Burnt Sierra was kind enough to remind us that Chorrol is fast approaching 20 years old. In order to celebrate, he urged our writers to prepare and offer stories with a New Life Celebration theme.

Though this entry is more Saturalia than New Life, we figured that was close enough. For those not familiar with Buffy’s adventures in the Second Era, Mirri Elendis is Buffy’s Dunmeri sellshield, and Buffy serves as healer and damage dealer for Mirri. The pair of adventuresses literally depend on each other to stay alive. I think this single episode Saturalia story helps showcase the resultant friendship.

*

The Gift Exchange

As the Bosmer presented a bottle for Mirri’s inspection, I smiled.

Mirri’s eyes flew open wide. “Is that . . . Blue Aedral?!?”

“Yes, milady,” replied the tavern maid.

Mirri said, “Blue Aedral is produced in such tiny batches, I never expected a pub in Malabal Tor - so far from the West Weald - would carry a wine so posh and exotic.”

“And you’d be right,” the Bosmer lass stated. “Your friend here provided this bottle.” With that she proceeded to uncork the wine, fill two goblets and left us.

I lifted my goblet. “Happy Saturalia, my friend!”

Mirri returned my sentiment with, “And a profitable New Life for our adventuring partnership in the coming year.”

The wine was indeed excellent – as most West Weald reds were. Mirri, however, absolutely moaned in ecstasy as she sipped it. Finally, she commented, “Blue Aedral is considered by many to be the finest wine in all of Tamriel. Who’d you have to sleep with to get your hands on a bottle?”

I chuckled. “No one. . . but I did have to fight for it.”

“My pocket healer fighting without her sellshield? Now there’s a story I want to hear!”

“I wanted to get you a really nice wine for Saturalia,” I began, “and my research took me to Skingrad. The wine merchant there was quite informative and recommended Blue Aedral – but had none in stock. Instead, she sent me to the source – Dellinoi Winery.” I paused for another sip, and to privately lament that Tamika would not start her winery for another 700 years.

The tavern maid returned with some fresh bread and cheese.

The smell apparently summoned my nixad familiar, Willow, from the mage pouch at my hip. She investigated the wine but rejected it in favor of a small piece of cheese. “Once Superian and I got to the winery,” I continued, “we learned that this year’s entire batch of Blue Aedral was only four cases. Such a small supply rendered it incredibly valuable, so the winery’s owner, Orissa Dellinoi, was personally accompanying the caravan transporting it to Skingrad. I had to prove to the winery that my intentions were honorable before they would even discuss the secret route taken. My aura of Holy Light as a paladin did the trick though and, armed with the knowledge of their pathing, I set off after the caravan.”

“It would seem you found the secretive procession and managed to somehow coax them out of a bottle,” remarked Mirri after savoring another sip. “But where did the fighting come in?”

“Well,” I continued, “I located the caravan, but they had been hijacked by bandits who somehow knew both their route and precise nature – including the value - of their cargo. Orissa’s dog and I tracked the bandits into a nearby cave – that’s where the fighting came in. I found some correspondence on the bandit leader’s corpse. Seems it was an inside job, with the beans – or grapes in this case – spilled by Orissa’s own caravan master! The bandits were actually led by a former vintner who had gone out of business several years ago. Quite the sordid affair but, with the bandits dead, wine recovered and the turncoat securely bound in the back of the winery’s wagon, Orissa figured the Skingrad magistrate’s job would be easy. She offered me the now vacant position of Dellinoi Winery caravan master but I managed to talk her into this bottle of Blue Aedral instead.”

“Well-done, partner!” exclaimed Mirri. “What a thoughtful gift, and righteously obtained.”

I smiled. “Orissa’s dog was bigger than I, and quite helpful at protecting me from the bandits as I healed him and damaged them. That said though, he was nowhere near the sellshield that you are.”

“Good to hear I shall not be replaced by a dog,” joked Mirri. She lifted the flap on her thief’s pouch and, as she fished around inside, added, “Oh, I got you something too.” She then produced two combs and handed them to me.

As soon as they touched my hand, I knew they were enchanted. Holding them up to my nose and taking a sniff to confirm another suspicion, I said, “Sandalwood! It makes for absolutely the best combs.” Willow knew what combs were for and joined me in carefully examining them. “What is the enchantment?” I inquired.

“The one with longer teeth lengthens your hair a bit each time you pull it through,” replied Mirri. “Similarly, the one with shorter teeth decreases the length of your hair when used. I know you like to change your hairstyle frequently, so now you can readily alter its length as well. Talking Dagail into enchanting the combs was easy once I told her who they were for.”

I freed my ponytail and, as I was about to try one of the combs, Willow took exception and asserted herself as my stylist. Hovering around my head with the shorter-toothed comb in her tiny hands, she parted my hair on one side and ran the comb through it until she was satisfied.

Summoning a small looking glass revealed that I now had a bobbed style that fell no lower than the corners of my jaw – rather reminiscent of how Praxedes Rousseau, the Order of the Lamp’s palatinus, wore her hair. “Nice job, Willow. . . although tomorrow I think we might try a pair of waist length braids.”

Mirri chuckled. “I think you two will have great fun.”

“These combs certainly open possibilities,” I mused. “In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if Willow tries her hand on your hair as well. And Superian’s mane. . . and maybe her tail. Thank you for the thoughtful gift!”

What a lovely story, Acadian!

And here is my contribution, or rather Geralt's, about the dangers of driving under the influence... Well, don't look at me! He insisted!!




"Why is your hair so white, then, Geralt?" A burly Redguard leaned over the table at the inn in Morthal, staring at a tall fellow with a tell-tale scar over his face and the other customers turned to look. "Are you part-elf or did the forest spiders scare you when you were little?" The Redguard grinned with a challenge in his eyes. "You can tell us, we won't laugh!"

"And you won't, I guarantee you," Geralt replied lazily, refilling his mug with mead. "Might wet your trousers, but you won't laugh."

"Ah! Ah! He thinks he is a Nord!!" The Redguard jumped up, ready for a fight. "Come on then, put them up!" He started dancing with his fists in front of his face.

Yennefer turned to look at him, not even trying to suppress a grin.

"Why don't you oblige, darling, it is, after all, Saturalia. Tell us about your white hair," she said in that sensual tone that was more suited to asking him to take his clothes off. He shot her a glance, picturing just that, no doubt, and realising that she might turn him away later on if he didn't tell the story. He shook his head and cleared his throat, and the inn went quiet around him.

