The Last Days of the Fashion Club Options

[WellTemperedClavier]

Chapter 1

A single lock of blond hair fell down on Jeval's brow, just a little left of center. He zeroed in on it, seeing his black eyes reflected back at him in his mom's polished brass mirror.

Is this what he wanted?

Because that little lock said a lot. It changed the image he'd sported for the past three years, made him look more daring, more relaxed. Not some kid any longer, but a man. Or at least a guy. A guy girls would want (he hoped). He'd already fixed up his outfit to reflect that: undid the two top buttons, loosened the threads around the cuffs. Enough to make him look chill without looking messy.

Quinn worked magic with this kind of thing. Jeval wasn't as good, but he'd picked up some tricks from her, things like how to take a tunic or a collar and get it to tell the story you wanted it to tell.

"Jeval, are you still at the mirror?" came his little sister's voice.

"Yeah, obviously," he said.

"Mom, I need to use it!"

Jeval sighed. Okay, he had to figure this out pretty quick. He brushed the lock to the side, giving the bare brow look one more chance.

"Jeval! Why in the world do you need to spend so much time grooming yourself?" Mom demanded, her voice carrying up from the kitchen, where she was busy heating up yesterday's stew for breakfast.

He turned his head to the door, where his sister Seleynia glared at him, and spoke over her. "Because looking good is important!"

Screw it. He didn't need this. Jeval let the lock fall, studied himself one more time, and stepped back.

"All yours, sis," he muttered.

"Weirdo," she muttered back.

He ambled down the adobe stairs and into the cramped kitchen. Mom looked at him through the steam rising from the big cookpot.

"Jeval, I know you want to look good, but isn't it a little odd for a man your age to spend that much time at the mirror?"

Jeval shrugged. "Shouldn't a man my age look good?"

Not like he had much choice. Skinny little Bosmer guys weren't exactly in high demand among girls in Morrowind. He had to make the most of what he had.

"A man your age should be working at a trade."

"I have a job!"

"Cleaning tables isn't a trade, Jeval. And you spend all your money on clothes and cosmetics!"

"Are you kidding me? I stretch every septim I get. Meanwhile, Seleynia breaks the bank each time she goes to the market—"

"Clothes are important for girls. They shouldn't be so important for you."

"Yeah, well, I dunno how to break this to you, but this isn't Valenwood. In Morrowind, people expect you to look sharp."

"Always good to look sharp!" Dad declared, stepping in from the street. He'd just come back from a big courier job to Gnisis the other day.

Dad pointed to his horns and flashed a file-toothed grin.

"Yeah, see?" Jeval said. Not like Dad didn't have his own agenda on this. But right now, Jeval would take whatever help came his way.

Mom frowned. "It's strange for a boy to spend that much time in front of the mirror. That's all I'm saying."

"You say that now, but just wait until he brings home some gorgeous Dunmer girl from a rich family. I bet he'll punch above his weight. Same as his old dad," Dad said, leaning in to give his wife a quick peck.

She rolled her eyes but smiled as she did it.

"You staying for breakfast?" Dad asked.

"No, I gotta work. Then I'm hanging out with my friends."

"Good, good."

Okay, he was free from them until late evening.

"Let's walk a bit," Dad said.

Or not.

Jeval and his dad entered the street outside their home, packed with the midday crowd. The autumn sun shone weakly above Balmora's sprawl, all its hundreds of brown adobe boxes and the thousands who lived inside them.

Jeval picked up the pace. He wasn't mad at Dad or anything. Just kind of didn't want to talk to anyone.

"Uh, no offense, but I might be running kind of late."

"We can jog," Dad offered.

Dad was a courier, so yeah, that'd be a cinch for him. No avoiding this parental conversation.

"Have you made any friends at work?" dad asked.

"I'm usually the only guy there my shift," Jeval lied.

"So still hanging with Quinn and the other girls?"

Jeval's heart sank. He knew where this was going. "Yeah. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing! Having friends who are girls is a good way to get girlfriends. But you've never dated any of them? Quinn, Satheri, uh… Tiphannia?"

"Uh, no. It'd be kind of weird." But even as he said it, he felt the warmth creep into his cheeks. Since yeah, he still kind of wanted Quinn. Not as much as he used to, but the feeling never totally went away.

