The Seven Fights of The Aldudagga

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Author (out of game):

Librarian Note:

These texts are in various states of completion, and were posted on the official forums during various dates.

Editor’s note: The following excerpts come from their lengthier versions in The Aldudaggavelashadingas, or “The Songs of Dragon and Dagon”; they are shortened here, as is the title of their parent volume. The songs herein are attributed to Bretonordic skalds of unknown number.

The Seven Fights of The Aldudagga: Fight Four, “The Tenpenny Winter…Again”
Librarian Note:

An unfinished fragment of the fourth fight, posted on the 2nd of January, 2012. The image at the end was originally hyperlinked to the + but we’ve embedded it for easier viewing.

These were the days of Rebec the Red, she-captain of the longboat Nail-Knock, whose Reaver-Husbands were [long loved] by High King Ysgrim [Shorebreaker] and all the Sons and Daughters of Kyne…[and so great was their renown] that grim-bearded Shor himself shouted his lamplight back into some of their hearth-fallen after the Sack of Sarthaal from [his Ten Tusk Chair (?)] in faraway Svongarde.

And these Returned were as ash, [and impaired] against the Winds at times, [so they were] specially armored to vouchsafe their old forms, wearing hang-wigs for beards built by the [War Wives of Clan (unspecified)] for theirs had blown away in the gust of the Tenpenny Winter wrought by the Fool of New Kreath, his Cleverness cut into throat-ribbons for his trespass into climate magic [and whose] neck-remains became a meat-string game for all the children of Rebec the Red…[text lost]…and still yet for the eight Returned, they lived their [Again Chance(?)] as best they could, and made manly unmention of their ash-make, and instead were properly grateful…[for] in those days, [in that kalpa], the skies of the Rim were plagued by dragons, and so many of their countrymen had suffered Burning but [they] were not by their individual glory similarly Returned.

Three god-guisers came to the ice-lined shoreline of Rebec’s holdings, to see these ashen stalwarts of the Nords, all dress-fleshed in Greybeard aspect. The first of them was tall and long of limb, whose [flanks] could not fully hide the scale-bright hide of his true celestial station. He was the Aka-Tusk, a somewhat foreign spirit (yeah, right) from the Totem Wars, and known mainly in the tongue of Men as the enemy-brother of Shor, and he said, “Look on them, my friends, and how the North has gone insane with the beating and beating of the Doom Drum, whose father they fool-talk call their All-Maker.”

The second was full-bound in furs, [his bulk] so great that he looked more like the shaggy centipedes the Orc Tribes herd than a true Greybeard…[he needed so many furs] because he refused to surrender his second set of war arms even in this preset parley (plus he was just plain cold) and [nor did he undo his horns, despite] the [text lost] advice of his companions…but the legendry fatness and odd-wrought shape of Merry Eyesore the Elk, the Greybeard Deer (what, you thought animals couldn’t join the Men of the Throat?), was his hope for excuse should he be seen by the shield-thanes or warriors of the icy shore holds of Rebec the Red. And the Dagon said, “Who gives a ****? I’m FREEZING out here, and see no lesson to be learned that really I care about at all. Aka, while my exile in the utter dark is no fun either, pray send me back to [the oblivion] if all you’ve done is bring us here to lament [the Silver (?) Convent]. Yet again.”

And the third, who looked akin to a Karstaag-man, [gigantic], and adorned in storm cloud and endless, endless yellowtooth… [he] was Alduin the World-Eater, and he only said, “Ho ha ho.”

“You will eat nothing here, aspect Ald,” said the Aka-Tusk, sensing trouble. “Do not forget that it was Heaven itself that shed you from me.”

“Who cares,” the World-Eater said, “You speak of the Prolix Laws, which do not bind me if you strain our kinship. You awoke me. That bell-sound has consequence. And the Dagon here, well, he’s going to tell me right now where he’s hidden all the additions to the World he has hoarded in the long aeons of salmon-leap which he calls his own survival.”

“I am no salmon!” Dagon said. “I’m just smarter than either of you. If that grants me an association with the ineffable ocean, I’ll take any weirding I can, and in red. The ocean, in the end, will avail us no answers we can acceptably parse. Bring it, big man.”

Now [what] hasn’t been said up until now is that a very bored Nord was listening to all of this, Korl-jkorl the Pity Husband of Rebec, whose clan was destroyed at Sarthaal and, unbrave, he was not one of the Returned but [rather] one of the Running instead. (A tally has always been kept of Those That Ran from the Sack, mind you. Sometimes our memories won’t let things go, even if thinking on the same thing too much risks a frozen thought-set. Anyhow.)

Most of those that are Pitied accept their station. These are those Nords who, for various sanctioned reasons (Orc rape, unforeseen winter-taking, ashamed-but-acquiescent affiliation with the Borgas Clan when Wufharth Roared most of them straight past the Underworld into [Hell])…these are wed to their new Wives or Husbands in the special traditions of Mara, the Handmaiden of Kyne, whose pity is endless and especial.

Korl-jkorl had been spared because of [it doesn’t matter], but he had never been comfortable with his taking of the saving-ring from Rebec the Red (though he probably should have been), and so often wandered mooncalf-fashion to the extents of her holdings, thinking his [hope-to-finally-thaw (?) thoughts]. This day, though, and his arbitrariness interrupted, Korl-jkorl watched the three Powers [of the Around Us] bicker, lament, and tummy-rumble their various agendas and he found himself most upset. This was god-talk, and we Nords have always felt nuisance with that. We blame having to live in the here and now for the most part for the most for that.

So Korl-jkorl revealed himself, saying, “Get off this hilltop, all three of you; [your intrusions] have only ever caused upset and you full well know it. What authority do you have to observe the lands of Rebec the Red with such potent intent that has yet to be decided among any of you?” And then, like most Nords when they are ready to settle matters, he brandished a weapon, that Nordic gesture which really translates to “I don’t really care your answer to my question.”

Alduin said, “Oh ho, good. A fight. Finally.”