"Sit down, Sid, I am not fighting you," Geralt waved at the Redguard who sighed with disappointment, but sat down. "I am not part-elf, I don't think so, although my sister tells me I have some distant High Elf uncle... so may be I am part-elf after all, but no more than any of you here," he glared at everyone at the inn, seeing anticipation in their faces. "Well, I could simply tell you that my hair went white during the Trial of the Grasses, but that would be boring, although true... And no, forest spiders don't scare me... can't stand them, but they don't scare me... So... let's see..." He shot a glance at Yennefer, begging for a hint as to which story to tell, but she simply smiled at him and kicked his shin – get on with it. "Alright then," Geralt smirked. "Seeing how it is Saturalia and we get free ale and mead... you are all going to get pissed until you pass out, no doubt. Which is why I shall tell you a cautionary tale about the dangers of driving while under the influence!"

"What?! No!" Several people cried out in indignation and booed.

"You can boo when I am finished," Geralt glared at them. "Now, listen up."

...

It was a cold winter day just before Saturalia, as it happens, a few years ago... well, quite a few years ago, but it doesn't matter. I had a contract on a kraken... or rather, the contract giver was calling it a kraken, but in fact he just wanted a squid. Laymen can't tell a difference between a rabbit and a hare, never mind a kraken and a squid, and he kept going on and on about this kraken living in a local lake... which was my first clue because the kraken does not live in lakes. But the kraken would pay better than a squid, and so I did not argue.

The contract giver wanted its ink sacks, which was the second clue of his incredible gullibility because the kraken does not use ink... but squids do. So it was all fitting together nicely, and off I went to the lake to fish for the squid and call it a kraken.

Since I believed that it was a squid, I brought a sack full of fish and started throwing some into the water to see whether the squid was at home. The fish vanished, so I figured it was. Now, squids are surprisingly clever creatures, even though they have no skulls to keep the brain in... What..? You don't need a skull? Huh? I never knew... well, anyhow... hmm... this does explain a few things...

Don't interrupt! The mead is already confusing enough.

But I have a skull, see, and so I outsmarted the squid. I obviously used a net, with some fish entangled in it as bait, and when the squid went for it, it too got entangled, and while it was trying to free itself, I zapped it a few times, and lo and behold, I had a flaccid squid, still glowing from all the magic. So no, zapping your friend does not make him stand up... whoever told you this, wanted the girl for himself, no doubt.

Don't interrupt!

So I started pulling in the net while the squid was still out of it, and I had to hurry because it wasn't yet dead. Well, I ain't a mage, alright?! I zapped it, but I could not kill it with magic, but that has never been a problem before, no squid ever survived being cut in two. Yeah, that's where the sword comes in... wise guy...

Anyhow... everything was going well, I got the squid ashore, sliced it up and got its ink sacks and was just about to leave, when the lake started boiling and a kraken rose from it. Well, I never! Was that the kraken that the client was talking about? Did I just get the squid all for nothing? And what was the kraken doing in a lake?! Yes, I was surprised, and no, my hair was already white by then... and it would not have gone white just because I'd seen a kraken...

Well, the kraken flipped its tentacles at me and dived back into the lake. Now I had to know what was going on! Got a row boat from the fishermen, threw the squid into it and set off to the middle of the lake. If it was a real kraken, then fresh squid would be a good bait. But a kraken is even cleverer than a squid, although still has no skull, but they stalk their prey, even if it is a dead squid, so may be they aren't that clever after all – why stalk a dead squid? But never mind...

If I have to keep talking, I need more mead... or ale...

So... where was I? Oh yes, ale... err... boat in the middle of the lake... Yeah, that's it. So I dangled the tentacles of the squid in the water by way of a bait, but had it secured to the boat... as well as you can secure a dead squid... but I tried. And I waited.

It was late in the year, it was cold, and the night had fallen in the meantime, with the mist floating over the lake – that damp getting right under the collar and to all other places that should not be mentioned in polite company... which means I could full well do it here... but I won't... anyway... I had no mead, but I had rum, and I had to keep warm...

Yes, I can hold my drink!! What tattoo of a big-boobed woman..? Not again..!! Oh... well... anyhow... that is a different story entirely! Don't interrupt.

Although... you aren't too far off with them boobs... Need more ale here...

And so I sat there and sat there, cold and damp, and my rum was running low too, which was the real problem! I started wondering whether it was worth the wait and whether I should just leave and bring those ink sacks to the client and see if he'd be happy with that... and forget all about the kraken. Only I could not forget about that... a kraken should not be in a lake! And even drunk... hick... well... I wasn't drunk, strictly speaking... but under the influence... but even then, I still could not leave that mystery well alone.

Finally the kraken started making waves. That is, something started tearing at the squid, but it was secured to the boat, and so the boat started to move. I wasn't worried particularly, the lake wasn't that big, and hey, I can swim... yes, even drunk... But the thing about a kraken – a real kraken, that is – is that it cannot resist a good bite out of a boat... Bastard.

The next thing I knew I was on the bottom of the lake.

This calls for mead! Or ale... whichever...

I should have been dead. Because it was a real kraken, believe it or not... that lake had a fissure on the bottom, which I did not know, it was one of those deep cracks... lochs, they call them... aye... and it pulled me down with my boat and sat there, staring at me... boobs and all...

What..? What boobs..? Well, the boobs of the kraken, of course... Haven't you been listening?! Got any rum?

I was not dead because some witch conjured an air bubble around me. And was staring at me from the outside... a mermaid she was... hence the boobs... No, I ain't drunk!!

The kraken was her pet, like... Well, we had fun... I think... hmm... Was that when I got that tattoo with the big-boobed woman..? Nah... that was a different story... I'm sure... hmm..

Anyway. So there you have it. Don't drink and drive, even if it's a boat on a very small lake! It never ends well... or at least not like you were expecting...

Krakens and mermaids and boobs, oh my!

Quite a tale!

Given Acadian's summary I don't think I'm old enough to read this thread

Acadian forgot to mention that you've got to be drunk to make sense of it.

Cool I will add something too, not today, and it'll be for Fallout 4, hope that's okay.

Those were delightful tales for the season. I smiled at the description of the dog being larger than Buffy. It probably was! OMG I so want a pair of those combs!

Oh my, is it Boxing Day in Morthal, rather than Saturalia?

Well, at lest Geralt was not after a butt-kraken... But he did find the Boob-Kraken apparently!

Acadian, I loved the tale of Buffy's magical combs and her wine-finding adventure! I am delighted by the mental image of Orissa’s dog battling the bandits with support from Buffy. Mirri's reaction made me laugh.

Lena, a tale of squids, krakens, and boobs, oh my! I will have to read it again with an appropriate beverage! I'm afraid I lost track of some of the boobs.