"Don't get hung up on her, Jeval. There are a lot of girls out there. I'm sure Quinn can introduce you to someone. You're not interested in, uh, Treads, are you?"

"No," Jeval said, squeezing the word out between his clenched teeth.

"You do spend more time with her than the others. Look, I know things are done differently outside of Valenwood. And I'm open-minded. I'm just… not sure there are good long-term—"

"I'm not attracted to Argonians. She's not attracted to Mer. That's why she's my best friend. We can just chill."

"Okay, I believe you," Dad said, in a tone that suggested he did not, in fact, believe his son.

They turned the corner, going along the riverside market packed with the morning crowd. The thick and sour smell of roasting kwama rose from dozens of outdoor grills, mixing with the damp riverbank air. The Odai flowed thick and black beneath the Foreigner's Span, swollen by the recent rains. Nearby, a Dunmer priestess stood on a crate, denouncing the cult of the Nerevarine.

"Stay true to the Tribunal and the Temple teachings!" she proclaimed. "Heed not the lies from the House of Troubles, who take the memory of blessed St. Nerevar and twist it to their own foul ends!"

Jeval had been hearing a lot about the Nerevarine lately but didn't get what it was about. Something to do with an old prophecy that the Tribunal Temple didn't like. But he wasn't a Dunmer and he didn't worship the Tribunal, so whatever.

"What about coming with me on my next trip?" Dad asked.

"Huh?"

"You know, go with me on the job. You don't want to be serving drunks at the Lucky Lockup for the rest of your life."

Jeval thought about it a bit. Working as a courier would be interesting, at least. He didn't know if he wanted to hike that much. But he'd get used to it, right?

"Uh, maybe. When's your next job?"

"Don't know yet, but not long from now. I think you'd be good. Just have to build up your endurance. And I know all the tricks: how to figure out if a storm's coming—"

"Lift a finger to the wind and see if it's going to push the dark clouds toward you," Jeval said, remembering the many stories Dad had told him about his adventures on the road. He used to love those stories as a kid.

Hell, he still did.

"—how to negotiate with bandits—"

"Give a little cash to make them happy, but never let them corner you or take your cargo."

"—and why you should never camp out in an ancestral tomb."

"Because you'll get cursed or killed."

"Of course, you can always get un-cursed. But getting un-killed isn't usually an option. Sounds to me like you're ready for the job."

Jeval chuckled. Dad had charm. Jeval wished he could be like that.

"Can I think about it a bit?"

"Sure, but not too long. It's been months since you graduated. It's fine to rest a bit, but you have to keep moving forward."

"Uh huh. I know."

They turned the corner again, keeping some distance between them and the Council Club, where Dunmer gangsters glared down on them from the roof. The Lucky Lockup, haven to outlanders and weirdos, lay right next to it.

"Have a good one, son," Dad said.

"Yeah, you too," Jeval said.

He'd spend the rest of the day scrubbing corkbulb tables and serving drinks to rude people from all over Tamriel. At least he'd look better doing it.

He hoped.

This post has been edited by WellTemperedClavier: Jul 12 2025, 05:38 AM

[WellTemperedClavier]

Chapter 11

"What time is it?" Damp-with-Dew suddenly asked.

Since they sat near the door, Treads stood up and opened it for a look outside. The rain had turned into a downpour so thick you could practically swim through it.

"Hard to say, but probably a bit past noon," she answered.

"Hm, we should probably head out then," Damp-with-Dew said to Acclesia.

Acclesia looked at Jeval. "We're babysitting our neighbor's kids."

"Kitten-sitting, actually," Damp-with-Dew said, with a chuckle.

Acclesia grunted. "Don't call it that just because they're Khajiit. You can be such a hypocrite sometimes. But time for us to go. Plus, it's not often we get rain like this. I'd hate to waste it indoors."

"It is a good storm," Treads said, her eyes on the falling rain.

"Come out and enjoy it with us. Jeval, you up?" Damp-with-Dew asked.

Jeval shook his head. "Think I'll stay in for a bit."

"Soft-skins never appreciate rain. What a pity."

"I'll come back after I walk them home, okay? They live near Shellbreakers Court, so they're close," Treads said.

"Cool."

