Chapter 118: The Elder Skrall IV: Oblivion Remastered

Chapter 118: The Elder Skrall IV: Oblivion Remastered

Four days after leaving Karl’s dungeon-market, the brothers rolled their wagon across the rolling grasslands. The oxen plodded steady, dragging behind them crates of supplies. Ahead stretched peaceful plains, dotted with low huts and tilled fields. Smoke rose from cooking fires, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth. The orcs here were bent to the earth, farming beans and barley, their children running barefoot in the dirt. It was a simple sight, and one that made Simon’s chest ache with hope, while Schalezusk’s fists clenched with a fierce longing he rarely showed.

Three orcs working a field noticed them first. Their hands tightened on sickles and hoes, their eyes narrowing as they moved to bar the path.

"You shouldn’t be here," the tallest one growled. "Take your wagon and go. Outsiders aren’t welcome."

Simon raised his hands, palms open. "We came with food and tools. Medicine too. We want no trouble. Only to share."

One of the farmers snorted. "Share? That’s what the Bloodtusk say before they steal everything not nailed down. Take your gifts and your smiles and leave them where you came from."

Schalezusk’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward, forcing warmth into his tone. "We’re not Bloodtusk. We’re here to stand against them. If you don’t believe us, then let me prove it. A friendly spar, nothing more."

The farmers scoffed. One spat in the dirt. "And there it is. Violence, the first answer on your tongue. You’re no different from those fortress lunatics. We’ve buried enough kin because of Bloodtusk ’sparring.’"

The raised voices carried across the fields. More orcs drifted from the huts, some holding children close, others clutching tools as weapons. Suspicion sharpened their faces.

Simon’s voice cracked as he tried again. "We’re not strangers to you. Our father—" He swallowed. "Our father was the Old Bull. Chief before Minur stole his seat. We are his sons."

The crowd murmured. The name did not land as Simon hoped.

An older farmer sneered. "The Old Bull? Who is that to us? Another butcher with a banner. Another corpse we’re better without."

Another barked, "You claim bloodlines? So what? Every Bloodtusk bastard claims a dead chief to make themselves sound noble. We don’t care whose son you are."

A woman with a child on her hip called from the crowd, her voice sharp. "And what do you bring us? Grain? Tools? Is this the price of our loyalty? Blood bought with flour and iron?"

Simon shook his head quickly. "No, not a price. A gift. From us, to you."

That only made the murmurs louder.

"Gifts from strangers?" one scoffed. "A hook always hides in the bait."

"They’ll smile today, and tomorrow their fortress comes with chains."

"Better we starve than kneel."

But others shifted uneasily. A young farmer muttered, "Our harvest is thin. The river runs low. The children eat less each week."

An older voice snapped back, "And you’d feed them Bloodtusk grain? You’d let our pride rot just to fill their bellies?"

"You speak of pride," another argued, "but pride doesn’t keep the cold off. Pride doesn’t feed children. Supplies are supplies, no matter the hand that gives them."

The argument grew louder, two sides pulling against each other, until the field buzzed with suspicion, hunger, and anger. Some shouted that they should drive Simon and Schalezusk out before the wagon cursed them all. Others whispered that maybe, just maybe, the gifts could buy them another season of peace.

Simon stepped forward, voice raised over the noise. "We are not here to curse you. We are not here to chain you. We are here because we want to stand against Bloodtusk with you."

But the voices drowned him.

"Liar."

"Bloodtusk filth."

"Get out before we make you."

Schalezusk’s fists clenched, his tusks grinding as he snarled, "Say that again—"

"Enough."

The crowd parted as Elder Skrall approached, his frame bent with age, his tusks worn but his gaze still keen. He planted his staff firmly in the soil.

"Back to your homes," Skrall said. "There will be no fight here."

The crowd grumbled but obeyed Skrall’s command. One by one they turned back toward the huts, though their eyes lingered on the brothers with open suspicion. The three farmers remained, arms folded, their stares sharp as blades.