The Aka-Tusk straightened, surprised that their guises had been so easily [seen through], and purposely sighed enough to let [dragonfire] out to perhaps frighten the mortal standing before them. But, as has been said, dragons were at flight in the skies in these days, and this type of fear, if even halfheartedly divinely-wrought, didn’t work on Korl-jkorl. “Wait,” Aka said, and those around him felt his hold on Time. “We came merely to look upon your allies in ash, fallen in a place you regard in glory and that the Drummer has seen fit to–”

“No, we didn’t,” the Dagon said, shifting in his furs. “Who knows why we came, except at your summons. And if this Northman wants to fight, I agree with Old Ald here: good.” And the Lord of Tumult and Foul Tempers then shed his guise, and held weapons and High King heads in each of his fists.

“Come then, little Nord, let me beat you dead into the snow with the brainpans of your ancient forebears.”


I’ll finish this one, I pinky swear. Oh right, the +.

The Seven Fights of The Aldudagga: Fight One, “The Eating-Birth of Dagon”

This text was originally posted on the official Bethesda forums on November 19th, 2005.

These were the days of Hoag the Greater, born in a boot…[Long after] the two bells [of the All-Maker’s Goat] rang out their clamouring, calling the end of days again in Sarthaal and the world, and Alduin’s shadow was cast like carpetflame on east, west, south, and north…[he was] epoch eater. For as far as any man’s eyes, only High Hrothgaar remained above the churning coils of dragon stop.

And Alduin said, “Ho ha ho.”

But, look! Seven more mountains remained through Mereth like Hrothgaar and the Leaper Devil King (a kindly leaper demon, to be sure, but their king) jumped across the nilphony swirl. He came to Alduin (who always eats Nords first) and said, “Wait, wait, wait! Wait! It is not time to destroy the world yet!”

To which Alduin roared and laughed and said, “King of Leapers, you always bounce up to me around this time (for you are one of the only spirits that can last til my last bite) and shout, ‘Wait!’, but I never do and I will not now. Leap up to Hrothgaar’s top and wait awhile longer in little dignity. The two bells have went ‘Gong! Gong!’ and that means the kalpa has turned.”

The Leaper Demon King knew all this was true but still he said, “Wait, first and last of spirits, the kalpa-turning is brought too soon and I can prove it! Look over there on top of Red Mountain. See the Greedy Man waving his arms?”

Alduin swallowed more of Mereth (this was the destruction of Njorvela and Teed County) and looked over. Indeed the Greedy Man was waving his arms as if to tell the time-eating dragon to stop. Alduin snorted gruffly (a few farms shot out of his nose but he caught them with his tongue and pulled them back into his mouth, for he eats it all) and said, “And the Greedy Man always waves his arms about around this time as if to stop me just like you. It is almost as if you two work together to delay me. Is that what this is? Is some other low spirit hiding portions of the world while you two do this thing? Is this why the kalpa-feast always takes a little longer than it did the previous time?”

And then Alduin looked hard into the eyes of both the Greedy Man (far away) and the Leaper Demon King (close up), one of them for each eye of his own, and he knew it was so. These two spirits gulped big, and were caught.

“Oh crap,” the Greedy Man said, “He knows my bargain with the king of leapers, I’d better hide under my mountain!” but he thought and said all this too fast and, without thinking, hid under his mountain even though its base had already been eaten and so it wasn’t all still there. (This is how the Greedy Man became trapped both in and outside of kalpas.)

“Oh crap,” said the Leaper Demon King, “You have found us out, World-Eater! Yes, just after the two bells of the All-Maker’s Goat sound the Greedy Man and I and our servants hoard bits and bobs of the world so you can’t eat it all. And when the world comes back we sort of just stick these portions back on and so that’s why it is all bigger and bigger for you to eat each time. But it wasn’t my idea! The Greedy Man hates you so much and it was his idea to finally trap you one kalpa when it was all much too big and so you would explode out from your belly and die so that the world would never have to die again!”

Alduin (whose stomach was hurting because it was a little too stretched, which had never happened before, and now he knew why) grew furiously angry and boomed out, “You stupid little f*cker, do you even know what would HAPPEN if that happened, my dying and being unable to eat and the kalpa left to run forever? Why do I even ask, you who are a little low spirit whose only real power is jumping around? It is the Greedy Man I should really be mad at!”

And the Leaper Demon King saw a possible way out of this mess for himself but he nodded too eagerly, saying “Yes, yes, yes! Yes!” and the dragon knew that any mercy he might give to this little demon would not result in any true learning. So he cursed the king of the leapers, calling him Dagon, saying:

“The Greedy Man has already f*cked himself up good, hiding inside something that didn’t exist anymore, but you: you I curse right here and right now! I take away your ability to jump and jump and jump and doom you to [the void] where you will not be able to leave except for auspicious days long between one and another and even so only through hard, hard work. And it will be this way, my little corner cutter, until you have destroyed all that in the world which you have stolen from earlier kalpas, which is to say probably never at all!”

Dagon (no longer a Leaper Demon King) screamed, “Please no! We have stolen from you so much and crammed it all back on in the craziest of places that it will take forever for me to regain my jumping kind of happiness! Especially if I can only come back to this world through auspicious days long between one and another that also require rituals! I beg you not to do this, O Aka! I beg you one hundred thousand and eight times!”

Dagon did as he said, begging Alduin Time-Eater to reverse his decision one hundred thousand and eight times, and halfway through this number Dagon shut his eyes tight to really mean it and then three-quarters through this number he began to shout his beggings to really, really, really mean it, but when he was done begging Alduin was not near the mountaintop he stood on.

In fact, after many looks east, west, south, and north, and seeing only the churning dragon stop around him, Dagon realied that at some point when he was begging with his eyes closed that Alduin had eaten him, mountaintop and all, and he had not heard the big chomp because he had been begging too loud. And he knew that the last world had been eaten entirely, except for its stolen portions, and that when the new kalpa began to form The Greedy Man (who never stayed trapped for long) would begin sticking these stolen portions back on in the craziest of places, and that he himself could never jump again until all was put back right.

He also knew that the name of “Dagon” would no longer be that of a kindly leaper demon but one who would destroy and destroy and destroy whenever he could find some small escape [from his home in the oblivion]….

The Seven Fights of The Aldudagga: Fight Six, “The 911th Cow”

These [were the days] of Anna Kuhlsdotter, who once led her cloud-sisters into victorious war against the Skald of Broken Books….

