User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Oink Oink

“SMITH!”

The boy’s eyes shot open and he turned his head to look out the window. The sun was halfway up into the sky. Oh boy.

“SMITH YOUNG!”

He threw the duvet off and scrambled out of bed. He caught his foot on the bedpost fell to the ground with a thump.

“SMITH YOUNG IF YOU’RE NOT DOWN HERE IN FIVE MINUTES…”

Oh man, oh man, oh man, oh man.

He crawled across the floor to his dresser and the drawers right off their tracks in his haste.

“YOU ARE IN FOR THE BIGGEST GROUNDING…”

Damnit, blazes, almighty Akatosh…

He hopped around the room on one leg as he hurried to get into his trousers.

“OF YOUR ENTIRE LIFE…”

He pulled shirt over his head and slipped into it. He went back to the drawer for stockings and came away empty handed. Stockings. He needed stockings. His head swiveled towards the window were socks from days past lay, airing out.

“SO HELP ME DIVINES!”

Smith threw open the door of his bed room and charged out, slipping and sliding across the smooth wooden floor. He came crashing down the stairs, taking steps twice at a time, lost control of his own momentum, and ran smack into the wall at the bottom. He fell back onto his rear, growing.

“Owww…”

His father appeared above him, dressed in his forge clothes. Old Smith Black was a giant of a man. Although not exceptionally tall, he was wide and built like a bull. The large scar, red cheeks, and deeply lined brow did little to soften his appearance.

He reach down and yanked Smith up with a single hand.

“You’re late for your studies, boy.” Old Smith glowered at Young, who ducked his head and did his best to avoid eye contact. “Folk don’t get ahead in life by sleeping past sunrise, boy.”

Smith squirmed. “I know, father.”

Old Smith glared at him a moment longer, before sighing. “You’ve got a lot of your mother in you. She hated early mornings as well.” He pressed a heavy sack into Smith’s chest. “Your lunch.”

Smith clasped it tightly.

“Don’t lose it like you did the last one, boy.” Old Smith warned.

“Yes, father.”

“Alright.” Old Smith gave the lad a reluctant smile. Young knew his father could never stay mad at him for long. “Get out of here.”

Smith grinned and slipped under his father’s arms, making a dash for the door. Their house was small. A second floor which had Young’s and his father’s separate bedrooms, then the main floor which had a wash basin, dining table and chairs, stove, book shelves with a meager amount of books (most of which had been Smith’s mother’s), and his father’s sitting chair. “I’ll see you at the forge!” He called over his shoulder.

“Study hard!” Old Smith boomed as Young tore open the door, sending it swinging hard on its hinges. “And watch out for wildcats. There’s been a spotting!”

“I will!”

He took down the center of Rorikstead’s main street. It had rained recently, and the dirt road was muddy. Smith churned up splashes of loose soil in his wake.

“Is that Smith Black’s son?” An Altmer woman stood on a porch, wiping her dirty hands with a cloth.

“Good morning, Miss Reldith!” Smith Young called out as he ran past.

“You’re late for your studies, boy!”

“I know!”

“Then don’t waste your time on me, boy!”

“Okay! Good-bye, Miss Reldith!” Smith shouted over his shoulder.

He made a looping right hand turn, up towards Rorik’s Manor. The house was big, the biggest in Rorikstead, with two wings. Smith fantasized every now and then of living in it.

An older man stood on the front porch, over five or so children who sat before him cross-legged. He was lecturing about something, and noticed Smith Young’s approach.

“Look who decided to join us!” Jouane Manette was an older Breton and the village’s tutor.

“Sorry I’m late.” Smith gasped, climbing the steps up to the porch. The gathered children looked back at him—Bjorn, Erik, Ennis, Gunilla, and Kari. Bjorn was grinning at Smith unpleasantly.

“That’s alright, Smith. Please, take a seat.”

Smith struggled to find a spot, as he was bigger than all the other kids and didn’t want to be obtrusive. He tried to sit down next to Gunilla, but Bjorn shuffled over to deliberately get in his way, and Smith elected to sit at the back of the group.