Skrall let the silence settle before stepping closer. His staff tapped against the dirt as he approached Simon and Schalezusk. "It has been many years," Skrall said quietly. His voice was old, but not weak. His gaze softened as it settled on them. "Too many."

Simon’s expression broke into something caught between relief and sorrow. "Elder... you were my our attendee. You watched over us when we were boys."

The old orc’s mouth tugged into a faint smile. "Aye. I carried you on my shoulders when your legs grew tired, Simon. And I taught you, Schalezusk, how to hold a spear before your tusks had even grown in. You’ve both grown taller than I ever thought possible."

Schalezusk’s face, so hard moments before, cracked. His fists loosened at his sides. "I thought... I thought you were gone with the rest. That Minur and his henchmen has—"

"Not me, I survived with Captain Skhorne and others. We found this place. Initially we live in peace. But the beastkin began hunting us." Skrall said. "Many others. Too many. The beastkin saw no difference between fortress raiders and peaceful farmers. They came down on us all the same. I watched kin cut down for no crime but being orc."

Simon swallowed hard. His eyes searched the fields where villagers were disappearing into huts, closing their doors. "And they think we are the same. They look at us and see raiders. Bloodtusk monsters."

"They do not know you," Skrall said gently. "They only know the pain left behind. When you speak of your father, they hear nothing but the echo of war. They never met the Old Bull. To them, he is another dead chieftain from another bloody banner. You cannot expect them to trust on a name they never carried."

Simon bowed his head. His voice was tight. "But we carry it. We are his sons."

Skrall’s gaze lingered on him, then on Schalezusk. "I know. I remember. But these people are not ready to remember with you."

Schalezusk bared his tusks in frustration. "So we are just cast out? With food, with medicine, with gifts they spit on? They’d rather starve than take help from us?"

The old orc sighed. "Some would. Pride is all they believe they have left. Others would take your gifts in secret, but never speak it aloud. And if they did, the rest would turn on them. You see the division yourself."

Simon clenched the edge of the wagon. "We don’t want to make their lives harder. We came here to bring them back. To fight with us against Minur, against the fortress."

Skrall shook his head. "Not here. Not now. These ones have clawed out a fragile peace. The beastkin allow them to farm so long as they stay in the plains and don’t cross into the forests. If the Alliance learns they mingle with Bloodtusk kin, they will be driven out and hunted again. They cannot risk it."

Simon’s voice cracked. "So they see us as a death sentence."

The elder placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but kind. "Not as you are. In time... maybe. But if you force yourself upon them, you will only bring ruin. That is why I say to you: seek the Redhorns to the east. They are harder folk, less timid. They may listen. Here, you will only break your hearts."

Simon lowered his head. "I understand. If this is what they need to live, we won’t press them."

Schalezusk let out a long breath, tusks grinding. His voice came out rough. "It isn’t fair. They call us kin when they bury us, but strangers when we bring them hope."

Skrall looked at him steadily. "It isn’t fair. But fairness is a dream in times like these. All they know is survival. If it were mine to decide, I would welcome you. But their trust is not mine to give."

Simon and Schalezusk climbed back onto the wagon. The oxen shifted, snorting in the smoke-stained dusk.

As they turned the cart away, Simon looked back once more at Skrall. "Thank you, old friend. For still being here."

The elder gave a slow nod. "Walk carefully. The world may not forgive you for what you are — but I will remember who you were."

The wagon creaked as it rolled across the grass. The huts of the village shrank behind them, their small fires blinking like distant stars. For a while neither brother spoke, the silence heavy with the sting of rejection.

At last, Schalezusk slammed his fist against the side of the cart. "Cowards. That’s what they are. We bring food, medicine, steel — and they spit in our faces. They’d rather choke on dirt than admit they need us."

Simon kept his hands steady on the reins. "They don’t see us as brothers. They see us as Bloodtusk. To them, we are danger in new clothes."

"And we’re supposed to just accept that?" Schalezusk snapped. His tusks bared in frustration. "We are sons of the Old Bull. They should honor that name. Instead they laugh at it. They laugh at him."