And of the Giants we speak little, even less to strangers, for their history is hidden in long loud power-shouts. At home, it is a pain in the ass to tell their stories and then clean all the things knocked down in the telling… and in a foreign hearth it is [just plain rude]. So we speak of them (for we must– who does not honor their parents?) under the rim of the sky or, here, written on sheafs of pelt, for such is the mettle of their threat. This is [a song (or dirge, manuscript unclear)], then, of the threat of Giants and, like most, it involves painted cows.

[First, though] let us put two Powers in place, the Dragon and the Dagon, for this is also and foremost a Fight of Theirs Story [so such is proper]… [text lost]… the only one to have occurred on the Demon King’s birthday. (No, that inglorious day-month will not be revealed here for it is dangerous and, yes, once, a very long time ago– ONCE– we were all tricked into celebrating it in a very big sissy-fuss where we were made to wear special hats.)

Dagon [it can be surmised] found some indefatigable lady-man wizard from the west to love him from [topside(?)] and thus-by work very, very hard in his witch-craft… [the demon lord] making warlock promises and whispering rewards of the unspeakable and mighty… appearing through shade or familiar in guises too small for the Dragon to notice that he was not in his entirety in [the oblivion] where he had been banished beforetimes… and perhaps happy (because birthdays ARE happy) and infectious with it enough to engender great industry, yet profane still in aspect to retain his stature among the eyes of the wicked from whence his followers always come (when they do not come from fools instead).

[And the warlock-in-love]… [text lost]… made a mad dance of it all as in the manner of the magic arts of the west [and] summoned his infernal master on this very auspicious day through crazed and love-wrought wizardry [that went beyond the mandate] of right summonings… whereupon the Dagon popped out of a blueberry pie.

“I didn’t think that would work AT ALL!” he said, that old Lord of Misrule, and he began to praise the baker’s craft in such great cackle and length that [the warlock he had taken as paramour] became jealous in the way of wolf-headed women (you know the ones).

“Pssh,” Dagon said, “I, the Lord of Razors and Red-drink, King of Terrible Intent, Mehrunes the Prince of Four Dooms and One Paradise, I Who Commandeth 88 Legions Daedric… I just came out of a PIE, you swooning harpy! That is totally bat-*** insane!”

Whereafter he bit out the neck of the spurned warlock and played in the blood.

(This is why all bakeries in our village make “Shake the Dagon Out” part of their flour-whistling.)

Now the Dragon’s role here is more subtle, and existed really only in the fear of a little farm girl in the highlands of Newkreath. For who does not fear Alduin the World Eater, and especially children, who always think they are the last to come for they are the newest to be? (And children, BEING special, perhaps are right and maybe it is only through their fears that [this kalpa] still survives, so we will not question it.)

Anyhow, her name was Aless (her father was fond of the South, and Ald Cyrod, and knew the stories of their famous and ancient Queen), and she had such a fear that any day now the Dragon would awake to eat up everything she ever knew that she became determined to do all she could [to protect it]. Naturally, she began to paint many, many cows.

Here is why: the Giants came from Old Atmora, up there across the Northern Ice back in the gone-to-twilight-now age of myth… and settled here in the Skyrim, and all along the mountain ranges of our coasts. (Yes, they are our true ancestors– do not believe your aunt from the university– and, yes, we were once as big as them– as tall as THIS– but that is another story)… [text lost]… and after [the Great Calamity] happened [the clan-things (peoples? tribes? Text seems to indicate mankind as a whole, though that is debateable)]… we were of a kind disrupted… and we Nords fell into fighting and drove our Giant-kin up unto the mountaintops [and we were a wicked-folk for many years]… [until all] things had changed forever. Once the Moot resumed [(unspecified) years later] things got back to a new semblance of normalcy and borders were redrawn and agreed with in beer-talk, and raidings of the merethlands took everyone’s mind off old feuds, and pretty soon (well, not pretty soon but whatever) the Giants began to come down from the mountains again. And they were a bit different than we Nords remembered, or perhaps we had forgotten much, but they would not speak to us anymore– they would only smile in their lazy way, stomp over, and take our stuff.

If we fought them, they roared louder than the Tongues of High Hrothgar, and brave steads would be blasted whole into so much paste, [chickens and all (?)]… [and] eventually we learned that if we left stuff out for the Giants, and painted this stuff brightly and with swirls (they love swirls) and stuck big signs up pointing to it all, they would simply take THAT stuff and not anything else and no fighting would be have to be done (not that what I have described was really fighting– no one fights the Giants is the point). And that explains the Painting The Cows tradition, for as lazily-smiled as they are, so much that they seem that they wouldn’t hurt a soul (ha!), the Giants eat meat and lots of it. Aless (remember her still?) thought to herself, “I am so, so afraid the Dragon will awake and eat the world– ANY DAY NOW– that I will paint every cow I see so as to summon all the Giants I can to beat up old Scaly Face, and beat him up really, really hard– hard enough to knock him out and back to sleep!” (Aless had heard, as you have now, that “no one fights the Giants” and took it a little bit too much to heart.)

She began with her stead’s herd, some four-dozens strong [with] two bulls (the old one broken off in a separate cattle-gate to stomp out his last days in complaint– and Aless made her father swear not to kill this old bull for she loved him in the way children love the things others see as useless or spent) …and yet by the seventh cow Aless had run out of paint. “I shouldn’t have done so many swirls,” she said, sighing. And that is when he appeared, the Dagon, drawn up in the stolen Nordskin of a Clever Man, come from the west by side-stepping [through the real].

“No,” he said through his impressive bead-knit beard, “You did well. If I were a giant, these would be mighty fine looking cows to take. But why paint so many? [One a season per stead] is the norm.”

Aless frowned up at Dagon-turned-Clever, and with no suspicion, for she was a child and they are taught to respect our [magic-men]. “Because I hate the Dragon,” she admitted, immediately fearing admonishment. (It is not very wise to talk ill of Alduin at any time, especially in the presence of the Very, Very Wise.) She corrected herself: “Well, more like I hate the fear of him. I’m sorry for saying the thing before.”

