Postcards from Tamriel, Stories and such that fall somewhere between a snippet and a thread Options

[Grits]

Hi folks!

My characters are getting unruly, so I thought I’d make a place where I can hide from them while they fight it out. I mean, while I figure out what to do. The first time this happened, I posted Home for the Holidays, a very short story about Abiene’s Saturalia visit to Leyawiin in the year 3E432. I should have made this thread then, but at the time I still thought that every word I wrote would be the last. Someday I hope to make an offering at The Temple of Lore, but for now I’m still too guilty of undisciplined sprawling. I’ll start a story in the next post.

As always, comments and discussion are very welcome!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 23 2019, 03:31 AM

[Elisabeth Hollow]

Small, bare feet ran through the cobblestone streets of the Imperial City. The smell of spices and cooked meat filled the air, and the sound of sauted vegetables filled the ears of the small Breton girl. The streets of the Imperial city were littered with food places, places to eat in a hurry, to eat outside, to take food home. Carts with pastries, exotic foods and any number of dishes you could think of were torture to the orphans of the streets.

The tiny girl with auburn hair and hazel eyes watched as her target bought his food. She waited a moment before following as he briskly walked towards the gates to the Talos Plaza District. She followed behind him at an idle pace, keeping an eye on him. The guard stopped her at the gate.

"No."

"Please? The smell hurts my belly."

"Then go to the next district."

Fat tears rolled down the girl's face as her target slipped through the gates. The waterworks then became real as her chance for a meal disappeared as the gates closed. The guard looked guilty and knelt, his steel armor creaked.

"What's your name?"

The girl sniffled. "Samara."

"Samara what?"

"Samara Sage."

"What's your last name?"

She shrugged. "Mama and Daddy are dead."

"And where do you stay?"

"The orphanage near the prisons."

"Tell you what," he stood up and reached into the pockets under his greaves and pulled out five septims. "Take this," he knelt again, "and buy something from one of the carts. Something you've always wanted."

Samara eagerly took the money with a huge smile, her red, blotchy face now lined with joy. The gaurd stepped back to his post as the girl scurried off.

"That child won't survive the streets, Victus," his companion said. Victus turned his head and looked at the other guard.

"I'm going to speak with the Captain about the conditions of the orphanage. They receive funding from the city, there shouldn't be children looking like her wandering the streets if she stays there. The inspections officer is being lied to."

"Or he's pocketing the bribe money."

"There are four groups you never steal from. Orphans, widows and widowers, refugees, and the elderly. The city can dress it up all they want, but I'm not going to stand for this."

"You'll learn. The government is the bow, and the Legion is the arrow fired. We do what we are told."

"She wouldn't be stealing and pickpocketing if things were ran the correct way." I did not join to watch innocents die while we sit idly by. I thought the Legion stood for something?

Victus finished his shift and walked towards the guard barracks. He changed out of his gear and headed to the All Saints Inn, where he ordered a bottle of beer. He kicked back at a small table for one in the corner and watched. Most of the patrons didn't recognize him out of uniform, but those who did stayed away from him. He knew it was for the constant professional and paranoid demeanor the guards were encouraged to have, but as far as he was concerned, the steel was meaning less and less to him.

He drank one more beer before heading out, his mind wandering slightly. The tall, white-stoned buildings had kept him feeling safe and secure as a child, even when he grew up in the orphanage. The same orphanage the little girl had come from. He wondered if the same Imperial woman who had beat him as a child was still allowed to beat the other children.

He felt ill when the bruises on her arm had sprang up in his mind's eye. Were there bruises, or were they just a projection of his own experiences? Victus couldn't immediately recall any bruising on her arms.

He fell into his bed at the barracks and fell asleep without pulling the covers over himself.