Dragonbored Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Warning: The following story is based on extremely twisted true events that were treated with a disgraceful amount of creative licence. No animals were harmed in the writing of this story, except for the ten thousand monkeys I locked in a room filled with ten thousand typewriters in an attempt to not have to write this, but then forgot to feed. Seriously, don’t try that. As hilarious as a room filled with ten thousand starved monkeys might sound, the results are not pretty.

On a related note, I’m now on the run from the law for that little stunt, so please keep schtum, enjoy the story and let me know what you think.

Also, be warned that the narration style of this story is somewhat out there. Just so you know.

Dragonbored

Chapter 1-The Pick of Destiny

As popular opinion goes, it seems that destiny really rather dropped the ball when it came to Jorlif Steelbeater.

He was born under a sign of no real importance, he had no parents of secretly noble birth and their parentage was as certain as they came. He had no particular feelings of wanderlust, lacked a birthmark and the closest thing he possessed to a magic sword passed down from father to son was an old shovel his father gave to him after he’d had the blacksmith make him a new one. There was no cause he particularly wished to uphold beyond the prosperity of the family farm, nothing he wanted to avenge, and the only thing his family was notable for was being completely unremarkable in every way imaginable.

Quite possibly his only vaguely distinguishing feature was his height of six feet and four inches, born through a combination of hard work as a blacksmith’s apprentice and wholesome food cooked by his beloved mother, and his beliefs that hard work and honesty paid off. In that regard, he was truly a rare thing indeed.

Things began for our unlikely hero in a rather disappointing manner, as destiny was going through a rough patch at the time and so wasn’t quite giving things its full attention. Usually, such things start with the razing of a village and an oath of vengeance or a call to heroism from the king or a mysterious circle of mages (it’s always circles, isn’t it? What’s wrong with a shape with corners every now and then? I mean, what if there are only three mages, or four of them? Then it’s a triangle of mages, or a square of them; you need a good five or six people if you want to actually make a decent circle shape, and good mages are hard to come by). If destiny hasn’t really planned anything, four strangers meeting in a tavern and agreeing to hit up the local dungeon that is inexplicably filled with dangerous monsters despite being only a short distance from bustling towns with heavily populated trade routes always worked. In this case, however, destiny went with the classic ‘malicious miscarriage of justice’ package, though in this case it wasn’t so much malicious as it was just largely apathetic.

It began in Jorlif’s village of Hole. Hole had no primary exports aside from mud, muck and the occasional, rare rock (the discovery of said rock was usually enough to jump the fortunate soul who discovered it up a social class and allowed them to move to the marginally nicer and less disease-ridden neighbouring village of Dump). Its population were all poor, had little food and had no greater ambition beyond finding themselves a rock to sell on and thus find themselves a place in Dump. It was, in short, the sort of place where you’d be lucky to find half a dozen teeth per family, and was not so much a one-horse town as it was a one-strip-of-half-rotten-leather-that-used-to-be-a-horse town. As I said, destiny had been having a bit of a bad time.

Jorlif was walking through what was ostensibly the main street of the town, though really it just happened to be one of the roads between Skyrim and Bruma that Hole had grown around like a particularly underwhelming patch of mould. He had been asked by his mother to fetch something for her, and before you ask, it was nothing to do with destiny and was, in fact, a few loaves of bread which are entirely irrelevant to the rest of the story so there was really no point in pestering me, was there?

Exactly how Jorlif had managed to grow up to be built like a house in a town renowned only for its particularly repulsive skin diseases is a simple matter; unlike anyone else in Hole, his family actually owned arable land. As a result they were, relatively speaking at least, something in the same league as nobility, though by the standards of Hole anybody who didn’t live in a one room hut made of mud and half-rotten wood was somewhere along the same lines the Emperor.

His prize clutched under one arm that seemed to be constructed almost entirely of steak, Jorlif was walking past the parallel ruts in the mud that served as the main street (the crude cobbles that had once paved it had all been stolen by an enterprising resident of Hole. He had managed to make a jump with his newly acquired wealth all the way past Dump to Eightforsaken Hellhole, but had nearly collapsed the rock market by flooding it with his newly acquired geology). As he tried to stay on the slightly less thick and pungent patches of dung, a figure barrelled into him, coming close to knocking him to the ground. There was a distant cry of “Stop! Thief!” and, acting on an unthinkingly stupid noble impulse that in all rights should have got him killed, the bloody idiot, Jorlif grabbed the slight figure by the scruff of the neck.

The earned him a vicious kick in the stomach for his trouble, but years of doing blacksmithy…stuff had gifted Jorlif abs that you could break rocks on, because it’s alright for some, isn’t it?, and as a result it managed to both cause him to double over but at the same time still keep his hold on the would-be thief.