“Hmm,” Dagon said, “Your fear is well-founded. The Time Eater comes soon.”

“WHAT I SO KNEW IT” Aless said, grabbing her paint buckets and brushes [in a scramble], intent on going back to her hearth to get her play-dolls and kid-shields to sell them for more supplies. “I gotta go, mister, I need to summon the Giants REAL FAST and A BUNCH.”

“Child,” Dagon laughed, “You will never paint so many as that, given your little power. But, aye, your plan is a good one. Many Giants, really fast. Yes. That’s smart. Now come with me. Kyne–” and at this name of the Sacred, the demon almost choked, “–she lends me the winds and I can walk us from one to another. And Tsun–” and at this Name Dagon finally did choke, coughing harshly but hiding it as age, “–he grants my craft-wit with provisions from the aether. You will have all the paint you need, and be swift enough to swirl every cow from here to Windhelm.”

“That is SO cool!” Aless said, jumping. But by speaking of so many Gods [and the Heavenly Halls in which they live], Dagon had brought a horrible scratch to his throat. He coughed again, and at length, finally doubling over. Aless frowned again, this time with what looked like pity, and put her hand on his back. “You okay, mister? I believe you about all your magic, but maybe you should just rest. I can sell my play-dolls and get paint and just, like, run fast–”

“I’m fine, dear,” Dagon said, waving her off, too harshly, and then [realizing he was frightful] found a composure, “And I am sorry myself for scaring you just then. It is only because I can feel the Age turning, and so am sick with the impending death of the World.”

“Um,” Aless said. “You’re still being scary.”

“Then paint the rest of these and let us move. You are brave, and worthy, but cannot run so fast as we need. We have cows to swirl and Giants to bring down from the mountains. Through their might only can we make the Dragon retreat back into slumber and thereby save all that we know.” And soon then did the Dagon and the girl step into a wind [and disappear].

[Now] it can be guessed that Dagon was a lying sack of ****– the Dragon wasn’t coming at all and would be asleep til…[text lost]…which is far from now. But the Lord of Razors has ever hated the North, for it was here that he was born (after a fashion), and it was here he was cursed, and so on this, his birthday, he had determined that he would destroy all of the Skyrim and all the Nords in it. He indeed needed his little cow-painter to draw down the Giants (or maybe it only amused him to use one of our own, we cannot say), and so he [played her fear] for a fouler purpose: he knew that so many Giants come down from the mountains would cause the High King to think it war, and muster. And any war with the Old Fathers would undo us.

Now Dagon-as-Clever did as he said, wind’ng Aless from stead to stead, watching over her as she painted the cows at each, summoning [snow-fogs to hide her quickened labors], from Newkreath to Gant and the Uttering Hills of Jarlmung County, filling her buckets [in fast conjurations] and even blessing each cow in Kyne’s name alongside her, coughing each time. By the 400th cow, his beard was hack-stuck [with sickness]. By the 650th cow, he would speak no more names wrought by the Gods. And it was by the 700th cow that the Dagon noticed that Aless was painting the swirls [in a different fashion], to which she explained, “Each county has a different Lookit Me Stamp,” and frowning at him she asked, “But you know that, right?”

“Oh, right, right, indeed,” he said, “Blame my ailment and our hasty mission. It has left me with a perplextion of the brain. Stamp away!” to which Aless smiled, “No problem, I’m getting tired, too. There, seven hundred and fifty-two! How many do you think we’ll need?”

“At least nine hundred and ten,” Dagon said, “That is a lucky number.” (This is true.) And then they vanished [into the wind] again, coming out into Windhelm, fortress-lands of the High King. “We’d better hurry here,” Dagon advised.


“Why what?”

“Why hurry here? You mean more than seven hundred and fifty-two cows in five hours hurry?”

“Um,” Dagon said, feigning more sickness, “Because these are the king’s cows and we have not the Special Royal Cow Painting Permits, nor the time to explain [the turning of the Age]. The Dragon is coming too soon for parley such as that.”

And just as she started swirling these new cows (under cover of snow-curtains and in the shadow of the Thaneswall) Aless asked, “But why doesn’t the High King know this already? Doesn’t he have Clevermen advisors and Witching Wives to tell him? And the Queen, doesn’t she have that six-pair of Scrying Eyestalks of Old Man Mora?”

“Who knows the way of kings and queens, little farm girl,” Dagon countered, beginning to lose his temper and seeing now this always-questioning Aless as a turkey-leg in his stomach. But no, he thought, I can wait. [I can wait.]

Aless shrugged, painting the cows in what Dagon assumed was [the manner] of Windhelm now, and saying only, “I guess you’re right, mister. But I’m named after a queen, a really pretty one, the books say.” And [at this] Aless spoke of South Cyrod and its tales of mereth-kill by Men and heroes sent by the Gods, and Dagon’s head began to swim with it, wind to wind and herd to herd in the Windhelmlands with the girl always talking and talking, for the demon hated the [lands of the Aleshut-tribes] nearly as much as our own but for different reasons, and just as he was about to let loose his rage (for that was his Base Nature), Aless spoke up, giggling with victory, “Nine hundred and ten with paint to spare!”

At which point, Dagon thought the deed to be done, and he began to grow fangs behind his beard.

“Holy crap!” Aless said, looking at her paint-covered dress. “We totally forgot the signs!”


“In all of this crazy fast painting, mister, we forgot to stick up the Look Over Here signs! The Giants won’t know to come! We really screwed this up!”

Dagon slid his fangs back in, for what she spoke was [true]. He sighed, “Yes. The signs. Totally forgot them. Crap.”

“Tell you what,” Aless said, “Take me back home. We can grab the signs I’ve made there and you can Tsun-them-up and make more and zip everywhere we’ve been to everywhere ELSE we’ve been putting them all up. And meanwhile I’ll paint ONE MORE COW to make it nine hundred and ELEVEN. That’s gotta be luckier than lucky, right?”

Dagon-as-Clever now frowned, for he wanted war soon, and said, “I suppose so. Really, what’s one more cow going to hurt?” And [they stepped back] through the wind to Aless’ own stead, whereupon she ran to the sign-sheds and retrieved as many as she could carry, dumping them nearly on Dagon’s foot. Oh by the sixteen hells I’m going to eat this dumb girl, he thought, with WASABI! But he picked up the Look Over Heres and multiplied them unto a bigger bundle, shouldering them all.

