New Life and Saturalia, Celebrating Chorrol's 20th Anniversary Options

[Acadian]

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!”

[Burnt Sierra]

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."