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

[Renee]

Buffy, eh? Ha. So... you're the slight elf I've seen here and there, from a distance and sometimes up close. Roaming around Cyrodiil on your fancy steed, tempering your latest fancy bow, assisting those who need it, and punishing those who get in your way. Uh... 'tempering'. Probably not the correct term. Hey, I'm not the adventuring type! Prob'ly I'd shoot myself before I could hit anything with that gleaming piece on your back.





You don't know me, but now I know you, and uh.... maybe we should keep it that way. I've been known by many names: Kasmir, Vincent the Spice Merchant, Bargo the Redguard, and so on. But my real name's gotta stay a secret for now. Just until that guard over there stalks off. Guards, ya know...?

Hmm. Seems like he's looking right at me. Uh oh. He is! Hey, gotta run. You know how it is! ... Hmm, well maybe you don't.

[Acadian]

[Acadian]

Dear Jerric,

Has it been another year already? I hope your birthday finds you enjoying perhaps a day of cliff diving followed by an evening of cake, mead and tavern maids.

I think of you often and always imagine you in some cold snowy place.

Be well and enjoy your day, my friend.

Fondly, Buffy

[Grits]

Dear Buffy,

Your kind birthday greetings put a smile in my heart. You reminded me how we both enjoy a waterfall, though you dance at the bottom while I hurtle off the top. Come to think of it, we have a few other things in common. We’re both sun-tops, sometimes don’t fit on Imperial furniture, and— Well, there’s a page in Darnand’s notebook about it. I’ve been telling him my stories. Here it is.

Sweet water and good hunting to you, dear Buffy.

Your friend,

Jerric


***

20 Sun’s Dusk, 3E421
Kvatch

Jerric jogged down the stairs in his socks, remembering to be quiet until he hit the bottom and slid where Marcus had spilled the floor wax last spring. He could hear the woodcutter’s lass already stacking the day’s supply into the wood box. He moved easily through the rooms in the near dark. After all he had lived in this house his entire life. Eighteen years to the day.

Birthdays at home meant a family dinner. All who were in town would gather this evening to celebrate, tease him, and enjoy his favorite meal. Jerric’s favorite meal was to be surprised, so even he didn’t know what they were having. That would be tonight. This morning he had plans.

Rhano wasn’t going to like it. Their friendship had been strained since the summer. Rhano had joined the Fighters Guild when he turned eighteen as the two of them had always planned to do. Jerric had taken a few days off to stay with him in Anvil. They had moved Rhano’s things into his new quarters and then gone out to celebrate.

Their festivities began at the Frisky Kitten but swiftly moved to the Castle Anvil dungeon courtesy of the City Watch. In the morning they stood before the constable in their torn and bloodied best tunics, explaining the altercation at the brothel, the brawl in the street, and then the fight inside their jail cell. Rhano’s career with the Fighters Guild had begun with a reprimand and probation. Jerric had tried to pay back Rhano’s birthday money since their fines were mostly Jerric’s fault. His friend wouldn’t take it. Rhano was still angry.

Jerric’s boots and cloak were on the side door bench. Wary of birthday pranks, he approached with uncharacteristic caution. One boot had a sweet roll stuffed into the toe, and the other held about an inch of apple jelly. He guessed the jelly was Willem’s doing, but the sweet roll could have been anyone. His cloak was neatly stitched together the whole way down the front. That was surely his Ma’s handiwork. He chuckled as he stepped into Willem’s boots, licking jelly off his fingers. So far they hadn’t slowed him down. He tossed the sweet roll to the nearest dog and slipped cloakless into the frosty morning.

It took a quarter of an hour to reach the market stalls and get his breakfast. Plenty of time to flirt with the kahve sellers, then chat with the bookseller sweeping her step, and then buy kahve and a roll for the city guard heading home from her night shift. Of course it would have been rude to let her eat alone, so he had another.