“Night is falling fast, mister, you better hurry!”

And Dagon faded into the winds, dizzy with his plannings and smirkings and thinkings, stamping sign after sign at each herd of cows from Newkreath to Windhelm and all the places between, wishing himself another warlock-bite for all this trouble, finally growing out his four arms to make the goings-on faster, wind-step to sign-post, dreaming of [a tide] of Giants come down from the peaks of Skyrim to blast the Northmen away for all time, and time it was he lost track of, until he finally arrived back at the stead of Aless the Dragon Hater.

“Hi,” she said, seeing Dagon’s true form, “You totally forgot we painted every cow here at the beginning of all of this, you big dummy. So I painted this old bull instead.”

And it was true, Aless had taken from its cattle-gate the bull she had begged her father not to kill and to which her father had agreed, and instead of swirls, she had painted [wings on it]. Before the Dagon’s eyes this bull [transformed itself as in the manner of god-guiser magic] into Mor, the Bull of the South, Son-of-Kyne, and demiprince of All Winds.

Mor snorted through the hoop of his nose-ring and greeted the [King of Razors]. “Hello, Dagon. The prayers of children very seldom go unnoticed.”

Aless said, “That means me.”

Mor continued: “You are trespassing outside your mandated day of summoning, Lord Daedroth. Heaven is not happy of it.”

Aless smiled and lifted up one finger, “One, you’re NEVER supposed to badmouth Alduin in front of a Clever Man. And YOU didn’t berate me.” She lifted up a second. “Two, you can’t even speak the names of the Gods without choking, and every Clever Man has wind enough in his throat to revere them without censure, involuntary or not.” Three fingers, now four; five, and six with a second hand. “Then of course the swirls, which we Nords paint the same no matter whichever clan we belong to, because the Giants speak only ONE language and it’s in our best interest to talk straight with them. I could mention several others, but you’ve guessed them all: the spell you suffered at the mention of my ancient namesake, whose story I peppered with sayings that are supposed to be repeated by any that are near as in the hymnal halls, and the Eyestalks of Say What Huh? that don’t even EXIST which you just nodded your fake Clever head to, and–”

“I think, little namesake,” Mor bellowed, “That he gets the point.”

Dagon was fuming now, snow melting around his new-wrought hooves, stretching up and out into demon-skin, red like terror, ebon-armed and frothing. Aless stood her ground. Mor stamped twice, an [approval and a threat].

“You would have made my beloved proud with your courage,” the Bull said to Aless, and to Dagon: “Stand down, Demon King, and go down. You will not win this day, even though it is crowned with the power of your first coming.”


“Yeah, sure,” Aless giggled, “And how does that work out for you? Every single fight you have with the Dragon ends up with you losing, King Chump. And it will always be like that. Here, there, then, now, or in the future: the Dragon wins over you, as he wins over us all. I’m not afraid of that anymore. More importantly, I’m not afraid of YOU.”

Dagon stepped forward, crackling now [with flame and old woe]. Mor bent his horns to the ready. Aless stayed where she was.

“I wouldn’t do that, mister” she said. “Those swirls that I started painting as soon as we went a-wind’ng? They weren’t Giant-Come-Shiny Swirls but hearth-warnings… that YOU were here. In the language of each clan, on all the cows they’re looking at RIGHT NOW since you put all those signs up. That you’re here– right here, right where I asked you to return. I think pretty soon you’ll start to hear the horns. And even you can’t take on all the Sons and Daughters of Kyne, you *******.”

And that’s when they did hear [the horns of all clans], and the closest was as like a stormsong of thundernachs, for Mor was near, and he [was the issue of the Greater Sky]. And Dagon knew that where the horn soundings landed, the Tongues of High Hrothgar could step, and, when together, the greybeards could breathe unto being the ghost of Shor, which lay all Powers low [even in half-death].

“A curse on the house of Alessia,” Dagon muttered before summoning himself a Gate to [the oblivion], for he knew his works were all undone, “And eight more on the Men of the Dragon. There will be an hour when–”

Aless leaned against her bull.

“Hey, Coughy,” she said, “Shut up and go already. It’s way past my bedtime.”

And he did, missing the arrival of the hosts of Hrothgar and Newkreath, and the runners of nearby [Hjaalmarch], and, of course, the thanes of Aless’ own stead, which included her father, all of which saw the farm girl in her messy dress leaning against the [Bull of Heaven], glorified in story and song since the days of our first dawn, and all afit for battle and confused [that it would not be met] and more still overcome with the blessings of the Skyrim by the Gods we hold aloft.

To which Aless could only answer: “It’s a really long story, guys.”

The Seven Fights of The Aldudagga: Fight Three, “The Snow Whale and the Dirtbird”

This text was posted on the official forums in October 2006.

These were the days of Reddotter, who surpassed her father in shield-biting…

[And it came to pass that] a strange thing happened: Alduin the World-Eater, who sleeps between the [kalpas], had a disturbing dream, and he roused slightly, but not enough to bring ruin, and, heavy-lidded, he went back to the [age-wait]. But he yawned just slightly beforeso, which he had never done. And thus was born the Dirt Patch Which Does Not Gather Snow.

Now this place cannot be found on any map of Skyrim, and not because we Nords are shoddy in our cartography (we crossed the Cape of Tears, after all, and marked the passages, which even the Devils in the east use still)…for you see, it is a thing that should not be, a small world-destruction that is more hiccup than intent, and so the Dirt Patch moves about, which caused all manner of trouble (and everyone knows that story) until Fjork Beard-to-Toes of Throat Mountain used a [voice spell] to contain its jumping around mainly to the west.

(Which still sometimes causes trouble for the farmers of the Reachmen, ha ha ha.)