Well, my cozy mystery outline reached near-novel length, so it will have to wait until next year or beyond. But here is a New Life offering that actually fits on the page.

Happy New Life, Chorrol!

The Longest Night

Dear Ma,

We miss you. I miss you. It's been hard since you passed. Not the work, we know what needs doing and none will be the first to complain. And you gave us time to say goodbye. Thank you for holding on for so long. What hurts is when the sun comes up and the days go on and we are without you.

So I'll tell you what's been happening. Pa leased another hay field and two more pastures from Orgnar Ulredsen. We didn't lose a single lamb this spring. Liese's cave-ripened blue cheese won the gold medal at the fair, and Mikken Three-Boots bought every wheel she made for the Dancing Mammoth. Mittens had the prettiest bunch of kittens I have ever seen. Harald Blue-Tooth knocked me down at the harvest festival. I got up and fought him. I wish I could say I beat him, but that would be a lie. Then his sister Tora broke his nose. I sure like Tora. We made enough hay this year to sell some. Pa let me buy some books all the way from Whiterun.

I hope you can see us from wherever you are, Ma. I hope we make you proud.

Love,

Alrek

Dear Ma,

I know you have been smiling on us these years, because we have been blessed. Liese and Mats are expecting another baby. Pa finally got Orgnar Ulredsen to sell him the land. And Tora has agreed to be my wife!

There is plenty of room in the cottage to share with Liese and her family, but Pa says the noise will do his head in. So we made improvements to the shepherd's hut up the hill. I built a proper fireplace and chimney, Tora fixed the roof, and Mats replaced the insulation. Pa sanded the floor and put up a woodshed. We'll get him moved in before the baby comes.

Ma, you would love Tora. She is strong and doesn't complain, and best of all she's funny. She can even make Pa laugh. Tora serves in the Whiterun Guard. Her unit has a five day patrol and then three days off. We're planning to go to Whiterun for a temple blessing, but until then we're hand-fasted just like you and Pa.

I wish you could know her, Ma. Or maybe you do. She said this Old Life she's writing you a letter.

Love,

Alrek

Dear Ma,

Well hand-fasting has to be enough, because before we made it to Whiterun Tora had our baby. We named him Tuls after you, Ma. But so far he looks the most like Pa. Tora will go back to patrolling as soon as he's weaned. I think Aetherius must be like having her home. Even though we haven't slept it seems since Tuls was born.

Liese and Mats bought Orgnar Ulredsen's cottage and took a lease on the rest of his land. So it's been quiet here apart from the dogs, the cats, the orphaned lambs, the shepherds' camp, and of course the baby.

Pa has been poorly. He never looked for company after you passed, even though company came looking for him. He used to walk down and take his meals with us, but now more often than not I put Tuls on my back and bring his supper up the hill. I do the cooking, Ma. You taught me well, and I'm thankful for it. Tora can split a week's worth of firewood in an afternoon, but that woman could burn water.

If you have a blessing handy for New Life, give it to Pa. We're not ready to lose him.

Love,

Alrek

Dear Pa,

I've felt your hand on my shoulder often since you passed. Every time I've had to make a choice I knew how you'd advise me. Now that I'm the one in charge, everyone wants to test me. But we didn't build this farm up to be the best in Green River just for me to complain about running it.

So I'll tell you some things that happened since you've been gone. Liese and Mats took in old Sadie, and they spoil that dog more than you did. Liese's cheese is so popular she has to buy milk from the Blue-Tooth farm. Tora's new courser has all of Green River stopping by to gawk at him. The horse came with her promotion, but she soon will be home on leave. We're expecting another baby!

Tuls looks more like you with every month that passes. That bear you carved for him is his very favorite toy.

I miss you, Pa.

Love,

Alrek

Dear Pa,

Your new granddaughter's name is Halvi, and she can howl loud enough to wake up the giants. She never learned to walk, she went straight to running. I've packed up my books since she gets into every single thing. There's a growing stack of our household goods taking refuge at your hut. Even old Daisy goes up there to get some peace. Yes, Daisy is a retired lady with a gray muzzle now. Her daughters Bets and Misty have taken over.

You told me once that you'd like to see us get the northern slope. Well, Pa, the northern slope is ours. I opened the timber stand to our workers, and now the shepherds' camp has become a little hamlet. They put their kitchen gardens all in the center to keep the animals out.

Tora is gone for weeks at a time now. There's trouble on the border with the Pale. I don't think you or Ma ever spent a night apart from us. When Tuls and Halvi cry, it's always for me.

Love,

Alrek

Dear Tora,

My wife. My heart.

The children only know that you are away, and laugh and chatter about the fun when you return.

Where did you fall? Where do you lie?

I am broken.

Alrek

Dear Tora,

They found your shield and the Jarl had someone bring it to me. Now we know you fell at the Battle of Makinen Field. I remember what you said when we put Alga in the tomb beside her husband. No cold stone for you. Give your bones to the earth and your flesh to the ravens. I guess you got your wish. When my time comes I will be as I am now. Without you beside me.

Tuls and Halvi thrive. They speak of you as if you were a legend.

Alrek

Dear Tora,

This spring Halvi took your shield down from the mantle. She did not ask permission, just that I would teach her. She is so like you, Tora. Of course I asked Resi Oaken-Arm to teach her in my stead. Or I suppose in your stead. She is learning well. Tuls practices with her, though he would rather draw or read. But he is too proud to let his sister knock him down easily.

I feel the sun again, beloved. It is you shining through these children.

My love for you is undiminished.

Alrek

Dear Tora,

Harald and his wife both died to this summer's fever. We have taken in their children. The girls already know how to spin, so they are a great help to Halvi. She added Newton Browns to our flock. I haven't told you of her weaving business. She set up in the stable we built for your courser. Halvi decides what she wants and then gets it. You would be so proud.

Tuls is away most months at Whiterun College, but he's home for the holidays. He keeps us laughing with his tales of academics and city folk. I confess I sometimes feel envy, but I do not regret the choices that led me to you. And even to this life without you.

I carry you in my heart, beloved. Always.

Your Alrek

Dear Tora,

I have made a deal with the widow Britte. She and I meet in Green River often enough to stir a bit of gossip, and we sit together at festivals to keep the matchmakers away. Neither of us wishes to remarry. She has a quiet heart. It helps me to talk with her.

Tuls came home from Whiterun with a pregnant bride. First in the family to actually get a temple blessing. Her name is Elin, and she is a delight. Their baby was born in Hearthfire. We have a granddaughter! They named her Tora. I was the first to make her laugh.