The sky was pinkening when he reached the familiar broad steps. Inside, the scents of solvents, herbs, and ancient books made him grin. This must be the best-smelling guild hall in Cyrodiil. In Kvatch they made the necromancers practice outside the city.

A blonde woman strode into the entry as if on the way through to another chamber. Her gown was brilliant blue and made of velvet, marking her as a noble or a member of the intellectual class. She wasn’t much older than he was, but she already held respectable rank.

She stopped when she saw him. “Jerric! You’re out late.” She took in his fresh shave and clean shirt. “Or is it already morning?”

Jerric kept his gaze on her warm smile and not on her neckline. “Hello, Sigrid,” he said. “Today’s the day! I’m here to join the Mages Guild.”

[ghastley]

“Jerric! You’re out late.”

That's Jerric, all right!

She took in his fresh shave and clean shirt.

That's not!

[Acadian]

What a fun snippet that Darnand managed to capture, highlighting both Jerric and Buffy are in the same guild.

A birthday dinner to mark the big day! Better than an apple jelly and sweet roll a la boot breakfast.

’Their festivities began at the Frisky Kitten but swiftly moved to the Castle Anvil dungeon courtesy of the City Watch.’

Joining the Mages Guild is a wise choice. After all, he and Rhano have pretty much sullied their reputations with the Fighters Guild.

Sounds like Sigrid has already given Jerric the ‘Hey! My eyes are up here!’ talk.

[treydog]

A little something from my current work in progress... which progress may be delayed for a while as a tree limb I was cutting knocked my "need them to see" glasses off of my face, which fact I failed to notice until I took a step which culminated in a nice, expensive "crunch." Sigh.

--------------------------
As I was getting ready for bed, I heard an insistent scratching at the door. When I opened it, one of the Vagabond's resident cats, a yellow tabby, strolled in as if she owned the place and promptly jumped up onto the foot of the bed. "Fine," I told her, "but if you start talking to me, you're going out the window."

* * * * *

The next morning, I heard a knock on the door, and opened it to find Amerie standing in the hall holding a tray which in turn bore a large mug and a stoneware pot, from which wafted the life-saving scent of tea. The girl surprised me when she said, “Princess! There you are!” I wondered where she had expected me to be and even more why she thought it was a good idea to address me by that title, especially first thing in the morning. I then realized she was looking past my shoulder at the cat, which was seated on the end of the bed, licking one paw and eyeing the proceedings intently. As she placed the tray on the table, Amerie said, “Good morning, Athynae. I see you have already met her royal highness, Princess Marmalade.” She nodded to indicate my uninvited feline guest and went on, “I will be right back with some hot water for the wash basin and then Ma asked if you would like to come down to the kitchen to eat.” I didn't trust myself to speak any language known to Man or Muintir before having my first sip of tea, so I just nodded an affirmative. I tended to begin most days mutely, but on this occasion it didn't help that Amerie was one of those strange people who woke up bright and cheerful, with joy in her heart and a song on her lips. There was something deeply disturbing about that sort of behavior at any time, but especially when the sun had hardly risen.

The cat seemed to agree, for she made no attempt to follow Amerie, but instead jumped over to the table. I rescued the mug before she could put her paw or nose into it, and brought it to my lips for a deep swallow. The yellow tabby opened her mouth slightly and I waited, thinking she was about to say something. Having animals talk to me had become all too common. When the cat remained silent, I decided that she was perhaps being polite, which would make her the most unusual cat I had ever encountered. “So how did you end up with a name like 'Princess' anyway?” I asked. “And do you like it?” I gestured with my mug and added, “It has never been my cup of tea.” She apparently did not appreciate the joke, as she ignored me and curled herself around the warmth of the stoneware teapot. I had heard of “tea cozies” but never one that had four feet and a tail. “Look, if it's warmth you want, you're welcome to get back in the bed,” I pointed out.

