The Coming of the Scaleflayer

Having been approached by young adventurers interested in tales of my homeland, I would relate one of the ancient tales of my tribe, so that the citizens of Moorgate would better understand the events that shaped the Evermarsh and it’s denizens.

Long before the eldest of the crocodiles living broke his shell, before the Thssk river carved out the Yellow Reed Basin, and before the Great Betrayal that put the spears of the Black Eyes against the spears of the Red Tail, the World was a wondrous place of peace and bounty.

The First Hatched had guarded the swamps for Kali of the Celestial Scales since the dawn of Creation. While some, The Faithless, had fled their duty to explore the hills and plains of the Outside, our ancestors had stayed true and had been blessed with hot blood for their vigilance.

Kali had also ensured other gifts to the Brotherhood of the Verdant Scales. The lakes and rivers overflowed with giant lungfish and gar, so much so that every Saurian gorged till he could do nothing but sleep every day. The rains came often and the dry season was always mild and short. Even the least of the tribes numbered in the tens of tens of tens, and spear never pierced Saurian scales or let Saurian blood. The tribe of the Black Eyes lived on the banks of the great river Thssk even then, enjoying the blessings that the Goddess Kali had bestowed on us, the first and most favored of her children.

What transgression did we make to anger the Goddess of Magic? Pride? Some unknown trespass or theft against Her? None of the wisest elders could divine this, though surely we must have sinned against Her, for we could not imagine the horror that would sweep through our World, the land of the Eternal Swamps, could have been anything other than divine retribution.

They came swarming down from the hills claimed by the Goddess Valtera, like the mosquitoes during First Rain. Tens upon tens without count of the most depraved savages, creatures we refuse to acknowledge as being Saurian, though truly they did resemble us closely. They were the descendants of the Faithless, and they roared the name of Valtera as they swarmed into the Eternal Marsh. As black-hearted and cruel as each of these invaders were, their evil paled in comparison to their giant leader. Scales as pale as the belly of the summer clouds, eyes the color of blood. His strength was that of a dozen accomplished hunters. His powerful sorcery the equal to his skill with his strange metal blade. He led his troops into battle with his scales dyed crimson in the blood of his captives. Afterwards he would skin the defeated tribe's warchief and wear the fallen's scales as if they were his own. All of this marked the terror whose true name is lost to history, the horror that is known only as the Scaleflayer.

The tribes of the World were shattered by the hill savages. The well-fed hunters of the tribes, brave and strong as they were, were no match for the unbridled fury of the hill warriors. The Scaleflayer set up his domain in the deepest part of the Eternal Swamps, building strange stone structures and ruling his tribe from this seat of power. Where once lived five prosperous and plentiful tribes there was only the invaders, and their Dens of Stone.

The battles fought during the hundred seasons of the Scaleflayer’s reign would not be familiar to the likes of those who live outside The World, in the dry, dusty lands of the Outside. If the Scaleflayer knew of the Outsider way of war, he would likely rule the entire Swamp Eternal even to this day. Instead, it was the war as the old way. Warbands running silently through the brush, spears of obsidian held low, to surprise a party of fishers. Swimming without noise into a sleeping village, to steal or shatter their eggs and kill as many as possible before the break of dawn. Always avoiding the enemies’ claws, and striking his underbelly.

The names of tens of tribes fell during this time. The Broken Claws, the Long Jaws, and the Willow Tails, blood kin to the Thisspak, were wiped out by the minions of the Scaleflayer during the Age of Sorrow. Always at the front of the roaring horde would be the Scaleflayer, scales stained red with the blood of his slain captives, his giant blade of metal raised high.

But all was not lost for the besieged tribes of the Everlasting Swamps. Thunder Voice of the Willow Tails, was sheltering with the Black Eyes when news of his tribe’s end reached him. The old trader’s eyes flashed, and he seemed to grow twice his size in his fury. Thunder Voice swore a great oath, by the Prime Egg of his dead tribe, he would be the one to seal the fate of the Scaleflayer.

Thunder Voice was no sun-addled hatchling, however. He knew he was old, dulled in tooth and claw. He could not possibly defeat the leader of the hill tribe in any contest of combat. Thus the wily trader plotted the end of the Scaleflayer with every shred of wit and cunning he possessed. And soon the last of the Willow Tail had his plan.

The trader filled his boats with the goods he came to the Black Eyes to trade for, and set off down river to the site of the nearest Willow Tails village. He was captured outside of the destroyed village by the scouts of the Scaleflayer, and taken before the Scaleflayer himself for interrogation.

