Kharla stared out at him through a mask in the shape of a butterfly with bright blue-red wings. She looked down at her feet. Her sturdy boots had gone and in their place a pair of branded tan socks, probably from that shop in Solicitude, and soft leather slippers in a similar color that were just a pinch too small. She felt naked without her armor. She felt stupid in this get-up. And the socks itched.

“What if they ask questions about this”—Draloth looked at his invite—“Revel Invino? I don’t know anything about him.”

“Well, they shouldn’t. It says anonymity will be observed.”

“Hmm, I suppose so. How are we going to play this anyway?”

“Speak to Malebun first, I guess. See what’s going on and how we can slip away without anyone noticing.”

The snow became thick as the carriage climbed up the hill, but it wasn’t long before they rolled through the gates of the embassy and came to a stop in a small courtyard. Kharla and Draloth stepped out and they were greeted by another robed guest from another carriage.

“Ah! Fellow latecomers to this little guilt trip of a meeting.” The man was a Rudeguard judging by what Kharla could see of him behind the goat mask, and possibly slightly drunk. “I salute you! My lateness is due to being waylaid by a tavern. Don’t tell anybody!”

“I thought this was a meeting for milk drinkers?” asked Kharla.

“Oh, it is. That’s why I make sure to drink before I come,” he replied.

Two Tallmor in blue robes approached them as they reached the entrance to the building.

“Invitations, please?” said the taller one, perhaps a foot taller than Kharla.

The Rudeguard, Kharla, and Draloth handed over their invitations.

“Arms out, please,” said the other Tallmor as he approached and then frisked them, much to Kharla’s surprise.

The other one handed the invitations back. “Welcome to the Tallmor Embassy. Please go right in and grab yourself a pint.”

Kharla, the Dark Elf and the Rudeguard climbed up a short flight of stone steps and went through the door.

They’d not taken many steps inside before a Tallmor woman, in rich dark blue robes, approached them. She towered over Draloth, and even Kharla had to look up a little to meet her eyes. Golden eyes set in a golden face.

Why High Elves have golden-tinged skin is a matter of some conjecture. Theories include excessive use of bronzing makeup and the use of Henna dye in their bathing water; the idea has even been put forward that the skin hue is due to jaundice induced by poor liver or gallbladder health. Of course, the High Elves claim their golden skin to be a hallmark of their superiority. Whatever the cause, High Elven clothes designers struggle to find many colors that fit well with golden complexions, preferring dark blue or gold itself. I think the latter’s a bit of an overkill if you ask me. I’m not going to say this to the face of any guard though.

“Hello, Darling,” said the Rudeguard.

The Tallmor woman gave him a perfunctory smile but her eyes were filled with disdain. “Welcome, Old Goat. We are glad to have you back this year.”

The Rudeguard winked at the woman and sauntered on past.

The Tallmor woman frowned and turned back to Kharla and Draloth.

“Welcome, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m the Tallmor Ambassador to Skewrim—”

“Ah, Eleven, yes?” Draloth interrupted, perhaps hoping to take control of the conversation.

“Well, actually it’s pronounced el-E-ven, with the emphasis only on the second ‘e’. A common mistake. My sister, Seven, has the same problem. Anyway, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you. Dark Fox is your moniker, right?”

Draloth paused. Kharla held her breath. Was it a test? Did Eleven suspect something?

Malebun’s welcome voice called from behind the counter to their right. “Madame Ambassador, I’m so sorry to interrupt...”

“What is it, Malebun?” Eleven sounded annoyed.

“It’s just that we’ve run out of whole milk. Do I have your permission to unbottle the skim…”

Eleven turned to face the Wood Elf. “Of course. I’ve told you before not to bother me with trifles.”

“Yes, Madame Ambassador, I’ll be sure to remember that when I serve them later, though I think you’re missing out. The raspberry trifle is particularly good this year, I must say.”

Kharla and Draloth lost no time in mingling with the crowd while the Ambassador was distracted. The guests wore robes identical to their own, though everyone had a unique mask, typically of some animal native to Skewrim. Several Tallmor guards in their golden armor dotted the room, stationed at the doors for the main part, though one also followed Eleven around along with a slightly shorter Tallmor woman in slightly less fancy robes.

“Ah, my favorite butterfly,” said the Rudeguard Kharla had met outside. It took a moment to realize he was speaking to her. “These canapés are delish. Only wish there was some mead to wash them down with instead of this cow or goat milk, or whatever it is this year.” He looked into his glass. “I hope it isn’t mammoth milk.”

“So why’d you come, if there’s no mead?” asked Kharla.

“For the delightful company of the Tallmor, of course. Or, to be more precise, the Tallmor women. Tall, strong, and ice-cold, just like the milk. If you find anything more about Eleven, do let this Old Goat know and I’ll owe you a big favor!”

Despite his mask, Kharla didn’t think he looked much older than her. In his mid-thirties perhaps. She had an idea. “Eleven has a sister called Seven.”

“She does?”

“Yes, she told me,” said Kharla.

“Is she married? I think Eleven’s single, but I’ve not been able to find out for sure. She’s very evasive. Seven, you say? Well, if the naming convention holds, there might be another nine children. What ya think? Just have to work out which of those cardinal numbers sound like female names. Hard to tell with High Elves sometimes. I know she lived in my homeland of Sorrydill before she was stationed here. Maybe I’ll make enquiries when I get back. I’ve a solid network of contacts, me being a big cheese in the Yeast Empire Company and all. Anyway, this is good intelligence, Butterfly. Now you need anything, just let me know! Anything at all!”