Princess Marmalade stood up, but rather than jumping back onto the bed, she reached a paw to tap on the lid of the teapot. “What are you doing?” I asked. She responded with a more insistent paw tap and a single loud, “Meow!” which someone with less acute hearing might have mistaken for, “Tea! Now!”

I shook my head and replied, “I don't think so. I'm not sure tea is good for cats.” She “mrrped” at me and put her head against the pot, beginning to push it toward the edge of the table. “Now stop that,” I said. “There's no need to be rude. And besides, if you spill my tea, I will turn you into a fur hat.”

She sat back and looked at me, golden eyes blinking slowly. I threw my hands up, being careful not to spill the bit of tea left in my mug. “Look, Domina Princess Cat, if you want something, speak up. You won't be the first animal who has talked to me. In fact, most of them can't seem to shut up.” When she remained mute, I quipped, “I would ask if the cat's got your tongue, but that would be both obvious and redundant.” That comment was greeted with a disdainful sniff, but nothing more. At last I relented and placed a saucer on the table and poured in just a bit of tea, along with a generous splash of cream.

While she lapped from the saucer, I pondered aloud, “Maybe not all creatures speak Wealian. Or maybe they have to be on Inis Sneachta to gain the power of speech. Or possibly I'm just losing my mind. Whatever the answer, it is still Athlain's fault.” The furry princess ignored my rambling, sitting back back and cleaning her whiskers with a paw. Since she did not seem inclined to interrupt me, I mused, “Maybe what I need is to have a mind wizard examine my head. However, I don't know anyone I trust enough to go poking around in there. Except maybe for Mother, but that doesn't seem like a good idea, either. I have a few thoughts in my head that she never needs to see.”

That reminded me that I had left the copies of Mother's journals that I had “borrowed” back on the Wave Dancer. Maybe I could make a start on them during the return voyage to Sneachta. On the other hand, I wondered whether they contained anything I really had to know. I understood the need for secrets, truly. But... I just felt that the journals might hold information that would help me do my job as head of Special Investigations, facts of which I was as yet unaware. And perhaps the key to the recent skulduggery and chaos was hidden in those pages. Maybe, having lived through the events, Mother was too close to the problem to see it. I marked it down as one more task on my ever-growing list of duties. And it seemed to be one of the few bits of evidence I could examine while I was being excluded from participating in the investigation more directly. I poured myself the last of the tea and shrugged. Delving into the past could wait. For the moment, I needed to get back to the ship so I could round up a certain naive, annoying, and most of all – vulnerable – young “Lady” and take steps to ensure her safety.

Once Her Royal Highness Domina Marmalade was certain that there was no more tea, she returned to the bed, curled into a ball, and soon began to snore in a manner most unbecoming of a princess. She did not even stir when Amerie tapped on the door and entered with a pitcher of warm water. “Ma says you just have time to scrub the top layer, else she'll toss your breakfast to the goats.” Her laughter told me that Rion wasn't serious, but even so, I did not linger over my ablutions. I gave my face and hands a good wash with the cloth, then tied my hair into a loose knot before I collected my weapons and headed for the back stairs. I had gone only a few steps when the cat appeared and proceeded to saunter along in front of and then behind me, weaving between my feet as I navigated the narrow space.

“I don't really need to practice my balance and acrobatics, thank you all the same,” I told her. “Just count yourself lucky that I have already had enough tea to be awake. Otherwise, Rion would be serving flat cat cakes for breakfast.” If my escort had any thoughts on the matter, she kept them to herself.

* * * * *

Rion apparently decided that my breakfast needed to make up for all the meals I had “missed” in the four years since I had last seen her. Every time I made to rise from the table, she waved her wooden spoon at me like a scepter and insisted, “Just a bit more, love. You need to put meat on your bones if you want to attract a fellow.” She laughed and clapped her free hand on her own ample hip, adding, “How do you think I convinced Merl to settle down?”

Around a mouthful of egg, I mumbled, 'Don't need to attract anyone. 'M a warrior.”