Simon’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. "They never knew him, Schale. You can’t expect them to feel what we feel. To them he’s just another warlord in a long line of warlords. Why should they believe us different?"

"Because we are different!" Schalezusk snapped. "We bleed for more than pride. We fight for more than scraps. But they’re too blind, too bitter to see it."

Simon looked at him then, his younger eyes sharp with something steadier than anger. "If you want them to follow you one day, you can’t just tell them you’re different. You have to show them. You have to earn their trust. Respect isn’t given because you demand it. It’s given because you prove you deserve it."

The older brother stared at him, his breath heavy in the night. At last he spat over the side of the cart. "Fine. You play diplomat. I’ll play the fool and let them sneer at me. But don’t think for a second they’ll change their minds. Orcs don’t forgive. Orcs don’t forget."

Simon gave a small smile, though it was tired. "Then we’ll give them a reason to remember differently."

Instead of turning the wagon back west, Simon steered it toward a patch of trees at the edge of the plains. They set a small fire, no brighter than a candle, and made camp beneath the branches. From there they could see the huts of their kin across the fields, the glow of cookfires, the shadows of orcs moving within.

Schalezusk sat with his back against a tree, muttering, "We look like fools. Sitting out here, waiting for scraps of trust that will never come."

Simon lay down beside the embers, eyes fixed on the village lights. "Maybe. But sometimes fools are the only ones who change the world."

The night deepened, the wind whispering through the plains. The brothers waited in silence, camped like strangers on the edge of their own blood, hoping against hope that one day the village would call for them.

Back in the fields, the three farmers who had first barred the road lingered. Their eyes stayed fixed on the glow of the small campfire flickering at the tree line. When the last of the other villagers had gone, they turned to Skrall, who leaned on his staff nearby.

The tallest of them spoke first. "Elder, you sent them away too gently. You should have driven them off before they spread their poison here."

Skrall’s gaze was steady. "I gave them no welcome, only truth. They are gone."

The second farmer shook his head. "Gone? Look there. They sit in the trees like wolves, watching. Waiting. Bloodtusk blood always waits for weakness."

"They are not Bloodtusk," Skrall said, though his voice was low.

The third farmer spat into the dirt. "They say they are not, but what proof do we have? They bring weapons, grain, coin — easy gifts. Too easy. And for what? To bind us in chains of debt? To fatten us for war again?"

Other villagers, hearing the raised voices, drifted back. Soon a circle formed, whispers turning into arguments.

A woman clutching a half-empty basket muttered, "Easy gifts or not, grain is grain. Our harvest is thin. The river is low. My children went to bed hungry last night."

Her words brought silence, then more voices rising.

"You’d feed them Bloodtusk grain?" someone snapped. "You’d shame your kin by taking handouts from strangers?"

"What pride do we have if our children starve?" another shouted back.

"Better to starve with honor than live as their pets!"

"Honor doesn’t fill bellies."

"And what of tomorrow? If they stay, the Alliance will see us as traitors. Do you want beastkin blades at our throats again?"

The circle grew louder, divided in half: those who feared pride and peace lost, and those who feared hunger more.

Skrall’s staff struck the ground with a sharp crack. His voice cut through the noise. "Enough. We are not deciding this tonight. You all know what hangs over us — peace with the Alliance, thin as it is. If we break it, we are hunted again. If we take the brothers in, it is no longer our choice alone. It becomes war."

The crowd grumbled, unwilling but silenced. Some walked back toward the huts shaking their heads. Others lingered, staring at the faint glow of the brothers’ fire in the distance.

At last, the tallest farmer spoke again, his voice grim. "Mark my words, Elder. Those two will bring nothing but ruin. And when they do, no wagon of grain will save us."

Skrall looked once more toward the tree line, where the two brothers sat waiting like banished ghosts. His sigh carried the weight of years.

"If they bring ruin," he murmured, "then it is because we left them nothing else to bring."