Anyway, after many years, and like all things, some animal life decided that they liked to live best of all in a particular place at the expense of all other places, and some chose the Dirt Patch, and these were birds. (Who can tell why birds do anything?) We do not know where they came from, but came they did, and always, always they managed to find the Dirt Patch and make their homes in it, burrowing down deep in its soft earth, where they made their nests…. (This is not normal bird behavior, I know, but who can tell why birds do anything?) [Only] to get up and out and fly again when the Dirt Patch vanished to go find it once more. (This is why when you see a dirtbird flying north you turn south.)

Now one day one of the Dumbest Things Ever happened: the Dirt Patch ended up in the sky! Right over a mountain range! (No one can remember exactly where, but it happened.) And the dirtbirds made for it anyway, and began to dig their nests down into the hovering earth, only to fall out with consternation before flying up and around the Dirt Patch [to try again]. Pretty soon they found that they just could not build their nests (and one would think that something that makes no sense, like a big stretch of dirt in the sky, would even be recognized as nonsensical by animals that really make no sense, like birds, but there you have it) and they began a’chirping away all as one in a terrible and irritating lament.

So of course they attracted the snow whales.

Snow whales have been in Skyrim since [the return of Man], living at the tops of the highest mountains, singing in magic tones, jumping from peak to cloud and back again, spreading their joy-snow in horn-like triumph from blowholes. We used to hunt them, our best climbers braving the rocks and ice-sheets, carrying rope and hooked spears. They had much meat, these whales, and blubber, and fluids that made paint and rosewater for our women. The earliest hunters had no luck; spouts of joy-snow [from the whales above] would drift down from the clouds and turn the men goofy. They would laugh like happy babes, some getting so tickled that they’d roll back down the mountainside in big flumphs—which only begat more guffaws– or begin to pat each other on the back or hug in the masculine style to reaffirm their affections and camaraderie; in essence, the joy-snow got in their heads and they just forgot what they were doing. Eventually, Huggert the Wrinkled Unto Unreadable, one of our Clever Men, made sure that the hunters remembered to occasionally hit one another out of the blue, or make lewd jokes of their respective wives or mothers or sons that had not yet shown promise, and steal and hide the shoes of their fellows, and to line the rims of their shields with wasabi so that, when they bit them, that they might ignore all happiness in fits of burning nose and choked throat. All of these measures availed them not, for the potency of the joy of the snow whales remained [unhindered by any attempt at anger], and its powder would inevitably reduce our hunters again to snickering children, who, when they saw themselves so war-laden in this state, made them chortle and jest all the more.

Lesson learned. We left the snow whales alone.

The dirtbirds, though, in their present bothersome sorrow, all trilling and chak chak chak, brought a herd of snow whales up and out of the mountain peaks, looking to see what the fuss was about. They were as surprised as anyone to find a plain of earth suspended in the sky, and soil–breasted birds flitting amok in hysterical despair all around it.

“Holy crap,” one said, “I have never seen something this dumb.” And thus the snow whales crooned to each another in their way, and some, driven to pity, spat great gales of joy at the dirtbirds to remove their dirge. But just as the Dirt Patch had been misenchanted to gather no snow, so were the fowl that had inherited it similarly immune. The feathered raucous went unabated.

One of the snow whales, a young bull that had only recently grown his mottles, jumped from summit to cloud and back again, twirling so that both of his eyes might see this unholy mess of things. And he snorted, and he remarked, “What we see here, my kin, is no doubt the insalubrious work of the Dagon.”

Now one of the dirtbirds, a young maiden, heard this declaration and took pause from her horrible wailing and flew to the great eye of the bull and said, “What now is this about the Lord of Tumult and Foul Tempers, who is known far and wide as the mucker-upper of all things in this world, and whose treachery runs even unto the sons and daughters of the Tava?” (Tava is a heathen god. Of birds, no less.) But the bull whale splashed into the ice-covered precipice of the nearest mountain, ignoring her. However, since ice is harder than snow, the wide fan of his tail stuck out for a second longer than normal, and, unanswered, the dirtbird dived down and grabbed it with her beak. And this is how she followed the snow whale into [the oblivion].

The Clever Men say the realms of [the oblivion] are many, though some [limit] this number to sixteen. And there is not one that can count the endless avenues that run from one realm to another, for they change, and often, for they are as capricious in their natures as the demons that run through or rule them. Nevertheless, there is a strand to Coldharbour, which is the province of Molag Bal, and most icy beasts have touched or traveled it once, if only in nightmare, and it is perhaps by this and the will of the Gods that the snow whale navigated himself through the void that lay beyond the real world, the dirtbird behind him clamping her beak down hard and her shutting her eyes tight to the visions of evil around her.

[Thus it was that] the young bull made his way to the frozen court of the King of Rape, crushing up through the very fountain of Bal’s courtyard, shattering the lewd ice sculptures that crowned it in the coldest of lusts. And before the soldiers could [muster a defense against] the snow whale, a brassy sound regaled through the court and covered it all in a fog of joy, which set them all to laughing, and it was hideous to hear. And by this sound did Molag Bal deign to rise from his throne and enter the courtyard, to confront the audacity of the bull of the northern clouds. “And just what the **** do you want?” he asked.

The bull eyed the Prince, and gave a bow as the older cows taught him, and started to say, “Mighty Lion of Evening, Vulgar and Low, Keeper of Coldharbour since the fall of Lyg, Destroyer of the Hearts of Men, I have come to–” but he was interrupted by the chirping and relentless admonishment of his stowaway, who had left his tail and flown directly into the Prince’s face. The dirtbird maiden’s angry diatribe is [too heinous and nasty] to even repeat here, but more or less she said, “”ne of your **** kin evidently **** our **** Dirt Patch, which is the only **** place where my people can build their **** nests and since it’s floating in the **** sky that’s **** impossible now, see, and so we cannot lay our **** eggs this season because of such an unnatural **** calamity and so we’ve been forced to wail and **** wail, you ****!”

To which the snow whale assented was the truth, adding only, “Which is, of course, annoying as hell to the rest of us up there.”

The King of Rape took pause. It had been eons since anyone had spoken to him this way, and it had never, ever been a bird of all things. Bal thought for a second, and finally frowned, shrugging. “Well, first of all, what the **** is a Dirt Patch?”