What tortures he borne from the twisted Scaleflayer we will never know, nor would we want to. But through it all he maintained that he was returning from trade with the last of the Broken Claw villages, where the remaining tribefolk were preparing to flee to the Outside. Eventually, Thunder Voice was taken by the Great Crocodile to the judgment of Leoni, but he went before the Queen of the Dead with his oath fufilled.

The Scaleflayer was enraged at the possibility that his foes he thought defeated were escaping the fate he had set for them, calling together ten and five tens of his bodyguard, Scaleflayer took up his great blade of metal and raced to catch the Broken Claws before they could depart the Everlasting Marshes.

What was in the Scaleflayer’s mind as he burst into the long deserted island village of the Broken Claws, a village unused for a dozen seasons, we do not know, but can certainly suspect. He rallied his followers with a great roar, knowing what was to come as two tens of tens of the greatest warriors of the tribes of the Black Eyes, Stone Teeth, and High Ridges burst from concealment, rising out of the reed-infested water with obsidian spears thirsting for hill blood to rinse the river water from them.

The hill tribe warriors never faltered, shouting their hatred of the marshdwellers and readiness for combat as they charged at their advancing foes, axes and clubs at the ready. Neither side gave ground, neither gave voice to anything but their tribal warcry and the curses upon their slayer’s lineage as they fell fatally wounded. The Scaleflayer himself strode about, slaying warrior after warrior, a Black Eyes hunter with a blow of his blade, a High Ridges warleader with a snap of his jaws and a rending of his mighty claws. Even Tree Speaker, shaman of the Stone Teeth, found the Scaleflayer’s magic as formidable as his strength as the shaman was consumed by a fire as bright as the sun. None could seem to stop him, and it seemed to all that the Scaleflayer may slay every warrior that took the field against him, even if all his hill warriors were slain.

Seeing the chance to destroy their hated foe slipping away, five of the marshdwellers moved to battle the terrible chieftain. Five Herons, of the High Ridges, said to have slain a giant warrior from the Mountains of Cloud with his bared teeth and claws. Spear Dreamer, of the Black Eyes, the War Chief of the Thisspak, renowned for his skill with weapons. Angry Rivers, of the Stone Teeth, which legend states was the strongest creature to ever walk the Swamps Eternal, barring only the Scaleflayer. Adding their powers to those of the warriors was the sorcerer of the High Ridges, Lightning Father, the wizard Wind Drinker of the Black Eyes. The champions of the tribes met on the island’s edge, the marshdwellers standing between the Scaleflayer and his watery escape.

The Scaleflayer mocked the assembled warriors and spellcasters, telling them that their tribes would join the Broken Claws after he had torn their heads from their bodies and dined on their hearts and livers. Great Five Herons replied that such a feat would be difficult to achieve from the halls of Queen Leoni, where Scaleflayer was certainly bound. With that last taunt hurled, the combatants hurled themselves into battle.

If I had a thousand tongues and a thousand years, I could not describe that struggle that ensued. The blows that connected and the blows parried. The magics unleashed and the magics dispelled. The blood spilt and the wounds inflicted. It is said that the battle was so fierce that it shook loose the water from the heavens and caused it to rain for three days. In the end the Scaleflayer fell, having lost an arm to the powerful grip of Angry Rivers, his eyes to Five Herons, gored by the spear of Spear Dreamer, and hit with inumerable spells by Lightning Father and Wind Drinker. Joining him in death was the Sorcerer Lightning Father, whom the Scaleflayer destroyed in the last strike of his mighty blade. All of the remaining victors bore terrible wounds, but had succeeded in their aim. The remaining hill warriors of Scaleflayer groaned with the death of their leader, and fought their way to his fallen form, dying to the last around his body.

The body of the Scaleflayer was torn into seven pieces and taken to the far corners of the Eternal Marsh and disposed of, that he could never find his way back to plague them again. The fate of his great blade of metal is unknown. Some claim it was thrown in the deepest region of the swamps, others that it was claimed by one of the victors or lost after the battle. The marshdwelling tribes, badly depleted and only a tenth their former number, retreated to their territories. Only now are some of the tribes regaining the population they once had before the Age of Sorrow. The tribe of the Scaleflayer, it’s true name lost to time’s passing like the name of it’s leader, split into small bands commanded by their leaders and war chiefs. The descendants of the hill warriors still roam the interior of the Evermarsh, raiding this tribe and that, preying on travelers and searching for weapons of metal. They still carry the tattoos or scars marking them with the sign of the Scaleflayer. It is said they have a prophesy that one day the Scaleflayer will return, and lead his followers once again, this time into a thousand and one years of conquest.

Thus is the tale of the Age of Sorrows and the Coming of the Scaleflayer, as told by the Tribal Elders of the Black Eyes. May the currents which guide you through life grant you good fortune and long seasons.