There was a brief struggle, resulting in Jorlif getting a knock in his chiselled, square jaw and his aggressor yelping in pain as he took an elbow to the ribs. Their tussle lasted very little time, however, as a group of Imperial Legionaries who had been hoping that being assigned to a Dump like Hole wouldn’t involve much trouble appeared with their swords drawn, mainly to discourage any more trouble that might have wanted to start.

“What’s all this then?” their sergeant asked as the four soldiers appeared over Jorlif and his assailant (or possibly assailee, I’m not quite certain, in legal terms, as to who was assailing whom at the start or where said assailing actually began. Or whether or not it became wassailing at some point), who was interested primarily in sorting this whole situation out so he could go back to the cup of tea he had been enjoying. As cups of tea went, it had been quite a good one, a little milky, two teaspoons of sugar and had just been reaching that wonderful temperature where it was hot but now drinkable, and he really wanted to get back to it before it passed out of such a phase. Or possibly just passed out, though seeing as it is a mere liquid and not a conscious being that seems rather unlikely.

In answer to the sergeant’s question (it was “What’s all this then?” by the way; I realise I got slightly sidetracked in the last paragraph) a portly shopkeeper jogged up behind them, puffing somewhat because of the Shopkeepers’ Union requirements to be slightly overweight and short of breath, and said; “Thievery, sergeant. That man there is a thief.”

“Which one,” the sergeant asked, due in no small part to the fact that he was pointing at Jorlif as well as his assailant/assailee/wassailer.

“Him!” Jorlif’s assailant/assailee/wassailer said from the dirt, pointing at Jorlif. “He’s the one you want; he stole these things and then attacked me when I tried to stop him.”

“No I’m not!” Jorlif said. “That’s exactly the opposite of what happened; you did that to me!”

“Shut up,” his assailant/assailee/wassailer hissed in reply. “I’m trying to lie, here.”

The sergeant considered his problem and how he might solve it in a manner that might return him to his cup of tea in the shortest possible manner, and came to a conclusion.

“They’re in cahoots,” he said. “Lock them both up.”

And that was how Jorlif and his assailant/assailee/wassailer ended up on a cart on the way to Helgen awaiting execution (for clarity’s sake, both they and the cart were awaiting execution; Jorliff and his assailant/assailee/wassailer were to be beheaded for thievery and the cart was going to be chopped into firewood for treason against the Empire (don’t ask, it’s a long story)).

Wait, I didn’t mention that bit, did I? In retrospect, I realise that the In Media Res opening I was trying for doesn’t actual work unless I open the story in an In Media Res manner, but that’s not the point and I can’t be bothered to go back and write it in. Look, the title is clearly a pun on the term ‘Dragonborn’ and if you didn’t realise this then you’re either an idiot or you haven’t played Skyrim, and if the latter is the case then it raises the question of exactly what on earth you’re doing here, though that question may be answered if you happen to be the former. And besides, you’re not the one using your spare time to write this story for you people completely for free, are you? No. Didn’t think so.

And so things began with Jorlif and his assailant/assailee/wassailer (alright, his name was Lorentus Lorin; he’s a major character and referring to him any more as “Jorlif’s Assailant/assailee/wassailer” is just silly and is upsetting the spell checker, and that thing is as needy as hell even at the best of times) in a cart on their way to Helgen, awaiting execution. Unsurprisingly, going to Helgen for the sole purpose of being executed was not something that left one feeling particularly enamoured towards the place, and as a result Lorentus had been grizzling about the place the entire trip in the back of the cart.

“And apparently the mead’s no good either,” he said, gnawing on the ropes that bound his wrists together. “And the wenches at the tavern are ugly.”

“That’s my hometown you’re talking about,” the Nord sitting opposite him said. “I grew up there.”

“Well it’s an awful hometown then,” Lorentus replied, before returning his attention to the ropes.

“What’s your problem?” the Nord asked. “And why are you eating the ropes?”

“I’m going to be executed,” Lorentus said. “And what else is there to do?”

“You could face your death like a man,” the Nord said.

“Sod that, I’ve never faced anything and I’m not starting with death,” Lorentus replied. “I’m going to gnaw instead, thank you.”

He continued his determined chewing, muttering; “This would be so much easier if I was a Khajiit.”

The Nord shrugged, and glance over at Jorlif.

“What brings you here, then?” he asked.

“I tried to stop him from thieving,” Jorlif said, nodding at Lorentus. “And then they arrested us both.”

“Don’t give me that,” Lorentus said. “If you hadn’t tried to stop me then I could have got away and you could have gone on being poor and ugly or whatever it is you do in that dump.”