Halvi has considered all of the lads in Green River and declared that she must cast her net wider. She plans to bring her weaving to the Days of Lights festival in Helgen. If you have a blessing, please give it to Halvi. She will carry her axe and your shield, but the road is long and unfriendly.

My love, I speak to you often in my thoughts. I wonder if you can hear over the songs in Sovngarde. Sometimes I speak to you aloud without thinking. It's becoming a habit. The dogs and sheep do not seem bothered.

Your Alrek

Dear Tora,

Halvi hand-fasted a sheep shearer from Rorikstead, and now they have a son and a daughter. Halvi's husband is called Magnus. He is indeed the sun in her sky. Tuls and Elin have two more children, both sons. Halvi named her daughter Thora. Somehow it is not confusing. Life in the cottage is filled with love and light, but also deafening. Even the cats go outside to nap. I have moved my things up to the shepherd's hut. Magnus built new bookshelves for me.

Most of our neighbors thrive, but the Hammer-Helms have suffered terrible losses. Tuls bought their entire flock. Now our wool is even finer, and they had funds to start over in Green River.

Harald's children have built cottages in our little shepherds' hamlet. Folk have begun calling it Shepherd's Rest. It's a funny name for a bustling community, but it makes me smile to think that our farm has birthed a village.

At last I have quiet hours for my books and my thoughts, but never far from the embrace of our family. I can see our cottage roof from my little porch, and the foundation that Magnus laid for the new wing, and the trail to Shepherd's Rest. As Pa did, I walk down daily for work and to share the evening meal. All that I love comes from you, Tora. All that I see we built together, for you are always in our hearts.

Your Alrek

Dear Tora,

My hands shake these days, but I can still manage ink and parchment. The snow lies deep on this longest night, and it still falls thick and soft. As ever I have placed your candle in the window. Young Thora brought me branches of fir, spruce, and snowberries, but this Old Life I do not feel the joy in welcoming the new year, in calling back the light.

We saw this storm coming. The children asked me to weather it with them, but they have made me comfortable here in my

Alrek raised his quill, listening. Only the low pop and crack of his gentle fire filled the silence. He glanced over to see if old Nell had lifted her head, but of course her blanket was empty. Her bones rested now under the holly bush.

There it was again. The thump of hooves and the jingle of barding. Alrek put down his quill.

Light from the open door showed the gentle curves of snowbanks, smooth and unbroken. He closed the door and returned to his seat.

…they have made me comfortable here in my hillside nest. I have plenty to eat, though little appetite these days for more than a handful of beans. I would hardly want to drink if not for the teas Elin

Heavy footfalls up wooden stairs, yet the hut had only one low step. Alrek opened the door again.

She stood smiling in her surcoat and mail, sword hilt visible over her shoulder. Light surrounded her.

"Tora." Alrek put out a trembling hand.

But the porch held only firewood and the snow-dusted pile of greenery. Alrek turned back toward the fire, shaking his head.

"Come, my love. Sit with me." Tora in her blue woolen dress, cheeks pink and hair in a shining braid over her shoulder.

Alrek sat beside her, open door forgotten. "Always have I hoped you would visit me," he said.

"And I always did. I read every letter that you burned in your candle, and every one that you wrote in your heart. I am so proud of you. So proud of our family. And so sorry that I wasn't beside you."

"We had each other, Tora. We were never alone. But tell me, what happened to you? Have you come from Sovngarde? Must you return with the dawn?"

Tora took his hand. "Ironhide carried me to the Whalebone Bridge. I stood before Tsun and received my judgment. Shor's Hall of Valor was within my reach. I could hear the drums." She paused, watching him.

"If Ironhide carried you here, I hope he stays outside. Or he'll kick me into the new year."

Tora chuckled. "I didn't cross, Alrek. Not without you."

"Sovngarde is not for sheep herders." Alrek's mouth felt dry.

"I waited for you, my love. Not for Sovngarde. There are many realms within Aetherius. We will find the one for us. Together."

"Together." Alrek stood without faltering, and his hand in Tora's was steady and strong. "Let us walk, beloved. Leave Ironhide to his Aetherial pastures. But…" He glanced at Nell's empty blanket. "Do you suppose we could bring the dogs?"





This post has been edited by Grits: Dec 29 2025, 06:06 PM

Grits, this was ever so beautifully done, and oh so poignant! Curiosity in the beginning, a tear in the middle and a smile by the end as you wove a full circle of life with the power of love.

The Gift Exchange



At the time of writing, it's just after one in the afternoon, on New Years Eve. In my fridge I have a selection of French cheeses, some crackers, and in my wine rack I have a bottle of Italian Barolo all ready for me to open tonight to welcome in the New Year.

Reading this, I am sorely tempted to open them all now, just for a little taste, why should Mirri have all the fun? Honestly, both yourself and Grits are notorious for making me hungry when reading your stories, you make the descriptions of the food and wine so appealing I just want to dive through the screen and join them. "Heya Buffy, don't mind me, just here to join in the fun, oh go on then, just a small glass. Hm, what kind of cheese would that be? Don't mind if I do!"

This is a delightful little tale, that really shows the close bond that Buffy and Mirri have built over the course of their adventures, and the gift of the enchanted combs is really clever (Where can I get some of those?)

Bravo!

Saturalia in Morthal


Never fear, I went through very carefully, so i could keep a close eye on them, wait, I mean so I could make a close count of them all for you. For the record, there's only the six - the tattoo, the Kraken and the Mermaid. Although, not being a Witcher, I cannot be entirely sure how many boobs a Kraken would possess, maybe it's more than two! The things I do for science...

This was a hugely amusing and entertaining story, and eminently quotable too! What quotes? If you insist!

From philosophical ruminations on the importance of skulls:

To helpful advice suitable for every bar:

To just a brilliant last line:


Bravo!

The Longest Night

What a beautiful story. Like a portrait of a life in miniature, but with every moment shown highlighting the warmth and the heart. The way the letters to be burnt in the candle changed, from Ma, to Pa, to Tora, you showed in those small updates how Alrek had grown and changed with such skill. Not every life needs to chase valour and glory, and Alrek's life was important and valuable to those around him.

I loved it, and I think Acadian picked the perfect word to describe it in poignant. Here's raising a glass to Alrek and Tora for whichever realm in Aetherius they find themselves.

Bravo!

p.s.

See?! Neither you or Acadian can resist making me hungry! That's two stories mentioning cheese. It's a sign. Excuse me whilst I pop over to the fridge...

Oh this is exciting! I'm off to celebrate the New Year but I'll back to give these a read.

Happy New Life and belated Saturalia!