“Oh fiddle! Just because Merl is handy with a blade doesn't mean he has to go through life alone.” She shook the spoon again and said, “And that's just what I told him, more than 30 years ago. Oh yes, he would come dragging in, bruised and bloody, even skinnier than you are now. And I would feed him up and tend his hurts.” She sighed at the memory. “Though we lead the life we do it doesn't mean there's no room for love.” I stuffed a piece of warm bread into my mouth to avoid saying what I thought about “love,” barely managing to avoid rolling my eyes. By the time Rion was done making sure I had “enough to keep body and soul together” it was my entire body that was in danger of “rolling,” at least that was how it felt. I was at last able to push away from the table and barely suppressed a groan as she called out, “Be sure and come back for lunch. We're making a fine hunter's stew. And Amerie is baking bread to go with it.” I was almost out the door when she came up and handed me a cloth-covered basket. Beaming at me, she said, “Berry muffins to tide you over until midday.”

As I made my escape, I contemplated the basket of fresh-baked doom encumbering my left hand. The sight called forth a memory from the early days of my warrior training....

Notes:

Athynae- your reluctant narrator, daughter of Serene and Athyn.

Amerie- Daughter of Merl and Rion, proprietor and cook at the Vagabond's Rest, an inn/tavern in the capitol city.

Inis Sneachta- “The Island of Snow,” home to wolves, bears, Northlandians, and – for the moment – Athynae's best friend, Athlain.

Muintir- Otherwise known as "elves."

[Acadian]

Sorry to hear about your glasses / tree mishap.

*

Wonderful to see some more A&A fiction!

What a delight, hearing Athynae’s thoughts and observations of her night/morning at the Vagabond inn. Mind Wizard? How clever, though I agree she certainly does not need Serene poking around in there. Is there a Princess Marmalade series of stories in the works? Perhaps after Athynae gets too fattened up by Rion to roll out the door.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Sep 9 2025, 10:24 PM

[treydog]

Good news in re making a spectacle of myself- the optician was able to repair the damaged frames (the lenses were intact). Better still, she didn't charge me anything for remedying my lack of caution.

-----
Hmmm... "Princess Marmalade's Adventures at the Vagabond's Rest"? I would be more likely to write a story from Fafnir the dwarf onnie's perspective... which would read quite a bit like Athynae in terms of attitude...

Glad you enjoyed this little snapshot into the adventures of A&A (and Marmalade).

[Burnt Sierra]

Good news in re making a spectacle of myself- the optician was able to repair the damaged frames (the lenses were intact). Better still, she didn't charge me anything for remedying my lack of caution.

Good news indeed. Always nice when mistakes don't end up costing a fortune!

Around a mouthful of egg, I mumbled, 'Don't need to attract anyone. 'M a warrior.”

But how on earth are warriors supposed to go about their daily lives of...warrioring (real word, honest), when encumbered by so much food? No wonder she referred to "the basket of fresh-baked doom."

“besides, if you spill my tea, I will turn you into a fur hat.”

That must be some good tea! I thought I was particular with it. Must be some English genetics in there somewhere

Always a pleasure to get to read your work, and hope you're well!

[treydog]

Your point about not being able to ... warrior... is precisely what concerns our over-stuffed Athynae. But the food is so... good.

As for the tea, it is the Domhanian equivalent of Arcturian Super Black (Borderlands 3). And even if elves don't sleep, SOME of them DO need a major kick-start in order to face the day.

Thank you, my friend.

[Grits]

I’m glad the spectacles spectacle turned out all right.

Amerie must be a brave soul indeed to bring the day’s first tea to Athynae and then immediately speak!

Whatever the answer, it is still Athlain's fault.

Domina Princess Marmalade is a delight.

Oooh I have been waiting forever for Athynae to read Serene’s journals! I hope she added that to the top of her list!


What a lovely surprise to get to preview this scene.