And by turns the snow whale and the dirtbird told the story, and its details, and in his magnificence did Molag Bal know that this was indeed the dream-work of Mehrunes Dagon, his brother of razors, the only Prince who dared trouble the sleep of the dragon-eater, Alduin. But while loyalty between the rulers of [the oblivion] is tenuous, Bal saw no profit in upsetting the ways of his brother, and told his visitors so, adding a threat of terrible censure on them if they did not turn back immediately and without further insult. The dirtbird remained unsatisfied and (remember that birds make no sense) began to peck furiously at the Prince’s head, rebuking him and all his kind and the mischief they wrought.

Perhaps the snow whale misinterpreted this foolishness for bravery, or perhaps he admired that the dirtbird had come unbidden into the realms of the damned, or maybe it was an admixture of the two with a smidgen of the fondness that all flying things share for one another, but the bull knew that, at this point, he loved the foul-mouthed, unclean, imprudent dirtbird with all of his considerable heart. Before the King of Rape could swat her dead, he trumpeted the courtyard again with joy powder, hoping to send Molag Bal into a handicap of bliss so that they both might escape.

“Ho ho ho,” Molag Bal roared, smiling, though none of it with joy. His aspect became so fierce that even the dirtbird maiden stopped pecking at his head, and she flew behind the bulk of the snow whale in sudden fright. The Prince of Coldharbour spoke: “You silly little snow whale, do you not know that there can be no joy for me? That long ago I gave up such things to the betterment of my rage? And while I recognize love between creatures that are unalike, I have built a bulwark against its joy and–”

“Wait wait wait,” the dirtbird interrupted. “What’s all this about love between creatures unalike?” And if a snow whale could blush, [that is surely what] the bull did now. Even Molag Bal was taken aback, for he was sure in his heart that any maiden that would follow a man into hell did so only by token of love. For her part, the dirtbird left her hiding place and flew back into the demon prince’s face.

“Huh?” he said, blinking. “You two aren’t an item?”

“I’m a DIRTBIRD, genius,” she answered, “And he’s a **** SNOW WHALE, get it? This isn’t above love, it’s about not being able to lay eggs in a floating stretch of earth, and it’s about your brother being a complete **** who needs to make things right. Or else.”

To which the King of Rape merely raised an opulent eyebrow.

The snow whale cleared his throat [in earnest]. “Or else…” he started, unsure of himself. “… or else I will gather all of my kin,” and at this he found his courage, “All of them, down to the last newborn cow, from all the mountaintops of Skyrim, and the clouds above it, and from every opening of snow there is in that land, and we will leave it. Forever.”

Which was a confusing thing to Molag Bal, a Prince of Misrule, whose hatred was as bellows in his belly, and who had long since kept his delight of any form of joy under lock and key. And even the dirtbird turned from him to look on the bull, and she, too, simply did not get it.

Bal spoke, “And what would that matter to me?”

Now the soldiers of the Prince of Coldharbour had shaken off their fits of laughter, and took up their pikes again, and remembered their stations and their vileness, and they surrounded the fountain that the bull used as his threshold. And the snow whale’s blowhole was empty, leaving him defenseless to their approach, and maybe one could read this in his eyes, for Molag Bal began to smile wickedly, and the dirtbird gulped with fear.

“It matters to you,” the bull said, “Mighty Lion of Evening, Vulgar and Low, Keeper of Coldharbour since the fall of Lyg, Destroyer of the Hearts of Men… it matters to you because my kin bring joy to the upper world, who have not yet given up such a thing for the betterment of their rage, and who welcome love and happiness and good cheer… as much as they fear the coming of ruin, or the color of betrayal, or the visitations of demons. These last are the tools of [the oblivion], and your lifeblood, and it is only through joy that the devices of your dubious employ are the more sweeter to you, yet which are nothing if visited upon those who know nothing but despair in the first place. It matters to you, Lord Bal, for how can you destroy the hearts of men when those hearts are already empty?”

And, with that, the snow whale sank back into the fountain from whence he came, but he left the wide fin of his tail up out of it for a second longer than normal. And the dirtbird took it within her beak.

When they returned to Skyrim, bursting out of the zenith snow, the snow whale and the dirtbird were met with only silence. Their kin were gone, both kinds, and with them, the noise of crooning and the cacophony of bird-lament. But the maiden felt the tug of the Dirt Patch in her senses, and she sensed that it was southward, and low, and she knew that things had been more or less put back right. She let go of the bull’s tail and flew up to his eye. “It has worked,” she said, “Bal has talked sense into his brother, the Dagon. I can feel it in my breast.”

“I suppose so,” the bull said, “And I can hear my herd jumping this way through mountaintop and blue.” And perhaps when she knew that the snow whale would soon be gone, having rejoined his kin, and perhaps because he had shown her a courage that was unalike as hers but as powerful, or maybe it was an admixture of the two with a smidgen of the fondness that all flying things share for one another, but the dirbird knew that, at this point, she loved the noble, unwieldy, ridiculous snow whale with all of her tiny heart.

“Where I live the snow cannot gather,” she said in the lowest of voices. To which the bull nodded, and said, “And there is, of course, the difference in size.” And, at that they smiled, and flew away from one another, and were welcomed back by their kin in songs of praise.

(And this is why when you see a dirtbird heading north that you stop… and look up at the sky before turning south. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can see him, the bull of the northern clouds, looking for her, the maiden beloved of Tava, a heathen god that we begrudgingly admit is all right from time to time.)

The Seven Fights of The Aldudagga: Fight Two, “How Herkel the Fool Became a Clever Man”

This text was originally posted on the official forums on November 20th, 2005.

These were the days of Ysgrim… [whose] breath was weighted with power sounds….

…[after] many nights, the destruction of Sarthaal finally saw fit to stop in its burning and the snows were happier. [Ysgrim] shook his head, saying to his thanes and war-wives, “And once it is buried again, who will remember its halls and mighty sights, like the fountain of voices or the tusk-house where Jarl the Tongue shot from his mother’s womb yelling profanities that only adults should know? Who would stop the snows?” (For no one can stop the snows.)

And so his Host moved east and north and east again, a long traveling, and passing Hrol’Dan (the first one) there was an idea that came to Herkel the Shield-Fed. “Lord, I have thought of an idea that might keep our memory of Sarthaal and its mighty sights alive, and not only in song. Would it suit your purpose, though we can never rebuild it, that if a Nord could say a small prayer then the gods would reveal the city in its former glory?”