SCAVENGERS

This is another one episode story that takes place within a tenday of our previous offering and focuses on celebrating New Life.




I was grateful for my scant weight of six stone as I perilously made my way along the fragile, highest branches of Elden Root.

“Buffy,” remarked Acadian with a hint of concern in his voice, “what is wrong with the several acorns we have passed?”

“I’ll know the right one. . . somehow, when we get close enough,” I replied.

The tree had drawn me to this point and, as I crept on my stomach toward the end of the dangerously swaying branch, I saw it. My acorn. Once I was close enough to grasp it, Willow was hovering nearby and ready as she quickly took the acorn from my hand and stowed it in the mage pouch at my hip. I gratefully returned my hand to the branch to avoid losing my balance. Turning around out here was out of the question so I slowly moved backwards along the way I came until the branches were sturdy and large enough that I could stand up. And breathe easier.

*

“So, what are your plans for celebrating New Life?” I asked before lifting a spoonful of porridge to my mouth.

Mirri lowered her wine goblet to the Elden Root bistro’s table and replied, “My family will all be home in Balmora and I plan to join them. How about you?”

I took a sip of tea. “That sounds wonderful, even as I confess a bit of envy. I shall be doing my first Elden Root New Life pilgrimage.”

Mirri chuckled. “I should have known. What does that entail? A bark eating contest or such?”

“No, silly,” I admonished with a smile. “Smaller oaks drop acorns and rely on squirrels, chipmunks and blue jays to spread and bury them far and wide to produce new saplings. Graht oaks – with their much larger acorns don’t drop them; rather, they rely on the Cloud Dancer elves of their tribes to harvest the acorns, then deliver and plant them in suitable growing spots.” With Willow’s help, I produced my acorn and showed it to Mirri.

My partner’s ruby eyes widened. “With acorns bigger than my fist, I suppose all of us below a graht oak’s massive canopy should be thankful that they are harvested and not dropped from great heights. That could be lethal!”

It was my turn to chuckle. “The pilgrimage is a New Life tradition. Most of us who have come of age and are physically able try to do this pilgrimage each year. Travel in Valenwood, as I’m sure you know, can be dangerous but this is one of the few things our tree asks of us.”

*

The following morning’s light found Superian and I threading our way through the verdant forest. I marveled at the sights, sounds and smells of rich life all around us. Willow flitted about, happily gorging on her favorite prey – small flying insects. It was quiet, save the occasional protest of our passing by birds or monkeys.

“Have you selected a planting site?” asked Acadian.

“Out there.” I pointed south – our current direction.

“Rather a large area, is it not?” Before I could answer, he continued, “Buffy, what drew you to the particular acorn you carry in your pouch?”

“Acadian, as you know, I now carry the sap of Elden Root in my veins. I can sense Elden Root in this acorn. But. . . I also carry a tiny amount of sap from the tree I was conceived in – courtesy of my mother - and I can tell this acorn carries a hint of that sap as well. The tree of my parent’s tribe. I’m sure now that is what drew me to this particular acorn. It is destined to grow into Alderglean.”

“Alderglean,” mused Acadian, “was – or, rather, will be destroyed by a lightning storm late in the Third Era forcing your parents to flee to Bravil while you were still in the womb.”

“Yes,” I replied. “And I will be the elf to plant it. There’s just one problem.”

“And that would be?” asked Acadian.

“I was far too young when my parents fled Alderglean to know its precise location.” A thought then struck. “But you were with me even then! Were you not?”

“I was indeed. Give me a moment.” Shortly, he continued, “Though deeply buried, I do have a memory of your mother while she carried you that might help. I can see some of the tree’s surroundings but not enough to precisely locate it.”

I heaved a sigh of disappointment. Willow had apparently been listening, for she chose that moment to hover in front of me, wave her arms and chitter rather insistently.

Acadian chuckled. “Well, she is a tracker, is she not?”

I tilted my head. “I know you can show me your memory but can you show it to Willow?”

“Not directly,” he replied, “but if you establish a healing bond with her, she might be able to see what I show you.”

“Complicated, but it just might work. . . and we have few other options. Willow, are you following this?”

The nixad tracker nodded excitedly then did a graceful pirouette.

I drew Superian to a stop and dismounted. “This area looks safe enough.” I held out an open hand, and palm up. “Willow would you land here so I can establish a bond of healing between us?”

She did as I asked without protest and folded her wings along her back as she stood quietly. I gently wrapped my other hand around her tiny body and closed my eyes. “Acadian, give me a moment to bond with Willow, then show us your memory, please.”

I had never had to heal Willow, and immediately gained an appreciation for how different her physiology was from humans, mer or even betmer. Nevertheless, our feelings and thoughts were able to intertwine. A moment later, Acadian’s memory grew into focus. My mother was obviously with child – me – as she gathered herbs, perhaps an arrowshot distant from Alderglean. I noted a low cliff to one side of the tree and a trio of mammoth-sized boulders on the other side. I heard the distant calls of seagulls and detected a whiff of sea air. The vision faded. I let the bond between Willow and I fade as well. I hoped it would be enough.

Willow hugged my hand then hopped into air. She flew in a slow circle as if searching. After what seemed a long time, she hovered, faced to the south and pointed.

I let the breath out that I only now realized I had been holding and exclaimed, “Thank Kynareth for you, my wonderful little tracker! And thank you as well my old and wise paladin!”

Willow performed a backward aerial sumersault and chittered her approval.

Remounting Superian, I said, “Lead the way, little one.”

She did so. For several hours Willow slowly flew ahead of us at a pace that was consistent with Superian’s ability to weave our way through the ferns and thick undergrowth of the forest. Routinely, the nixad would turn around to ensure we were still keeping up. We made only one stop – at a small babbling stream where Superian and I drank our fill and I filled my waterskin.

Not much farther along our journey, the forest began to thin. Eventually, Willow came to a hover and pointed to the ground.

Sure enough, there was the low cliff and boulders I had seen in Acadian’s memory. Farther toward the south I could indeed hear distant seagulls and barely smell the salt air of southern Grahtwood’s coast.

I dismounted and walked over to the spot Willow indicated. She retreated into the mage pouch at my hip, only to emerge moments later with both arms wrapped around my acorn.

“Thank you,” I said as I took the focus of our pilgrimage from her. I then summoned my elven hunting knife, knelt on the ground and began preparing the soil. Once the acorn was planted, I closed my eyes. “Mara - Mother of Nirn – please breathe precious life into this acorn. And Kynareth - my patron and Goddess of Forest and Sky – I ask that you nourish the resultant seedling with your sunshine and rain that it may grow into a healthy sapling and eventually a mighty graht oak that kisses the clouds. With your blessing, this tree shall be called Alderglean and sustain the tribe of my parents.”

