» Thu May 03, 2012 5:50 am Hjalti Eats a Horker
A Tale of Tiber Septim In His Younger Days
Told by Yorulf Bear-[Untranslatable] of Solstheim
Honorable Cultural Attache of The Bard's College, College of Winterhold, College of Whispers, [List continues for some time, including several places and institutions that not only do not exist but could never be in any universe.]
Hjalti Early-Beard strode up the wide stone path at the head of his Red Legions and stopped as he crested the hill. In his path, too close to have been missed as he walked up, was an old crone, shrunken do the height of his waist and wrinkled as the sock in the trousers of Hrunding High-Shout (who was secretly a woman).
She looked up at him, only she did not. Hjalti saw that her eyes were not true eyes, but mere decorations on the false body the creature had made for itself. He hid his realization and none of his soldiers saw through the deception. The false crone bowed low, her long, hooked nose rubbing in the snow and not leaving a mark.
"How now, hag?" Hjalti said, used to his war-voice and not in the mood to change it for the sake of manners. Snow blew about and away from the woman to flee his Voice.
"I am merely a lonely old woman, fearful of wayfarers." The creature said. Knowing what to look for, Hjalti saw that while her mouth moved the right number of times, it did not always shape itself truly.
Wary of some trick but bound by honor, Hjalti spoke, this time in his diplomacy-voice: "Then I say to you that you may travel with the camp followers and soldiers families, but under no circumstance may you go near my own tent."
The old woman bowed, and walked around the column to the rear. Hjalti stroked his early beard, red as dawn and thusly named, before Shouting the march again.
The battle was joined that evening and brief. The stronghold of the enemy who Hjalti had not the patience to learn the name of was Shouted down and in the ensuing hurricane their blood had been as fat raindrops. He sent his men in through the widest holes he had opened in the wall and had them explore the small shadows and hiding-places to slay all who had survived his storm.
Three days they marched farther north, reaving and destroying the enemies of Cuhlecain who was still trying to be a king in the fat, humid south until they came to the icy cliffs of the north coast. The wind blew strong with the cold smell of Atmora, the home that was not Hjalti's, but for respect he Shouted greetings across the stormy seas. But because it was no his home, he also threw the bodies of the slain down off the cliffs in a haphazard and careless way.
The Red Legions traveled down the cliffs and found a hollow near the stony grey beach open only to the North, prepared to leave the next day and march west along the coast to swoop down on the mongrel Reachmen from the north out of Hjaalmarch as they prepared their defenses against the southward forces of Cuhlecain. Horkers, fat but docile beasts, flopped and bellowed around the edges of camp in the crimson-and-silver moonlight until they were awash in the infinite spectrum of the auroras.
As those guardians from Atmora watched, the hag transformed into a beautiful maiden with hair, eyes and lips as blue as the glaciers and skin pale as snow wearing a cloak of winds (In the margin, written in the hand of a young man: and them's see thu lemme tells yer) before she approached Hjalti's central encampment. With a glance, she sent the two guards into a blood frenzy of lust, but before either could reach her they began to fight each other over who would have her first. So violent was their quarrel that she left unnoticed. In front of Hjalti's tent there was but one guard, and his blood rose (in the margin, same hand: i bet other things done rose too hurr hurr ((in much cleaner hand: why did he write "hurr hurr?")) and as he attempted to lay his hands on her they froze as they neared her flawless skin, turning black and crumbling into crystals of flesh-ice. Before he could scream, the malevolent spirit froze his throat and he died.
She passed into Hjalti's tent, and was stopped.
In the center of the tent was a great fire. The frost creature dared not go closer.
"You dislike this, fair one?" Hjalti said, holding his hands above the fire. There was something about him in that light, some change from the man in the day. A black malice crawled along his skin to her spirit eyes. "It was for your own safety I told you to stay away. hag. YOL."
Fire was his Voice, and the great hearth flared up, bathing the room in heat. The frost spirit tried to run, but Hjalti grabbed her slender neck. Her scream was a blizzard, and he Shouted spring. She cast frost along her body, but it danced harmlessly around the wards about him. He was not Zurin Arctus but he would be in the past and future, so he could cast such spells at need. He cast his men back to sleep a few seconds in the past.
Blood seeped from his eyes and mouth as the woman struggled. She could not harm him, but stepping out of cause-and-effect still demanded a price on his mortal form. He Shouted again, and she was silent and still. He Shouted a third time, and she became a Horker.
In surprise, he staggered back, having not intended to make her a horker. "Follow her!" he demanded, then cursed himself. "Balls of a fool! I've put them to sleep!"
He had to rebuild convention for the three and four-sevenths minutes he had rearranged, so Hjalti Early-Beard the General could not chase her himself as a common soldier might and neither could he simply have the effect of the men waking and being prepared without cause. His intent had been to trap her back in the hag-form, then allow her to return to her beautiful shape and keep her as a trophy. Now, in impotent fury, he demanded his men when they awoke that they should kill her and bring him the remains as breakfast.
As men do, they went out earnestly and fast got bored and tired. Eventually Hrunding High-Shout (who was secretly a woman) killed any old horker and brought the body back, not seeing the point of finding any old one and if she was trapped as a horker now what harm was the crone anyway? Never thinking to question his own soldiers, Hjalti ate the beast, blubber bones and all.
The spirit, nursing her rage and humiliation, stayed among the horkers and bred among them which was very uncomfortable for her and served to drive her fury to greater heights. Her brood grew and expanded and she taught them a hatred of all that walked on two legs.
That is why the Horkers of Skyrim are so much more aggressive and far huger than their bretheren on my beloved home isle.
(Note from the Author: I am always asked how I know that breeding with Horkers is uncomfortable. I assure you I know and the next person who asks me how is getting turned into a paper cup filled with whale's milk. You have been warned).
(Note from the real world author who is only part of organizations that really exist somewhere stop asking: This is what I do when I'm bored and it's April Fool's Day. Hope you like it).