“Actually, my village is Hole,” Jorlif said. “Dump is about a mile up the road from there.”

“I don’t care,” Lorentus said as the cart bounced on a pothole in the road. “I just don’t care.”

“Huh,” the Nord grunted. “Typical Imperial ‘justice’. My name’s Ralof, by the way. Of the Stormcloaks.”

“Oh, I know you lot,” Jorlif said. “You’re the rebels, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” Ralof said. “You see him there?”

He nodded to the man sitting next to him with a gag across his mouth, wearing finely made clothes and a cloak of dark fur.

“Oh, your friend with the bondage fetish?” Lorentus asked.

“What?” Ralof the Stormcloak exclaimed, and the gagged individual managed an outraged; ‘Mmph!’

“He’s tied and gagged, isn’t he?” Lorentus said. “I mean, that’s what some people are into; I won’t judge. Takes all sorts, doesn’t it?”

“He’s tied and gagged,” Ralof said. “Because he has great power. He is Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, rightful High King of Skyrim and like you, my friend from the Village of Hole, he has fallen victim to the cruelties of Imperial ‘justice.’”

“Oh great, we had to share a cart with a member of Occupy Skyrim, didn’t we?” Lorentus muttered. “As if being taken for execution wasn’t bad enough already.”

He continued to gnaw with the determination of a hamster awaiting the death sentence imprisoned in a cell made of wood. Considering that he was awaiting a death sentence, the simile is quite an accurate one except for the fact that Lorentus was not, as a matter of fact, a hamster, nor was he kept in a cell made of wood; he was being carried in a cart. It’s important to clarify such things, I always feel.

Ralof ignored Lorentus’ bid for freedom and instead looked over at the last occupant of the cart.

“What got you here, then?” he asked.

“I was a thief,” the man said. “I stole a horse and made for the border, then the next thing I know I got caught in the ambush that grabbed you and your Jarl.”

“There we go, he’s messing things up for people now,” Lorentus said. “First he has a weird bondage fetish and now he’s getting some other random person killed. Some Jarl Ulfric is.”

“You take that back,” Ralof growled.

“Or what? We’re going to get executed anyway,” Lorentus replied. “Or are you going to glare me to death before we get there?”

The cart bounced on a pothole and he cursed as he bit his tongue.

“Wasn’t going anywhere anyway,” he muttered, as the cart began to make its way around a bend, down a craggy mountain road that typified Skyrim because whenever somebody wanted to build sensible roads that went through tunnels people always complained about losing the natural beauty of the place.

“Here we are,” Ralof said, glancing over his shoulder. “Helgen.”

Jorlif looked at it in pure amazement for a moment, at the watchtower that sat on one side of the main gate.

“Is that building made of stone?” he asked, utterly flabbergasted.

“Of course it is,” Ralof replied. “Huh, when I was younger I thought those walls kept us safe.”

“They’re rubbish walls,” Lorentus said, though it was clear his heart wasn’t in it.

“So much stone,” Jorlif murmured as the carts rattled towards the gate.

“Oh, this isn’t good,” the other thief said. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Face your death like a man,” Ralof said.

“You keep suggesting that!” Lorentus snapped. “That doesn’t solve our problem at all. That just means we have exactly the same problem but with a bit of a more positive attitude.”

“And that can make all the difference,” Jorlif said.

“Shut up, it’s all your fault I’m here,” Lorentus growled. “If I ever get the chance I’m going to murder you into millions of tiny pieces.”

The gates swung open as they approached, the citizens of Helgen who were outside and beginning to gather around another tower. There was a headsman’s block on the ground, a headsman in a headsman’s hood and holding a headsman’s axe with his headsman’s hand, watching the carts approach with his headsman’s eyes, processing the images with his headsman’s brain, which had them relayed to it by his headsman’s optic nerves.

They pulled to a halt, and Jorlif heard a child ask; “What’s going on there, daddy?”

“They’re executing criminals, son,” came the reply.

“Cool. Can I watch?”

Lorentus glanced at the others.

“Right, what do we do?” he asked. “I say we try jump the guards, use them slashing their swords and stuff at us to break the ropes, steal their weapons, kill them and then leg it.”

“That’s a stupid plan,” Jorlif said.

“And do you have a better one?” Lorentus asked.

“Yes,” Jorlif said. “Just sticking our heads on the block, because we’ll get the same end result only nobody will laugh at us!”

“Like I said, we face our death like true men and die with dignity,” Ralof declared.

“What’s with all this dying with dignity rubbish?” Lorentus said. “I don’t want to die with dignity, I want to die with lots of money, surrounded by beautiful women.”

“And I don’t think he’s ever lived with dignity in the first place,” Jorlif added.