[Acadian]

I reread the letter I had been working on –


My Dear Friend Jerric,

I hope this note finds you well on your birthday! I don’t know much about mead but I wanted to gift you a bottle. I talked to Ciceri the Bold – guildmagister at the Windhelm branch - and she suggested a bottle Voljar Spice Mead. I visited the nearby meadery where they make it and they let me try a sip. Well, when I awoke and they helped me back to my feet, they told me my reaction was normal for a Bosmer lass and meant the mead had a proper ‘kick’. They assured me a strapping Nord such as yourself would have no such problem. I left the bottle with Ciceri at the guildhall until you can stop by to pick it up. Enjoy!

I’ve been keeping busy helping my tribe in the Great Tree and our guild of mages. A Knight Arcana’s work is never done!

Enjoy your special day, and please try to make sure any cliffs or bridges you leap off have plenty of water below.

With fondest wishes,

Buffy


I dipped my quill then affixed my signature.

Acadian chuckled. “You seem to rather fancy him, do you not?”

I didn’t need to see my face to feel the color rising right up to the tips of my ears. “Well. . . despite Jerric being rather a burly Nord, I very much appreciate that he has always treated me like a lady. And I do confess a bit of fluster when he runs around without his shirt on. I mean, not that he would ever be interested in a scrawny wood elf. That said, I think he and Abiene are sweet on each other; she’s a member of the Mages Guild though, and guildmates don’t steal from each other.” After a moment, I added, “And paladins don’t tease each other.”

I then rolled the parchment up into a scroll and activated its magicka while concentrating intently on Jerric. With a gentle blossom of lavender magicka, it transformed into a white dove and was quickly aloft and enroute.

[Grits]

Dearest Buffy,

Imagine my joy when a little dove found me right as I jumped off of Frostbreak Ridge. It's in Wrothgar, have you been there? The fishing is great! Anyway she followed me down and delivered her message when I climbed out of the water. Your kind birthday wishes warmed me all the way through, even barefoot on the ice as I was.

Voljar Spiced Mead! You were brave to try a sip! When I was a lad they used to tell us it would put hair on our chests. Well I don't know if mead was responsible, but something sure did. I hope you suffered no ill effects from your brief trip to the floor and back. I can assure you I've made that trip many times and stayed down a lot longer. When I'm next in Windhelm I'll visit Ciceri first and pick up your kind gift to me. When the day's work is done assuming I've survived I'll head out to the bridge and toast your health and our friendship. Wherever you are, we'll be under the same moons. Maybe you'll be looking at them too.

Many thanks for the mead. I look forward to enjoying its spicy kick with warm thoughts of you. Shade and sweet water to you, dear Buffy. And as ever, good hunting.

Your friend,

Jerric


***

Here's a postcard from a very different birthday.


Sun's Dusk, 3E433

When the last dremora fell she took Jerric down with her. He slipped again pulling his blade out. No time to heal. Something could be coming. Slow steps to the column of flames. The sigil stone shook in his hand. If he let go would the Gate still close? Could he just let the fire take him?

Not this time. The platform lurched and he started to fall, then he was the wind roaring down through the tower, into the nameless dark, and back out under the shattered skies of Tamriel.

He fell to his knees and one hand, but that arm could no longer hold him. The sigil stone made a cracking sound against the buckled ground, now baked into blistered glass from the Oblivion Gate's heat. He fumbled for his day pack. A rag and the rest of his water. Now he could see. Now he could swallow.

Nothing had changed in the days he had been in there. The clannfear still slumped in a blackened pool of its own guts. The scamps lay in pieces where he had left them. No flies buzzed on the daedric corpses. Nothing came for him out of the trees.

He wrapped the sigil stone and carried it to his packs. First he had to deal with this arm. He had straightened the bone and healed it back in the Deadlands, and now he worked on knitting the rest of the flesh. There was still something near the bone where he'd had to close the wound over it. He didn't have the skill to tell what it was nor the spell to remove it. If it festered, it would solve all of his problems for him.

