The Death of Scutum
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Shorty Darkfellow was an immoral halfling who would just as soon steal from his own grandmother if she left the cellar unlocked as he would sell her for a slice of Fenberry pie. It was no surprise, as such, that he found himself not on the front lines of the War for the Nars, but rather in the infirmary. Unlike the many priests and priestesses tending the wounded, or the countless wounded themselves, Shorty Darkfellow was not there to help. He was there to lift whatever he could put his sticky fingers upon. Most of these people would likely die, he thought. What would they need with a coin or two in the afterlife?
Sticking close to the shadows and limping to not draw the attention from those nursing the wounded, he poked around in satchels, crates, barrels, anything that promised a shiny or two. It was then that he came across a cot bearing a sorely wounded elf apparently unconscious from his injuries.
He looked to the elf on the cot and to the bag next to him, and then back to the elf. Satisfied that the elf was incapacitated, he crept over silently and looked at the bag. It was well worn, torn in some places, and, most importantly to Shorty, bulging greatly. Along the outside of the bag, written in flowing script were the elvish letters - which he could read fluently - “Alvar Blackwood.”
Unbuckling the flap he reached inside. Some rations, standard supplies, and… Aha! Some parchments! These will sell well to the mages in Peltarch, Shorty thought. No doubt they were scrolls of some sort. He glanced quickly at the one in his hand. Across the seal was a single word: Scutum. Odd name for a spell, he thought, but he didn’t have time to finish the thought.
Someone had grabbed his arm in the darkness. His grip was tight, yet shaking slightly. He looked up to see the elf had awakened and, although obviously in unbearable pain, was trying to pull him towards the cot.
“Why you little!…”
Shorty Darkfellow was not one to stick around to hear the remaining parts of a sentence that began with why you little. With some effort he was able to wrench his arm free, scroll still in hand, and run as fast as his little feet would take him, out of the infirmary and into the darkness, he didn’t stop until he had reached a dark back alley in the city of Peltarch.
“I’m not buying that trash!” The mage said looking at Shorty Darkfellow in disgust.
“Why not?” replied the halfling.
“Because it’s garbage. Sentimental driveling, that’s all. It’s not magical at all. It’s just the meanderings of an elf. I wouldn’t wipe my ass with it.”
The mage threw the papers across the desk towards the obviously disappointed Shorty. The halfling picked it up, looked at it, and sighed.
“Isn’t it worth anything?” he asked.
“Maybe to a desperate bard! Get out of my workshop and don’t bother me again!”
After spending the better part of a day looking for a desperate looking bard, Shorty Darkfellow felt defeated. He found a bench in the Peltarch commons and produced his pipe from his own bag and lit the remains of the pungent plant inside.
“Can’t be that bad,” he muttered to himself as he rolled out the pages and began to read aloud.
“The Death of Scutum…”
_Fenmarel Mestarine teaches us to be the lone reed standing in a field, bent to the wind. Self-reliance. A lone wolf without a pack must fend for itself. He must become more than a wolf. He must be a pack unto himself.
In the old world, those of my race would often journey into the forests to practice this self-reliance. We would learn to live, to survive, relying only upon what we ourselves could muster. I, myself, was trained in this way. I learned from the wolf bite how to kill the wolf, and live off its sustenance. Through exposure to nature, the wind and the rain, I learned to shield myself from the elements, to drink the rain. To survive.
Many years would go by when you wouldn’t see those of my kind. We came together only when there was a common need. Decades of my life that turn into centuries, I never saw another.
What a strange thing it was, then, to find that I needed others.
In this world we come together for common needs. To Fenmarel I remain true. I rely upon my own skill to survive. I ask for nothing. I am self-reliant. But in this world, dark forces plot to end everyone in disastrous ways that are complete in their extent. Wisdom dictates that in order for the one to survive, he must be many.