Truth was, Jeval wanted to be alone with his thoughts for a bit. Once Treads and her friends were gone, he walked up to the bar. He'd grown up in western Cyrodiil, where drinking alcohol before sunset was the kind of thing that you had to be either a loser or a noble to do, and he wasn't either of those things.

But he needed something.

He ordered some rice wine, and the publican gave him a small clay jar of the stuff in return for a five-septim piece. Jeval uncorked it and took a sip. Cheap and oily, but it'd do.

He kept thinking about what Damp-with-Dew had said, how he wanted to put Dunmer and Imperials in slave camps. How could anyone think something so screwed up? They weren't all bad people! Yeah, the Dunmer were twisted in so many ways, and the Imperials lorded it over everyone. But they didn't deserve slavery.

Except, he realized, that wasn't the screwed-up part. The real problem was that Jeval had gotten freaked out about Damp-with-Dew saying Dunmer and Imperials deserved it when it was already happening to Argonians and Khajiit right that moment!

"Way to prioritize, dipshit," he muttered to himself and took another sip. The Empire had gotten into his brain, and he hadn't even known it.

Maybe the Empire had to go. Except what came after? It'd get worse in the short term. A lot worse. In the long term?

Who knew?

Why did the world suddenly expect him to figure this out? He wasn't smart! He was just a regular guy who wanted to hang out with his friends, get a decent job, and maybe marry Quinn or at least some cool chick who was like Quinn.

Even if he was smart, who the hell was he to decide? It's not like he had better answers than anyone else.

Jeval let his thoughts wander, sometimes to stuff from the last few weeks, sometimes to stuff from farther back or way ahead in the future. Back in Drenlyn, all he had to think about was getting out. Now he had a ton of options, and none of them seemed good.

Between his thoughts and the rice wine, he lost track of time. It was only when he noticed that Treads hadn't come back yet that he wondered how long he'd been sitting at the bar. He looked around the cornerclub; no Argonians there.

Maybe she'd decided to hang out at Damp-with-Dew's place for a while. Everyone was going in different directions these days, so why not his best friend, too?

He remembered what she'd said about Argonians and Khajiit disappearing.

His guts tied themselves into knots. This was crazy. But how could he be sure?

His face hot from the wine, Jeval opened the cornerclub door and looked outside. The rain had slackened a little bit but wasn't even close to being done. The street stretched in both directions, not much more than mud between adobe walls.

Any second now, Treads would appear and they'd duck back into the cornerclub, or hang out at her place, or something.

Okay, so Damp-with-Dew and Acclesia lived near Shellbreakers Court. He kind of knew where that was. Just head north on this street and turn right at the next big one. That'd at least put him on more-or-less the same route that they'd taken. Probably.

Jeval started walking north, the mud sucking at his soles. His heart rate kept ramping up, his chest getting tighter. This was silly. He was being paranoid. Except it didn't feel paranoid, knowing what he knew. Sometimes he called out Treads's name. He looked down each alley he passed, just in case.

That's how he found her.

Treads lay face down in the muck, her snout sticking up above a filthy puddle. A Dunmer in mismatched netch leather knelt next to her, his gray hands busy tightening and tying up the ropes wrapped around her body.

The Dunmer raised his head. Red eyes met black.

"Let… let her go," Jeval said, his thick tongue fighting him every inch of the way.

The slaver was big. A netch leather cap covered his head, but his face was all lines and angles. Nothing soft. Nothing kind.

"Let her go!" Jeval tried again, shouting this time.

Finally, the slaver spoke. "Run away, little Bosmer. This lizard's mine."

Jeval shook his soaked head. "No. She's, uh, a citizen of the Empire! Her dad works up in Fort Moonmoth. You hurt her, you're gonna get the entire Legion on your ass!"

He barely heard his words over the beating of his heart and the rush of his blood.

"Go home, little Bosmer. Unless you want to join her. There are some uses for scrawny slaves, but not many. You won't survive long."

"Help!" Jeval shouted.

But the rain obliterated the sound.

Maybe he could run and get help. But that'd take minutes when Treads might only have seconds. If he lost sight of her…

He'd never see her again.

The slaver stood up. A sheathed blade hung from his belt, which he took out. The blade was short but sharp and made of black iron.