Like food. And he needed more water. But before that, rest. He stumbled into the trees and scraped a pile of leaves together. He was too tired for a fire, too tired to look for his horse. He hunkered down near a boulder with his packs at his back and weapons at hand, then pulled the leaf litter and pine straw over him. If it snowed he'd consider it a blanket. Tonight he was in Kyne's hands.

Velvet lips and prickly whiskers woke him. His horse Flash had returned.

The arm ached in a way that wanted attention, but there was no heat from the wound more than should be there. Jerric drank from a stream and ate mushroom caps as they walked, with some late season motherwort stems in case he was wrong about the mushrooms. There were still summer bolete to be found, and clouded funnel caps. The blue entoloma he picked went into his day pack. He wanted to mix potions soon, and that meant a campfire. But he needed to find something more substantial to eat. It had been days. He could feel it in his legs. Even the cold was starting to creep in. Sometimes he could get lucky and antagonize a small boar into attacking him. He was in no shape for that type of encounter now.

Follow the stream, then follow the river. It always worked. He came out of the woods into a broad valley. Sheep dotted the hillsides around a village. Only one road went away over the ridge. There was no wall, just wattle fences around the gardens. They may not have an armorer, but someone would have a forge and anvil. He needed help with repairs. And someone to tend the wounds he couldn't properly clean.

Something was happening on the village green. Jerric led Flash between the houses, keeping his hands away from his weapons.

An older man stood in a dooryard, arguing with a young woman. "Not today," he pleaded. "Give it a night and think about it! You can go if it's still a good decision in the morning."

She had a blanket rolled over her shoulder, a satchel hung at her side, and probably her best boots on. "If not today, then when? When another Gate opens and the daedra come? I didn't have the gold to buy a blade on Warrior's Festival, but by Stendarr I will have one tomorrow when you'd have me still thinking on it."

"Tonia," he said quietly. "You're all I have."

"I love you, Papa." She threw her arms around him, then pushed quickly back. "Please give me your blessing. At least let me carry that with me."

Jerric kept walking. He could see them now, the county militia, organizing the handful of youngsters and a few oldsters who came running with whatever goods they thought they'd need to take to war. A few parents, some proud, some turning away, one careworn woman striding with purpose to line up beside what must be one of her own.

A white-haired man chopped wood near a cottage step, his back to the proceedings. Someone inside the house next door was weeping.

Jerric couldn't find the words to greet him.

The man looked him over, axe in hand. "You ain't with the militia. Help you, mister?"

"I need food," Jerric said. "I can't pay you, but I can trade."

The man walked in through the open cottage door, still holding the axe.

Jerric stood with Flash, listening to the murmur of contented chickens. Clean linens waved on the washline. A dog barked somewhere on the other side of the green, answered by another. He remembered sleeping under a roof. He remembered the feel of his bed. Light streaming in through clean windows, laughter, and the smell of hearth-bread. His own dog's chin pressing into his knee. Young voices clamoring for attention at the end of a workday. All gone, now. Gone to ash.

The man came out holding a rough-stitched sack. It smelled of ham and apples.

"Let me cut some wood for you," Jerric said.

"Just take it." The man held it at arm's length. "And best you move on. There's strange folk and rough ones about these days, but I ain't seen none that looks rougher than you."

Jerric took the bag. "Thank you. When was Warrior's Festival?"

"Two days ago."

I'm thirty years old then, by Imperial reckoning, Jerric thought. I'm the eldest in my family. And the youngest. He looked down through the village for a long moment, and at the road that led away over the hills. Away to somewhere. Then he turned and led Flash back into the trees.

.

This post has been edited by Grits: Nov 21 2025, 12:01 AM

[Acadian]

What a poignant 30th birthday - the youngest. . . and the oldest of his family after that Oblivion gate. Gulp.

Buffy and I certainly hope Jerric's current birthday is memorable for only good things. And no sigil stones!