Sy’wyn was heading to the front lines to determine the status there. We had done well, it was said. We had defeated the enemy on the battlefield and pushed them back to their stronghold. They hid out in caves and like the cat hunting the mouse, we found them, and pushed them back more. They were well supplied and holed up in their village. What remained was to hold the line until engineers from Peltarch could establish our battery on the fields outside their walls.
It was no easy task by any means. The archers were well placed. The catapults well supplied. Foot soldiers fought us on the field while the Peltarch Defenders tried to entrench themselves to provide our own attacks.
Sy’wyn, Grag, myself and poor Scutum were to hold the lines. Nothing less. Nothing more. Simply hold the lines.
Through the smoke we saw them come. We had already dispatched several archers from their walls. Now the foot soldiers were advancing. Armed men, well trained. The battle was bloody as both sides clashed sword and shield, axe and knife, might versus might. In the end we prevailed. All of us badly wounded and bleeding, we held the line.
And then…
In sadness I write this. The lone wolf. The self-reliant. In sadness I write the tale of the fallen.
Seeing our overwhelming superiority in the martial arts, the enemy had no choice but to respond. They were, after all, facing not only the Peltarch Defenders, but also seasoned warriors in the form of General Grag, the High Priest Sy’wyn Blackwood, the Deft and Tenacious Scutum, and myself, trained since childhood, centuries ago, as a soldier.
We should have expected the retaliation, although I must admit, I was unprepared for the powerful mage they sent to fend us off.
This was a mage like no other I have ever seen. His skill at weaving was great. It seemed as if he moved across the battlefield like a demon oblivious to the fighting around him, with the singular purpose: death to all of us.
I drew my sword. I stood across from him as Grag was elsewhere dealing with foes of his own. Sy’wyn too was elsewhere. Scutum always moved too fast for me to see. I was the lone wolf, across from a God in the magical arts. I was the lone wolf, I plunged the sword forward as I had been trained to do, only to find my own flesh tear. I plunged again, another tear. Through the blood I plunged again, only to fall, seeing an uninjured God before me.
What happened next I was only able to piece together later. I had fallen on the field of battle, confused with the darkness swirling around me. All I remember on my own is that as I was falling, Scutum was engaging the mage.
When I came to, it was close to the entrance of the cave. Sy’wyn was there, as well as Grag, their backs turned to me, hunched over something that I couldn’t see. They were there though, as was I. Scutum was not.
I had survived, through some miracle. I had proved myself to Fenmarel in my survival. I moved forward and realized to my horror that it was not a time for celebration. Badly disformed, at the foot of Sy’wyn and Grag, was the lifeless body of Scutum.
We took her into the cave. Her body was like that of a swamp. Upon a closer look I saw acid had eaten through her skin. There was barely anything recognizable. I turned to Sy’wyn without a word, but an imploring look upon my face.
“Her soul will not answer the call,” Sy’wyn said. “There is nothing I can do.”
Scutum, the brave halfling, was no more. She had died saving me, the lone wolf, the self-reliant.
I write these words now in a mix of emotion, filled with philosophical questions that will probably haunt me throughout my long life. Fenmarel Mestarine teaches us to be the lone reed standing in a field, bent to the wind. To Fenmarel I remain true. And yet. What is a reed without a field? What is a wolf without a pack? What solace can be found in a victory of the many when the lone reed is crushed beneath a boot of the defeated?
Out of the one, many. Out of the many, one.
May you find peace my friend Scutum, the lone reed.
~ Alvar Blackwood_
Shorty Darkfellow choked back tears as he headed towards the infirmary. He knew not what he would do once he got there. He just knew that there was many there that needed help. He knew that he could help. He knew that eventhough he was just one, small halfling, he could do something to help the others. But he also knew that without the others he was nothing on his own. He knew he had a paper to return.
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((Thanks, I appreciate the comments.))
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sniff very, very nice indeed.
And sad to hear it too
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((Doh! I'll edit it))
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((Master Scutum Hedges of the Purple Hills Hedges is female.))
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very very emotive, really, I liked it!