Now Herkel [had] never been a Clever Man, so Ysgrim looked at him cockeyed. What Herkel was saying was magic talk but sometimes ideas grow where there has never been soil before. (This is a gift of Kyne called [inspiration].)

Finally, Ysgrim said, “You may speak, Herkel, and we shall listen.”

And now all the shield-thanes and war-wives were looking at Herkel, for all of them would indeed like to see lost Sarthaal again and its mighty sights, if only by an illusion brought by prayer. So Herkel began:

“Well, Sarthaal was destroyed all right, the elves made sure of that!” (Here everyone present made the customary curses.) “And even though I threw up ancient shields from my gut like hurling discs that killed their first rank and Eriksdotter here danced the icicle-curtain dance and killed their second rank and Broga here mountain-farted and killed their third and fourth ranks (that was funny) and Vjevaka here rolled auspicious numbers on rune bones and killed their fifth rank and Haljor here… [at this point Herkel recites a deed for each of the “six hundred and some odd” Nordic warriors that were assembled]… and you, my king, even though you killed by yourself the five-thousandth rank with Olendrung, even after all of these things, the elves still kept coming! And, yes, we lost in the end and that losing cost of our dearest of cities and this is how come we are freezing our asses off on this long traveling….”

Now at this point, Herkel the Shield-Fed had talked so long that he needed to stop. It was a [great thing] that he had talked so long at all in all the cold, but his belly was on fire [from even just reciting all their deeds], and so he was able to almost complete his thought. But look! The other Nords had frozen to death while he was talking. (This is why it is now polite to interrupt whenever you are cold.)

“Oh crap!” Herkel said, “I have talked so long I have killed all of my fighting friends and even my king! [They were] bound by oaths to hear me out and now the destruction of Sarthaal is truly complete! Oh, I am a fool to think myself a Clever Man full of magic talk! See what talking too much does?”

But sure enough Dagon (who had heard his name) showed up and that old Lord of Misrule laughed and said, “What a grand, grand f**k up you are, Herkel Shield-Fed! See now, you have done what whole endless legions of elves could not, and by that I mean to destroy utterly the Host of Hoary King Ysgrim!”

And Herkel began to weep and supplicated himself before Lord Dagon, saying, “O Ruler of the Firestorm and the Howling Winds, O Gigantic Prince of All Things Harmful, O Dagon the Wicked One Who…hey, wait a minute! How are you even here? This is not one of your summoning days!”

And Dagon laughed again, saying, “No sh*t, Herkel, but all that bloodletting and fire at Sarthaal was enough for me [to pierce the veil of the oblivion]! All that whispering into elvish ears sure did the trick!”

Herkel Shield-Fed now looked at Dagon cockeyed and said, “Wait, it was you who sent that horde of elves who, though pierced to their five-thousandth rank, would not be stopped?” to which Dagon responded, “Of course! Though it was easy, as they hated you anyway, but yes, yes, it was I who stoked the fire in grim dreams and mirrors, which has only now saw fit to stop burning! Oh well, now I’m off to enjoy my stay! Who knows how long I have before Alduin notices that I’ve escaped his trap again?”

But while Dagon had been saying all this, Herkel had broken [the hammer] Olendrung off of frozen Ysgrim’s belt. And filled with renewed anger he struck the Lord of Misrule upside the head. Dagon fell over into the snow with a great flumph, unconscious. And Herkel was about to bash the devil’s brains out when he thought: “Wait a minute! Killing the kings of [the void] never really lasts forever and I’m not sure if even Olendrung could do more than knock him out! Oh, Dagon will be so mad when he wakes up and destroy even more now! I must find a way to get out of this mess! What can I, a fool as can be determined by recent events, do now to put two and two together?”

Herkel then had an idea and began to drag the frozen bodies of his king and his fighting friends back to the ruins of Sarthaal west and south and west again. He had to carry them in twos for they were stiff as ice and would not bend for easy lifting, so everytime he came back for another pair of them Herkel hefted Olendrung and smacked Dagon back to sleep. Finally, after all of these labors (three hundred and some trips back to Sarthaal), Herkel dragged Dagon to the edge of the ruins. Dagon was still out like a light, so Herkel had time to complete his plan.

He prayed to Alduin the dragon of time, who was the greatest enemy of men, for he ate the world everytime he woke up. But Herkel knew that Dagon was a greater enemy to the dragon, so he put that in his prayer, saying, “Mighty time-eater, I am Herkel the Fool, and I am truly a fool. But I fought bravely at the fall of Sarthaal which lay now at my feet, as does the one responsible for its destruction. I do not ask you to wake up, Alduin, for that would ruin more than Dagon will (and that’s a lot now that I keep hitting his head)! And I do not ask you to bring my fighting friends and king back to life, for that is the province of your brother and even I’m not foolish enough to ask all that! And I do not ask you to turn back time, for that is against the laws of all the gods! But I do ask you for a little help, even though….” (And here he kept praying.)

And Dagon woke up with a hideous headache to look down on Sarthaal and look! It was not destroyed at all! There were its mighty sights, its halls, its fountain of voices, and the tusk-house of Jarl the Tongue! And arrayed before it was the Host of Hoary Ysgrim all lined up for war!

“Oh crap!” Dagon said, shaking his hurt, hurt head, “I have come too early, for the destruction of Sarthaal has not occured, for I see the army of King Ysgrim waiting for the elves that I am sending. What could I be thinking, to come before the veils are pierced? Even the laws of trickery would not help me if I did that!”

So Dagon vanished back to his prison [in the void]. And, with him, so did the glamour of old Sarthaal vanish, for it had been brought only by a prayer of Herkel the Fool, who stood among the frozen warriors lined up as if for battle. His plan had worked, though it did little to comfort him, and he said goodbye to his fighting friends and his king and as the snow came in to bury Sarthaal forever, Herkel climbed the steps of High Hrothgaar, where he became at last a Clever Man.

(And this is why sometimes if you pray hard enough, you can still see Sarthaal outside of only memory and in its fullest glory.)

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