“We’re focusing on history today. Namely, the reign of Longhouse Emperors. Can anyone tell me who they were?”

No hands went up right away. Kari hesitantly raised her’s.

“Kari?”

“Twey whewe gwoup of Weachmen who took ow-uh tuh Empiwe.” She lisped uncertainly.

“Correct.” Jouane smiled at her. “The Longhouse Emperors were very unpopular with the people of Tamriel. It began in the Second Era, when Durocorach…”

Smith zoned out. He didn’t really care so much for history. Frankly, it was a bit slow. Boring. What was the use of knowing stuff that had already happened? All this people were dead, anyway, and the things they’d made had already turned to dust.

Smith knew from his father that you were remember best by what you left behind. The more you built, the more you worked, the more there was of you. In life, you were supposed to be diligent and humble. People might not remember you, but they would remember what you did. What you had left behind for them.

These Longhouse Emperors sounded mean. Sounded like people who had wanted to be in charge, for no better reason than that. They hadn’t wanted to build anything, only take what belonged to someone else.

“That’s all we have time for today.” Jouane finished, clapping his hands together. “Your parents will need you back for the rest of the morning to work your chores, and I have my own duties to attend to.”

“Thank you, Master Manette.” The children droned, and they were dismissed.

Smith sighed with relief as he picked up his lunch sack and descended the manor steps, glad to be done with school for the day, but it was short-lived.

“Hey! Fat Smith!”

Smith stopped in his tracks to turn around. Bjorn was headed towards him with Erik and Ennis at his flanks.

“Where you off to?”

Smith’s eyes darted around, looking for an escape. The yard of Rorik’s manor was big, sprawling, but barren of anything but grass. There was nowhere for him to hide, nothing for him to use as an obstacle or cover.

“My father needs my help to work the forge.” He said in a smile voice, taking a cautionary step backwards as the boys encircled him, like a pack of wolves sizing up prey.

Bjorn came from the front. He was much shorter and thinner than Smith, but Smith did nothing to stop him as he ripped the lunch sack from Smith’s hands.

“You don’t need this anyway, piggy.” Bjorn said, undoing the sack’s laces and peering inside.

“I’m not fat.” Smith murmured, quietly.

Bjorn paused in his inspection of Smith’s lunch. “What?”

“My father says its baby weight.” The volume of Smith’s voice faded as he continued. “That I’ll probably lose it when I grow up…”

Bjorn grinned. “Nah, you’re fat.”

Smith said nothing and looked down at his shoes.

Bjorn turned over the lunch sack and dumped its contents out on the ground, then threw the sack on the ground too and rubbed it into the dirt with the heel of his bare foot.

“Whoops.” Bjorn’s grin grew wider. “Don’t cry, Fat Smith.” He urged, shoving his grinning face into Smith’s own. “Don’t cry. Are you gonna cry?”

Just the use of the c-word made Smith’s lip start to quiver.

“He’s crying!” Bjorn laughed, spinning away.

Something struck Smith hard in the back and he face planted into the mud. The laugher grew to a roar.

Smith wiped the mud out of his eyes and lifted his head to watch Bjorn and Erik congratulate Ennis on the hilarious thing he had just did.

“He’s a pig!” Bjorn held his stomach and struggled to get words out around his laughter. “Rolling around in the mud!”

Erik composed himself perfectly and said with a straight face: “Oink oink.”

The three of them dissolved into laughter again and staggered off, leaning against one another for support.

Smith lay on his stomach for a long time, before slowly sitting up. The front of his shirt was covered in a thick layer of muck. He felt tears cut through the mud that caked his cheeks, and did the best he could to clean his hands off on his pants before he wiped them away.

“Stupid.” He murmured, slapping the side of his head. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.” He looked down at himself. What a total mess. His father would see him, would see his lack of a lunch sack, and knew what had happened. Smith’s father was the toughest man he knew. He had been a soldier. And his son was getting picked on by kids half his size. He’d think Smith was a wimp.