I felt an arm around my shoulders. “Well done, Buffy. Mara and I shall each do our part.”

I instantly recognized the voice as Kynareth’s. She was in her mundane form as a Nordic woman in a simple white dress and kneeling beside me. “What a wonderful and welcome surprise, my friend,” I said with a grin.

“I see your Elden Root New Life pilgrimage has been successful,” she replied.

I nodded. “Yes, with the help of both Acadian and Willow. But. . . I confess the whole idea of planting the tree in which I will someday be conceived makes my head hurt when I think about it.”

She smiled, then squeezed me close against her and rested her chin atop my head. “Be at ease, my paladin. That you shall be both mother and daughter of Alderglean and its tribe is a natural part of the river of time, for currents do not always flow in one direction.”

“As always, Kynareth, I will trust in and be grateful for your wisdom.”

A Cloud Dancer's Pilgrimage

I love how you're taking the opportunity, with these short pieces, to delve deeper and explore the relationships between characters and worldbuilding, in a way that would have been problematic in "Drodda the Icewitch" for fear of derailing the pacing of the story. And, I have to say, Willow is rapidly becoming a favourite of mine.


What an absolutely terrific line!

This our third and final story offering for this season’s celebration. This one is also set the Second Era. As many of you know, Buffy is blessed with an impressive soprano singing voice. When we post a story featuring this, I intentionally keep the prose portion very short to focus on the song itself. This is such a story. Enjoy and Happy New Life!




I found myself spending the day of New Life eve in the Windhelm guildhall. I had spent most of the afternoon working with the chapter’s youngest mage, Hreinhilde, on her healing skills. Though she still had much to learn, her skill was progressing steadily. More importantly, she had the selfless and nurturing nature of a healer.

After a wonderful dinner of roast boar and vegetables in the guild hall, Guildmagister Ciceri the Bold ordered all of us to the Sober Nord Inn to celebrate the last few hours before New Life and a new year began.

Despite the Nordic heavy dark wood-beam construction, the tavern felt open and inviting due to the high ceiling and numerous chandeliers that provided plenty of light. A cheerfully crackling fire ensured it was deliciously warm. The crowd was large but jovial. Someone pushed a mug of mead into my hand that I pretended to drink from as I listened to the music. The trio skillfully played their lute, flute and drums to fill the tavern with a variety of tunes.

Late in the evening the lute player displayed a thick Nordic accent as he addressed the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your kindness this New Life eve. A shame that our vocalist has taken ill and is not with us. As we approach midnight, we will play the traditional song that bids farewell to the old year and prepares the way for New Life. . . but it would be ever so much more meaningful with a singer voicing the words. Might we be so lucky as to have a bard in the tavern tonight who can carry a tune?”

Guildmagister Ciceri the Bold shouted, "Right here!" as she grabbed my hand and stuck it in the air.

“And who do we have there, Ciceri?” asked the musician. We’ve heard you try to sing before so I hope you're volunteering the small elf wriggling in your grasp. He stared at me with a hopeful grin on his face.

“Buffy,” announced the Guildmagister, “has sung for us at the guildhall in the past and, though small she may be, I promise you that she can put any songbird to shame!”

Any protest I may have tried to voice was rendered irrelevant as a chorus of encouraging cheers sounded throughout the tavern. I made my way to the small stage that hosted the trio. After a few quiet words to ensure we were on the same sheet of music – literally and figuratively - the flutist began the haunting melody . . . .

What a wonderfully evocative piece, and what a gorgeously ethereal song to end with!

At our next Guild meet, I'm going to be looking at Buffy and imagining her singing that.


Not exactly a ringing endorsement on the quality of the mead! Maybe that's why the inn is called The Sober Nord

Grits: That was a lovely and poignant tale of life and the inevitable losses that come with it. Plus a Nord who turned down Sovngarde, for the best reason of all. That is why I have always preferred Freyja's Sussrumnir to Odin's Valhalla. Valhalla is like Sovngarde: warriors only. But when Freyja takes her share of the souls slain in battle to Sessrumnir, she also later takes the souls of their loved ones when they die as well. That way they can be together in the afterlife. She's just cool like that. I am sure Tora and Alrek will be happy once they find her place.

Acadian: I nearly spit out my drink when I read Mirri's comment about bark-eating!

I sensed what Buffy was about as soon as she plucked that acorn - the right one of course. But I had not considered that the right one would be a relative of her original tree. That was a good touch. That makes this quest a true pilgrimage. She is creating the home of her birth, from here in the past.

On to your final story, considering Buffy's size, perhaps she might choose to bathe in that mug of ale, rather than attempt to drink from it? Given that they are probably she same approximate size?

And, better late than never, my one shot contribution for this thread.

*

The Long Way Home

*

It was the sort of cold that numbed not just fingers but intentions. Riften's market square stood at the centre. Shouts of vendors hawking scarce wares tangled with laughter and curses, but the snow, which had begun falling just past midday, now came down in a curtain that silenced voices and blurred outlines.

Beneath the wooden awnings and patched canvas, merchants arranged their meagre winter stock in artful heaps; a few shrivelled apples, wedges of salted fish, bruised turnips, an almost indecent hunk of venison on a butcher's hook. The cobbles were already slick with slush and, underfoot, hidden ice waited with a predator's patience. Midwives gossiped in close huddles, clutching parcels and each other's arms, while children darted between legs, faces streaked with dirt and anticipation. Above them all, festival banners drooped under the weight of the snow.

It was the last day of the year, and tonight, the New Life festival would attempt to brighten the city's mood with torches and song. For now, though, it was simply cold.

Taren watched from the edge of the square, his own hands tucked into armpits, and tried not to think about how thin his coat had grown. The sleeves now ended two fingers shy of his wrists, exposing raw skin to the bite of wind; the lining inside was a ghost of fur and threadbare at the elbows. He remembered the coat's original heft, the way it used to shrug off sleet and cold, and the memory stung more than the weather itself. But it was no use wishing what was gone back into existence. Not with his wages. You'd think the city would outfit its guards with better equipment, he thought.

