Tergoth Skellerford

[jethronilsen]

(sorry about the length. Not shooting for extra brownie points. The story idea grew on me and I got a bit carred away)

Player login: jethronilsen
PC: Tergoth Skellerford

It had been a big, busy farm once, with several fields full of different types of crops and all kinds of livestock running around the place. There had been the sounds of children then, doing their chores, or more likely, playing games and avoiding the work their parents had set out for them. There had been color, magnificent swaths of reds, oranges, greens, whites and yellows depending upon the crop and the time of the year, and the wife’s garden had been the envy of their neighbors, unveiling new spectacular blossoms every year.

Now, it lay quiet and still, and almost desolate. Several fields lay barren and devoid of anything but weeds and dirt. He had meant them to lie fallow for just a season or two, but he no longer had the energy to keep them all up. A few cows and chickens remained, eating whatever the small clumps of grass here and there could provide. There was still a garden, but it was much smaller and far more utilitarian, containing a smattering of vegetables and herbs that allowed some semblance of a normal diet.

He woke up in the same mood as every other morning. He got up slowly, glanced out the window to ascertain the weather and view the walls of Arabel in the distance, said a brief prayer to Chauntea, prepared his tea, and got dressed. Same clothes. Same tea. Same prayer. Same routine. Every morning. He wasn’t sure if he enjoyed the routine, but he knew that he needed it. It kept him moving. Grounded. Alive.

Today the only change to his daily schedule was to chop down the dead oak by the garden. He had promised her a few years ago that he would get rid of the thing before its withering branches collapsed under the children’s weight, as they loved climbing it. That had been before. And after, it simply hadn’t mattered. But now the thing was completely dead, overgrown with choking vines, and he needed the clear the area so he could expand the garden. His new project. His new purpose, really, to keep him moving. Grounded. Alive.

He grabbed his axe and some jerky and headed out. The sun was just beginning to pop its head out from the clouds, so the grass was still a little slick from the rain that had fallen overnight. It was cool, but not cold, and the sun would warm things up just nicely. Not that it mattered to him. It was a day, like any other.

As he rounded the corner to the back of the farmhouse, he stopped. Something was out of place. He wasn’t sure what it was—just that, something was wrong. It was a trait that had saved him a few times in the militia, hunting goblins in the Hullack. It wasn’t that he was terribly perceptive or had great eyes. It was just instinct.

He dropped to a knee, scanned the area, then closed his eyes and remained still, listening. Nothing. With no immediate threat, he opened his eyes, focusing slowly on his surrounding, working from closest to farthest, just like Captain Dalmar had taught him so many years ago.

In a few seconds, he focused on the trampled flowers. He smiled and laughed lightly. Such a reaction for just the deer again. He got up quickly, too quickly, and cursed at the pain that ran through his back. With his free hand, he grabbed his side, feeling the old scar from the goblin arrow. The cold certainly wasn’t helping. The priest had said it would heal given time, but he knew better. Some things just didn’t heal…or never healed back fully.

He sighed, thinking about the extra work it would take to repair the garden. He toyed briefly with the idea of shooting the deer, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He was a farmer, not a hunter. Oh sure, he had been a warrior—and a decent one at that—but that had been a long time ago. He’d deal with wolves. Or the occasional goblin. But a deer? Only if it had been a bad year for growing.

To reach the oak, he would have to pass by the small clearing just behind the farmhouse. For the first year or so, he had avoided it, but now he barely paid it much mind. It was strangely comforting to know that they were there, right in front of the grove of cedar trees, only a very modest stone block serving as any sort of marker.

He walked briskly in the morning sunshine on the small path that led to the garden, turning his head just briefly to acknowledge the clearing and the orange flowers he had set out last night next to the block.

And he stopped in his tracks.

The flowers were gone. He paused, then scowled. It hadn’t been a windy night at all, and he didn’t seem them anywhere in the clearing. Strangely enough, the deer had never gone near the clearing before, a fact that he had never understood but was grateful for. Okay, he grumbled to himself, maybe now I will hunt the deer.

He muttered a quick prayer to Chauntea for such a thought, glancing briefly up to the sky.

And for not the first time, but perhaps the last, the Earth Mother saved his life. For as he glanced up, he saw at just the right angle, with the right amount of light coming from the sun just now emerging from behind the clouds, the figure in the tree.

Of course, he thought as he threw himself to the ground, hearing the arrow whistle above him and land with a dull thud in the ground. The flowers hadn’t been eaten like usual, he suddenly realized, his mind thinking back to the crushed plants in the garden.

Cursing to himself, he rolled into a kneeling position, just like Dalmar had taught him, then quickly looked for cover. He crawled over to the stone block as another arrow whizzed above him. It gave him just enough cover as he looked for a rock, a stick—anything!—to keep the attacker distracted as he considered his options.

He never heard the others coming from the other side of the house. Never had the chance to dodge or use his axe. It was a large and fast blur that sent him and the stone marker sprawling to the ground, his body exploding in pain, his mind barely able to process what was happening.

He landed on his back with a heavy thud, his head slamming into the ground just inches from the stone marker as it split into a few pieces from the force of the blow. His head swam and his vision turned red and blurry. He reached out with both his arms for the axe, but he found nothing, then saw out of the corner of his eye the creature approaching him slowly. Even with his damaged vision, he could make out his attacker fairly well – a figure with lizard-like features, its claws fully extended, a forked tongue flickering in and out of his mouth. He should have known, there had been talk that–

There was no time to finish the thought, as the figure leapt at him and he rolled to the side just in time. He was still woozy though, and he wasn’t able to think much further ahead so continued rolling quickly until his chest bumped into something hard and cold. A fragment of his family’s tombstone! His spirits lifted briefly, he glanced again at his attacker. They quickly dropped, as he saw the lizard man approaching him slowly, only this time it held an axe in its hand. His axe! I am going to die by my own axe, he thought to himself. He calmed himself quickly and immediately assessed his odds. One chance: dive into the grove and hopefully make it into the forest.

He suddenly heaved up the piece of the stone—gods it was heavy and awkward!— hoping to surprise the lizard man and get a few second lead. But as he was about to let it go, he felt the arrow enter his shoulder. His whole arm buckled, a huge bolt of pain stabbing through his body. He tumbled to the ground once again, and the world was dark for just an instant. Too much, he thought. This is it, as his mind became a jumble of thoughts and memories. A woman. Three children. The dog. Friends. Captain Dalmar.

Thus, he was only dimly aware of a slight rush of air, the lizard man’s cry, a horrific crunching of bone and the axe falling heavily to the ground next to him. He looked at it, uncomprehending, hearing the cries of pitched battle in the distance, then willed himself to turn over.

An armored figure was standing over the body of several lizard men, a long sword and shield in its hands. He was struck by the slightness of the figure, until it turned towards him, and he realized it was a woman. She walked over and knelt by him, sheathing her weapon and examining his wounds.

“What? Who…who are you?” he rasped.

She merely smiled. “We’ve been following that warband for a few days now,” she said. “Good thing we got here when we did. I think you’ll be fine.”

He could feel his body completely slump to the ground in relief as he let out a long breath. “Thank the gods,” he muttered, nodding slowly. “Thank Chauntea you came.”

She laughed quietly and shook her head, a wry smile. “Not Chauntea. Thank Tempus.”

“Tempus?” he whispered, and he saw a very small glittering diagonally shaped dagger hanging from her neck as unconsciousness overtook him, his last thought of the garden and if he’d ever be able to replant the damn flowers.

[Black Rider]

Reviewd, XP pending!