Jeval took a step back. He'd been in a few dangerous situations, but there'd always been someone to bail him out. Not this time. This Dunmer had done worse than murder.

He shivered. This wouldn't be like a fight in the old stories. It'd be quick, and it'd be cruel.

It'd hurt.

But standing there cold and wet and small, without weapon or armor and without the skill to use either, Jeval knew only one thing: that he would save his best friend, or he would die trying.

Jeval reached into the muck and grabbed a fistful of the stuff. Then he charged. He didn't even know what he planned to do, exactly. Maybe blind the slaver with mud. But the Dunmer raised the blade.

His nerve failed him. Jeval skidded to a halt, eyes zeroing in on the black blade less than a foot away. All it'd take was one cut.

By stopping his charge, he'd left himself wide open.

He was about to die.

Then the slaver fell. Jeval saw it: Treads had been tied up, but her tail was still free, and she'd knocked him down with it.

"I always got your back, Treads. I mean that."

"And I got yours, Jeval. Whatever happens."

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Jeval jumped on the prone slaver. His fists pounded the Dunmer again and again, most of his blows hitting thick netch leather. But he didn't care.

The fallen Dunmer twisted under him. A hand grabbed his side and pushed, and Jeval fell into the mud. The world turned into a blind mess of fists, arms, and scowling faces.

A gray hand pushed down on his chest. A black blade flashed at the edge of his vision.

Jeval squirmed free and rolled to the side. Something hot and wet gushed onto his body.

Prone in the dirt, Jeval turned and looked. The slaver supported himself on the wall with one extended arm, red eyes wide open, and blood dribbling out of his mouth. The sword was buried halfway into his torso.

"Help…" the Dunmer wheezed. He inched toward Jeval, his body shaking from the effort.

Jeval darted in, grabbed the sword's handle, and pulled. The weapon slid out. Blood sprayed from the wound, spattering Jeval's' face and hair. He backed away and gagged.

Frothy gore erupted from between the Dunmer's gray lips, and he fell face-first into the muck.

He stared at the dead or dying Mer for a few seconds before he noticed Treads calling for help.

"I got you, Treads! You're okay! I got you!" He cried, tears streaming down his face.

And when she was free, she threw her arms around him tighter than he thought possible, her high, sharp rasp the only sound he heard as she wept.

But Treads being Treads, she didn't weep long.

"Jeval?" she said, her voice shaking. "We have to get out of here. We can't be seen near a dead Dunmer."

Jeval blinked and shook his head to clear it. He still felt keyed up, his body still ready to fight.

"Jeval!"

"I can't move Treads; you're holding me too tight."

"Sorry." She let go, and Jeval stood up. The dead slaver still lay in the mud. He was dead, right? Jeval wasn't sure exactly what had happened. Maybe he'd twisted away, and the Dunmer had lost his balance, stabbing himself in the process.

"What happened?" he asked. "What about your friends, uh, Damp and—I mean, Damp-with-Dew and—"

"They're fine. I took them back to their apartment, and then I turned around to go back to the cornerclub. I was halfway to the Spiked Scrib when this happened."

Jeval took it all in. Okay, maybe this wasn't so bad. "I don't know much about law, but that guy attacked you first. We were just defending ourselves. I think we're okay."

"I know that's what the law says," Treads said, speaking just loud enough to be heard above the rain. "But I don't know if it's going to work out that way."

"Nah, it'll be fine. Hey, I know! Let's uh, talk to Quinn's mom. She's a lawyer."

"She does business law. Not stuff like this."

"She knows more than anyone else we know!"

"Fine, but we have to go. We have to go!"

Treads sprang to her feet and ran to the street, gesturing for him to follow. Jeval obeyed and had just about gotten out when he realized he was still gripping the slaver's sword. Didn't seem smart to walk around with that.

He paused and turned around, throwing the sword at the corpse. It landed in the mud a few feet away. With that done, he turned around.

A window in the apartment at the other end of the street had opened. A Dunmer woman stared at him, looking like she was about to scream.

"It's not what it looks like!" he yelled.

And then he ran to Treads as fast as his feet could take him, like all the daedra of Oblivon were chasing him.

This post has been edited by WellTemperedClavier: Jul 12 2025, 05:59 AM