He shifted his feet, feeling the ache in his toes. A little girl screamed with delight as a snowball caught her shoulder. One merchant clanged a bell for last-call bread sales, the tinny sound swallowed by snow and distance. Taren closed his eyes for a breath, letting the cold have its way, and when he opened them again, he found his gaze drawn to the butcher's stall, to the venison, marbled with fat and crusted with spice. He could almost taste it: the sizzle, the salt, the texture. He patted the coat's inside pocket, feeling for the purse, more a habit than hope. The pouch was flat and insubstantial; he knew precisely how much it held, and precisely how far short that would fall. Not just for a new coat, but for the kind of meal his children still remembered from last year's festival. His wife played off the shortages as a game for the children, inventing elaborate stories about the virtues of boiled turnip and the adventure of scraping marrow from bones. But Taren saw the way she measured out portions, her thumb pressing down on the knife to make every slice just a little thinner, her eyes flicking over the kids' plates before her own.

That was when the commotion started: a crash, a shout, a flurry of movement near the butcher stall. Taren blinked into focus just in time to see the thickest cut of venison, the one he'd been coveting for days, snatched clean off the hook by a hand that darted in and out before anyone else could react. He watched, half in horror and half in awe, as it disappeared in a single motion: the hook swinging empty, the meat vanishing into the mass of bodies. The thief's hand moved with a kind of desperate artistry, nimble and sure, and for a moment Taren wondered at the audacity. Then the shouting began in earnest.

The butcher, red-faced and sputtering, vaulted the counter with a grace that belied his girth. His boots landed hard on the cobbles, slush spraying out in all directions. "Stop! Thief!" he bellowed. Other merchants craned their necks, some eager for a spectacle, others wary of getting pulled in. No one moved to intervene. Customers, clutching their own meagre purchases, shuffled back from the stall, some smiling nervously, others eyeing their own baskets as if worried they might be next. He barely caught a glimpse: a hood pulled low, the stolen venison hugged tight to a narrow chest, legs pumping with a speed that seemed more animal than human. Or just desperate.

The hesitation lasted no longer than a breath. As the thief slipped through a gap between the fishmonger and fruit cart, Taren gave chase. He was bigger and heavier, but the years spent patrolling these streets had taught him every shortcut and hidden step. Taren barrelled after the fleeing figure, boots slapping the cobbles and heart hammering. He doubled his pace, ignoring the burn in his lungs, and called out: "Stop!" His voice was raw, almost pleading, but he didn't expect the thief to listen. Taren knew the rhythm of petty crime in Riften: a shouted command might stop a first-time offender, but the truly desperate, those who stole not for thrill but for hunger or debt, ran with a kind of tunnel vision. He'd chased enough of them to recognise the difference. And this one, with their shoulders hunched, the careful calculation of movements through the slush and crowd, was running as if the world behind them was on fire.

The chase carved a jagged path through the market, past stalls and startled shoppers, Taren's boots slipping once on a patch of hidden ice. He caught himself before going down, the jolt shooting pain up his leg, and pressed on. The thief was clever, using obstacles like shields: ducking behind a table, vaulting a crate, doubling back in a deft feint. But these were Taren's streets as much as the thief's, and he recalibrated quickly, anticipating the moves, cutting off angles, never more than a dozen paces behind. Each breath seared his lungs, and his coat felt heavier with every step, but he didn't let up. He couldn't. Not just for duty, but for the possibility, however remote, that catching the thief might mean a reward, a bonus, or just enough goodwill from the butcher to score a scrap of meat for his family.

There'd been a spate of thefts today. Bread stolen from the bakery, bottles of mead gone missing from behind the tavern bar. Each time, the thief took only what they could carry, never more. No one got a clear description of the thieves. At this time of year, people got desperate.

The next several seconds passed in a blur of half-frozen adrenaline. The thief darted right, then left. Taren's boots found no purchase on the film of black ice layered beneath the slush. Sideways, he directed his own skid and kept forward momentum by pinballing off a crumbling wall, following the thief into a narrow gap between two leaning buildings. The snow was more than an inconvenience; it was a genuine hazard.

The thief never slowed. They seemed to know this route by heart. The loose cobble near the boot mender's, the ledge that held under pressure, the convenient knot of rope tied from old scaffolding. Taren tried to anticipate, but each shortcut he'd learned from the watch seemed accounted for: as he rounded a corner to intercept, the thief was already vaulting a barrel, landing hard on the other side. Taren launched after them, rebounding off the wall and nearly eating frost when his heel glanced off a hidden patch of ice. He threw his arms wide for balance, slapping the wall with his palm hard enough to send bone-jarring pain up his wrist, but it slowed him just enough to keep upright.

Taren chased the thief down onto the lower decks near the canal. The wind had scoured the surface clean, leaving a polished sheet of ice. Taren's boots, already worn with city miles, found no purchase. He skidded, and only a desperate hand on the railing saved him from falling into the canal. He gritted his teeth and shuffled forward, using the banister like a lifeline, glaring at the thin back of the thief as the gap widened. The cold bit at Taren's face. One final push, he thought, and started running again. Ahead, the thief stopped, turned and hurled the contents of a small sack onto the ice ahead of Taren. Small, glittering pieces of glass rolling toward him. Taren saw it in slow motion - tiny marbles, slick and glimmering, skittering madly across the ice, fanning out in a lethal arc. There was no time for calculation. Taren's legs churned instinctively, boots pounding, but the marbles met his feet at once and the world became a tilt-a-whirl. The first step landed on nothing. The second step shot out from under him. His arms pinwheeled, searching for air to cling to. He went down hard, spine first, the shock of it sharpening every nerve. His coat did nothing against the cold bite of the ice.

Taren groaned, blinking up at the drifting flecks of snow, listening to the faint rattle of marbles. By the time he hauled himself upright, the thief was gone.

Taren sat for a moment on the hard ice, cradling his ribs and trying to remember how to breathe. Cold radiated straight through his coat and set his teeth chattering, though anger did plenty to warm him. There was a sour taste in his mouth. The taste of humiliation, so sharp it chased away the pain. He pushed unsteadily to his feet, boots crunching on the few marbles that hadn't tumbled into the canal. He spat onto the ice, swore under his breath, and turned to face the long walk back to Mistveil Keep.

By the time Taren reached the gates of the Keep, his gloves were soaked, and his left hip throbbed in time with his footsteps. He hesitated at the bottom of the stone stairs, staring up at the slit windows leaking yellow light and imagined the warmth inside, a cruel sort of warmth, made of rules, report forms, and sneers from men who'd never been defeated by a thief with a sack of marbles. Taren squared his shoulders, pressed a hand to the bruise already blooming on his side, and climbed.

*

Taren walked the narrow lane leading to his and Elara's cottage, each step slower than the last. It had taken him a couple of hours to file the report and endure the ribbing of his fellow guards. By the time he reached their crooked fence, the drizzle had soaked his trousers and filled his boots with ice water. He stood at the gate, staring at the faint glow behind the window. The prospect of crossing through that door, of having to explain to Elara that there would be no special meal tonight, not even a scrap of it, made his shoulders slump a little farther. What stung most was the certainty that Elara would not scold or pity him; she'd just set a hand on his cheek, tell him he'd done enough, and not let her disappointment show. That gentle forgiveness was worse than any rebuke.

