The Missing Point

Given that some of my other apocrypha has been somewhat "reaching" (i.e. pretentious and esoteric), I decided to instead tell of a story of something much more familiar and down to earth: the Skyrim Civil War!

The chimney was clearly not large enough, for the small inn was quickly filling with the smoke of the roaring fire where bacon, horse fat, and rendered fat sizzled away noisily, almost drowning the noise of the thunderstorm that raged just beyond the wooden walls.

"... so there we was, ridin' like whipped dogs outta Karthwasten praying to any god as ever knew a name that the imperials wouldn't catch us 'fore we got into camp safe and sound."

-"What'd you do at Karthwasten" one of the listeners interjected.

Scratching the stubble of his whitesalted beard, the nord muttered dismissively, clearly annoyed at the interuption: "Seized some silver outta the mine there for jarl Ulfric. Some o' the locals put up a show about stoppin' us, so we had to put 'em down a notch."

Dismissing what all the others in the camp knew to have been a slaughter, the nord continued his story: "So down we come in this foggy little gully, like you know they have 'em all'ovr the Reach, and the boys start calming down a bit, and a few laughs get off as we think we made it."

A grim smile glides over his face, and he sits quiet for a moment, idly picking horse gristle from his teeth, letting the suspense of "think we made it" build in his small crowd.

"So this one fellow, name' Swarnild or somethin', he takes his horse up along mine and he says to me, he says with the biggest grin on his face, he says: "Hey you!" he says, "how do you tell a dog from an imperial?" - And I say I don't know how.

The fellow Stormcloaks around the table stared at him in dumb anticipation, not even touching the mugs of ale spread about the table.

"'Been thinking alot 'bout what he might've said. He never got to answer me for 'soon as I asked 'im back he went and sprouted an arrow through his throat."

The crowd was clearly taken aback. This very much pleased the storyteller, and he eagerly continued his tale: "So he still sittin' on his horse and blood's spraying all over me, and I aien't one to sit around for target practice, so I jank my feet in the horse and off we go. Right as I move a whole bloody hail of arrows come outta nowhere and allofasudden imperials are on us like moths to a flame, them coming on horses outta the cracks and gullys like some bloody snow demons."

"So how'd you beat them? They must've outnumbered you ten to one!" a young Stormcloak cried eagerly.

The older man gave him a look like he'd said Tiber Septim was an elf: "You daft, boy? You don't just beat imperial knights and a small army of archers. I rode outta 'dere fast as my horse could still carry me. When you're caught with your pants down you don't try to clean up the shit, you just run. So I ride and I ride, and eventually I'm thinking I lost them again. And I see the light o' this small place 'ere, and I come in for an ale to freshen myself up."

Many of the men nodded knowingly, or nodded whilst pretending to be knowing, one did not mess with imperial knights and a small army of archers.

They sat for a while, slowly sipping their beverages in grim silence. The young lad who'd interrupted was chewing his tongue, indecisive. He didn't find the courage to speak up, but muttered - half to himself - "But if the imperials were chasing you as you got here... ?"

Outside in the roaring rain, a band of horses whinnied as thunder cracked across the sky, the shiny armor of their riders clanking loudly.