The Yeast Empire Company, also known as the Yeast Empire Baking Company, is a powerful merchant organization, supposedly private, but with strong ties to the Mead Empire. It exercises a near-monopoly on yeast and yeast products—most notably bread—and its network stretches across all Tamarind. Its logo is two crossed baguettes above the motto ‘Bread Upon the Waters’, referencing their vast shipping fleet (and certainly not their charitable nature).

“Come on,” said Draloth in Kharla’s ear as Old Goat headed back to the table for more finger food. “We need to make contact with Malebun.”

Kharla nodded and they walked over to the counter, careful to avoid Eleven. They both ordered milk.

As Malebun served them he leant forward and whispered. “The door behind me leads to the kitchen and then the rest of the embassy. I have orders to keep it locked except when I need to go into the kitchen. I’ll be waiting there to let you through once you create a distraction.”

The Wood Elf straightened and smiled as a Tallmor guard walked past and another couple of guests approached for drinks.

Draloth turned to Kharla as they stepped away from the counter. “How about we ask to use the latrine? Maybe we won’t need to rely on Malebun?”

Kharla frowned. “What, together?”

“No, I’ll ask and if I’m not back in a few minutes then you ask too!”

Kharla adjusted her loose robes. The Orc who she’d replaced must’ve been bigger than her. “Yeah, I’m sure they would’ve thought about this.”

“But it’s worth a try?”

Kharla shrugged.

“My good Elf,” Draloth said, approaching a nearby guard. “Could you tell me where the restroom is?”

“You wish to rest?” the guard asked.

“No, I mean the washroom.”

The guard tilted his helmed head. “Did you not wash before you came?”

Draloth sighed. “No, you know…the Throne?”

“I believe the nearest one’s in the palace in Solicitude, sir,” the guard replied.

“What I mean to say is can you show me to the little boy’s room?”

“There are no children at the embassy, sir. It’s strictly against Tallmor protocols.”

“No, the latrine! Where is the latrine!”

“Ah, you mean the garderobe. Yes, it’s back out the main door. There’s a little outhouse for guests near the railings. The guard outside will light the way with a lantern.”

“You know, I suddenly feel I can probably hold it in until we leave. Thank you, anyway.”

“No problem, sir.”

Kharla gave Draloth a withering look and the Dark Elf muttered something unrepeatable about High Elves.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Eleven announced. “If I could have you all gather around.” The guests began to assemble around the First Emissary. “No, no…in height order, please. More ordered that way, and saves so much on my neck motion.”

Kharla and Draloth ended up not too far from each other in the circle that now encompassed Eleven on account of Draloth being one of the shorter participants and Kharla one of the taller. Old Goat, only a little shorter than Kharla, stood to her left.

“Welcome! Welcome all to this momentous Tenth Anniversary of the Milk Drinkers Annual Meet Up, an organization that has helped hundreds of Tamarind’s dipsomaniacs sober up, and put them back on a path to being productive citizens again. We’d like to start the evening in our normal manner—with a Sharing Session. And to choose our first participant we will use our tried and true method.”

The other Tallmor woman next to Eleven came forward, placed an empty milk bottle on the ground, and span it.

Kharla’s heart sank. Draloth’s red eyes were wide behind his mask. She hoped he kept his nerve. She glanced back at the counter and Malebun. Two guards stood not far from him, one toward the entrance and the other near another door to Malebun’s right. How were they going to get to Malebun without being seen?

The bottle stopped spinning, the top pointing at the Old Goat. Kharla heard Eleven sigh.

“It seems,” Eleven began, “that our first share this evening will be from our long-standing member, Old Goat.”

Kharla decided to take a gamble. She turned to the Rudeguard. “I need that favor,” she whispered.

Old Goat smiled. “Ask away!”

“I need a distraction,” Kharla said.

“Ah, I know what you mean. These meetings can be boring. Don’t worry, I’ll liven things up! Leave it to me!”

Kharla wasn’t quite sure he’d understood her meaning, but there wasn’t time to say more because Old Goat moved to the middle of the group to join Eleven and the other Tallmor woman.

“Old Goat here. Again. For this share I’d like to do something a bit different and make it a partici…pottery…penitentiary…plenipotentiary…patisserie…make it something we can all do together. It’s something I learned in a far-flung place on one of my travels around the world. It can help lift your spirits and keep away the temptation to engage in the decadence of winebibbery. It’s certainly helped me. It’s called the Conga. And I’d like everyone to give it a go.”

Old Goat stepped between the two Tallmor women. “Now everyone turn to the person on your left and grab them from behind by the hips.” He grabbed Eleven by the hips. She looked extremely embarrassed. “Like this. No, no, Tall Stag, I said grab from behind! Right, now join me”—he indicated for the other Tallmor woman to grab his hips—“and follow what the person does in front of you. Bard, some lively music please!”

The Conga line snaked around the chamber and picked up serving girls and guards alike as it weaved around the tables and columns. Everyone—well, except the High Elves who all looked extremely stiff and awkward—began to sing and get into the spirit of it, falling about and some occasionally dropping out to join again at the end. In this chaos Kharla and Draloth slipped away, pretending to rest on the floor by the counter, at which point they ducked behind it and went through the backdoor with Malebun.

Malebun closed the door and they found themselves in a kitchen. A female Khapiit, a large bowl in one hand and a ladle in the other, stood staring at them from the other side of a large table.

“Malebun? You know this one doesn’t like strange smells in her kitchen. Those masks do not fool her, no. Not fox or butterfly. Dark Elf and Orc!”