He trudged up the steps, then let himself in.

The warmth hit him first. The small entryway was thick with the smell of bread, and something richer. Fat maybe, or marrow. He blinked in the golden light, certain for a moment that he'd stumbled into someone else's home. The floor swept, the battered table cleared of the usual jumble of sewing and playthings, and in the centre, under the flickering dance of a tallow candle, sat a fresh-baked loaf, already split open to vent its steam. That alone was enough to give him pause, but it was the smell, thicker, meatier than anything their kitchen had produced for weeks, that made him grip the doorframe for balance. An iron pot simmered on the stove, sending up plumes of a scent so rich it practically coated his tongue with memory.

For a ridiculous second, he wondered if he'd lost more blood than he realised during the chase, or maybe died outright, and this was some version of the afterlife where the dead were greeted not with celestial choirs but with the food they'd hungered for most. Elara appeared from the tiny alcove that served as their pantry, a decanter and two tankards in her hands and her cheeks flushed from the heat. She stopped short at the sight of him standing there, dripping and bewildered.

"Oh, good, you're back." She set the decanter and tankards on the table with a deft clink and stepped closer, sizing up her husband's state with a practiced eye. Taren's hair was plastered to his skull, his uniform was streaked with mud, and he smelled faintly of wet dog and city smoke. In the years they'd been together, she'd seen him return from patrols battered, bruised, occasionally decorated with the bandages of minor heroism, but never quite this bedraggled.

She planted a hand on her hip, lips pressed to stifle a smile, and then walked into the kitchen and returned with a faded towel. "You're dripping on the floorboards, Taren," she said, not unkindly. "Do you want me to wring out your boots, or should I just dig a trench from the door to the bed?" She didn't wait for a response, instead tossing the towel across his shoulders and steering him, with gentle authority, toward the battered stool beside the hearth. Elara was brisk, efficient, almost celebratory, as she kicked his heels so he'd sit, then knelt to tug off his sodden boots. Taren, for all his bulk and bluster, knew better than to protest. He let her strip away the damp layers and replace them with the blanket she kept folded by the fire for precisely this ritual.

"There," Elara said, standing and dusting off her knees. "I'd threaten to toss you straight into the bath, but the soup's ready, and I don't have the heart to make you wait any longer." Her gaze flicked to the table, then back to him. "You look like you could use something stronger than water."

She poured a generous measure of pale gold liquid into a tankard and set it within his reach. The first sip burned, then bloomed into a honeyed warmth that fought back against the chill in his bones. The second sip went down even easier, sliding past the raw place in his throat that no amount of tea or tincture had soothed all winter. He set the tankard down and watched the light catch in the dregs, a faint glimmer like the last rays slipping across the snow. The mead was nothing like the thin, vinegary beer in the garrison mess: it was bright and heavy as fruit at the peak of summer, and it filled his head with a lazy, golden hum. Whatever else the day had taken from him, this moment felt good.

He stretched his feet toward the fire and felt them tingle as blood returned, prickly and sharp. Elara was bustling around the stove, ladling soup into bowls with a little flourish, humming a faint tune that didn't quite match the rhythm of her motions. Watching her work, Taren felt the knot behind his ribs loosen a shade. He was still enjoying the taste of the drink when Elara slid a steaming bowl of soup onto the table and called him over. He stood up and walked across.

Taren stood for a second, unsure if he ought to wait for some ceremonial moment or just dive in. Elara caught him hovering and grinned. She wiped her hands on her skirt and set a battered wooden spoon beside his bowl with a little flourish, as if unveiling a feast for a visiting dignitary, not just her husband. The gesture was both grand and sly, a private performance for their small stage.

"Go on," she said, and her voice was softer than before, "while it's hot."

He sat, bowl in front of him, and blinked at the deep brown liquid. It was nothing like the thin, greyish cabbage soup he'd grown used to. Even in the amber candlelight, this broth looked substantial, flecked with tiny beads of shimmering fat, darker bits drifting near the surface. Taren inhaled. A scent of spice and something musky, almost wild, crept up to meet him. He dipped his spoon, and the first mouthful hit with a shocking vibrancy. It wasn't shy. It was woodsy and dense, salted with something smoky and a little sweet, and carrying a heartbeat's thrum of something iron-bright underneath. The meat was so tender it all but dissolved, and the soup left a slow, pleasant burn at the back of his throat.

"This is incredible," Taren mumbled around a mouthful. "Rich. Is it goat? Rabbit?"

Elara turned away to the hearth, hiding a small smile. "Just some trimmings I managed to bargain for. Eat up."

Taren didn't press her. He was too busy enjoying the warmth spreading through his limbs and used his spoon to combine two juniper berries floating in it with a chunk of meat.

"So, how was your day?" Elara asked.

Taren spooned up another mouthful of soup and let it dissolve on his tongue, savouring the flavours. "Had to chase a thief. You should have seen them, must have only been a teenager. Pretty small, but he had a whole bag of tricks. First, I nearly lost him in the market, then he scuttled across the waterways like a damn squirrel. When I started to catch up, he turned and hurled a fistful of marbles at my feet." He gestured with his spoon for emphasis, nearly launching broth onto the table. "Me running on ice, and he's got marbles rolling everywhere. I went down so quick I'm lucky I didn't bash my skull in." He rubbed his hip, as if the memory alone made the bruise pulse.

"Oh, poor baby." Elara came up behind him, silent as a cat, and caught him in a hug and tucked her chin over his shoulder and held him there, swaying a little as if to some tune only she could hear. He felt the warmth of her arms wrap around his chest and thought, not for the first time, that he was luckier than he deserved. It was a rare thing to return to a home that missed you when you were gone. She squeezed him one more time and reached out to smooth his hair, tucking a damp strand behind his ear. For a moment, her hand lingered on his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. "Did you at least get a good description of them?"

"Never saw his face, he had a hood up and a scarf wrapped round. Should have heard the comments I got from the other guards when I filed my report. Beaten by a kid and his marbles."

"Well, I'm relieved you're back home safe and sound. When you're finished, go take a bath. Soothe that hip you keep grimacing over, then we can welcome in the New Life celebration."

Taren nodded and returned to his soup.

Elara smiled and poured him more of the honeyed mead. "Shame you couldn't have kept the marbles. The kids would have enjoyed playing with them tonight. Happy New Life, my darling."