“I’ll run away.” Smith decided, standing up, leaving the lunch sack where it lay. “No one will ever find me. And they’ll all feel bad for how mean they were to me, because I’ll be gone.”

And with that declaration he was off, running over the hill, out towards the forest.

He pictured himself as one of the Longhouse Emperors. The mud wasn’t because Ennis had pushed him into the dirt, it was his camouflage.

He ran as long as he could before he inevitably got tired, and then walked. There was an old ruin out here, Smith knew, and he could make that his palace.

Unfortunately, he had never been this north of town before, and found that, as he wandered around, he looped back towards it, running his plans of a grand adventure. The sun was setting. The noises of Skyrim’s night filled Smith’s ears and he began to grow quite frightened, his father’s reminder of that wildcat fresh in his mind. He even thought he saw two eyes, glowing in the dark.

It was also growing quite cold, and Smith reflected that maybe it would be worth it to risk his father’s possible anger and disappointment if it meant a bath and a warm bed.

Creeping back into town, he was surprised to find it a light, the townsfolk patrolling with torches, calling out his name.

“Smith! Smith Young!”

“Smith!”

“Smiithhh!”

Looking closer, even Bjorn, Ennis, and Erik were among them. Smith’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Now not only his father would know of what a wimp he was, but the entire village. And he’d stand there, as the three boys were mocking grins, and be trounced about, reprimanded for running off.

Swallowing his pride, he began to walk back into town, when he noticed something.

Two glowing eyes. Not in his imagination this time. A top farmer Lemkil’s house lay a large figure, prone, focused on him.

Smith screamed.

The torches wavered in the night as they came bolting towards him, his father first among them.

“Boy!” His father boomed, swinging into crouch before him, capturing the boy in his arms. “What were you thinking?”

Smith didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on those of the creature’s. Old Smith stood slowly and turned.

Soundlessly, the glowing eyes moved as the cat languidly dropped from the roof of the farmhouse, to the ground

Lit now by the torches, it was revealed to be a bright orange color. Its body was long, covered in a thick coat of fur, but they could see the rippling muscles beneath. Its head was massive and as it opened its mouth it revealed a long pair of fangs.

The townsfolks screamed and scattered. Old Smith shoved his son behind himself and held the torch out towards the cat. In the torchlight, its eyes shimmered like twin emeralds.

Slowly, it walked towards them and, slowly, the Smiths worked their way backwards. Old Smith kept a firm grasp on his son’s shoulder. Smith held the torch high, trying to make himself look as big as possible, but kept it between the cat and himself.

“Easy now boy. Don’t look away. Stare right into its eyes.”

The cat began to emit an angry, low rumbling noise.

“Father.” Smith whispered, urgently.

“Easy.” Old Smith urged. Smith dared a looked back. Rorik’s manor was behind them. If they could get inside, they would be safe.

He turned back to the cat and the beast was closer than it’d been. He jumped in surprise, lost his footing, and fell. Heart pounding, he scrambled in the mud, trying to get to his feet.

“Boy!”

The cat lunged at Smith Young, body extended as it’s every muscle uncoiled and Old Smith was knocked aside with a shout.

Smith screamed and threw his arms out, and it was like the Sabre Cat had been struck with a steel beam. It flew backwards ten feet and crashed into the side of the road. A cloud of dust rose up around it.

Old Smith, sitting up, was too shocked to move.

Young looked down at his hand, more confused by what had happened than anything.

But the Sabre Cat wasn’t finished. It had recovered in a moment and now came loping full speed at Smith. Panic returned and he tried to run away, but slipped in the mud again. The cat leapt on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Its maw opened and, as Smith squirmed, kicking his feet, he booted the cat directly in the chest.

It shot straight up, flew ten feet, and hit the ground on its head. The animal climbed back onto its feet, took one last look at Smith, before hightailing away at full speed.

Smith lay in the dirt, and remained there until his father came over.

“Up, boy.” Old Smith ordered, yanking Smith Young back onto his feet, and dusting him off.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“What was that?”

Old Smith said nothing. He took Smith’s shoulder and led him back to the house.