“Aren’t you smart, all of a sudden?” Lorentus asked.

“Alright!” one of the guards called, pulling down a step on the cart and gesturing at the road below him. “Get out, come on.”

The prisoners rose as they began to disembark, hopping off one by one.

“Step towards the block when we call your name!” one of the soldiers, a redguard woman with the heavier armour of a captain called with a harsh tone.

“Empire loves their damn lists,” Ralof muttered resentfully.

“Well how else are they supposed to remember who to kill?” Jorlif asked. “I mean, by the looks of things, they’ve got a lot of people to cut the heads off in this cart. I mean, if I’ve got a lot stuff to do, I have to write it all down.”

“I…yes, I suppose,” Ralof conceded.

“You’re literate?” Lorentus asked. “Really?”

“Sod off.”

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” another Imperial soldier called, reading off his list.

“It’s been an honour, Jarl Ulfric,” Ralof said.

“I’ll never forget you, strange bondage man,” Lorentus added. “But that’s mainly because I won’t have the chance to. Otherwise my memory for names isn’t that good.”

“Ralof of Riverwood,” the soldier read out. The Nord simply nodded and took his place by the line that was forming by the headman’s block. “Lokir of Rorikstead.”

The horse thief, who had been looking decidedly nervous for reasons that would be obvious for anyone who possessed an intellectual capacity greater than that of a banana, came to the conclusion that enough was enough. Glancing left and right, he broke into a run with a cry of; “No, you won’t get me!”

He managed to burst past the captain, making his way down the road at a dead sprint while she shouted; “Archers!”

He managed to make it halfway to the gates before an arrow hit him. Disappointingly, it took him in the neck, not the knee.

“Aw, I like it when they cut their heads off,” a child’s voice complained from the crowd behind them.

“Well that was a stupid plan,” Lorentus remarked.

“That was basically your plan,” Jorlif replied.

Lorentus looked over his shoulder at the Nord.

“You know,” he said. “You’re probably the last person I want to spend my final minutes on Nirn with.”

“Yeah, well I liked Ralof more,” Jorlif replied. “And I wish I hadn’t tried to stop you.”

“Think we can both agree on that,” Lorentus remarked.

“Line up by the block!” a guard ordered, and the two complied.

The first prisoner was lead up to the headsman’s block and laid down upon it. The headsman raised his axe, and Lorentus grinned.

“Least we get some entertainment,” he said.

“What is wrong with you?” Jorlif asked.

The execution was a good, clean slice that got a cheer from the crowd. The headsman waved at them in acknowledgement as the body was carried away, and a balding old man shouted out; “I call his hair!”, which got a laugh.

“They’re all having a good time,” Lorentus pointed out. “Besides, it’s a good day out for the family; bring the kids, terrorise them into behaving by saying that’s what’ll happen if they don’t do what you tell them. Great parenting, that.”

“Yeah,” Jorlif said, momentarily lost in nostalgia as he recalled the first execution he had attended. “But still, that wasn’t for our execution.”

“You!” the captain called out. “The Nord in the rags. Step up to the block.”

“Hah!” Lorentus hissed after him. “You get to get killed first. I win!”

“How do you win?”

“Because I get to see you die first.”

Jorlif was pushed onto the block, laid flat as the headsman raised his axe. In the distance, there was an echo of some kind, a deep shriek or roar that rang faint out across the town.

“What was that?” an Imperial legionnaire asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” the captain said. “Continue with the execution.”

“But it might be important!” the legionnaire protested. “I say that we use that as a reason to pointlessly delay the execution for a few moments in order to see if something dramatic happens.”

“No,” the captain replied. “We’re carrying on with the execution! Now let’s go!”

“Oh, more of that?” the soldier asked.

“More of what?” the captain said.

“All this negative reinforcement. It’s not good leadership, you know. You could have just said that we didn’t have time for it or something. There was no need to just steamroller over me like that, that’s bad leadership. You need to communicate with the people under you command. Build a bond with your troops based on trust.”

“This conversation is pointless. Continue the-”

“See! There you go again! And you can’t take constructive criticism either. You just take offence at it and ignore it.”

“Trooper, General Tullius is right there.”

“Oh, I see how it is! When I raise a valid point that you don’t want to listen to, you just ignore it. That’s a blatant appeal to authority, if I ever saw one. Honestly, the state of middle management in the Empire these days is-”

Whatever his opinion on middle management happened to be was left unheard, for at that moment a dragon appeared and everything went to hell.

[Colonel Mustard]

Actually no, my evil twin Molonel Custard did.

[Elisabeth Hollow]

Actually no, my evil twin Molonel Custard did.

This was one of the first Skyrim fics I read!