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

[treydog]

Yes- well... (shuffles feet and looks around). First- many thanks to Grits for creating this space. And for allowing the rest of us to borrow it. Which I plan to do in just a moment.

The first character who appears in this "not-a-story" should be familiar to some of you... As to the work itself, I have no clear idea of where it will go, if anywhere. And that is my reason for putting this fragement here. Happy reading!

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Somewhere, Divayth Fyr was laughing. The ancient wizard had understood the price of immortality, and the long list of things one should not do with it. Like fall in love. Or father children. It was all ash now, ash and dust.

“Baria,” he whispered, marveling at how a wound could hurt so much, even centuries later. It was another “miracle,” a wound so painful it should have been fatal, but was not. That would have been too easy. His hand strayed to the well-worn hilt of his dagger, squeezed convulsively, and then relaxed.

“That door is shut,” he reminded himself, as he had done before, times beyond counting. She had exacted that promise from him, the last promise.

“Swear to me. Swear! Upon your honor and upon your love for me.”

And, of course, he had. He could deny her nothing. Even so, he had courted death in a hundred provinces, in a thousand ways. But… he could not bring himself to cheat, to close his eyes and welcome the end. He was no justiciar, to quibble over petty points. It did not matter what hand held the blade, if he simply gave himself to it.

So he continued, even though scars covered scars and faded with time. Time. Yes. The great enemy. More elusive even than death. It was Time that brought him here, or rather the avatar of Time. Akatosh. Whispers came to one who had all the days of the turning of the Mundus to listen, to sort, to link myth with legend with rumor.

The Empire tottered, poised on the edge of collapse. Once he had vowed to dance on its grave, but now… now he knew there was something worse. Which was why he found himself crossing the Jerall Mountains, following a scrap of history so thin as to be transparent. Or perhaps, if the words of the seers were true, it was his blood calling him home. No matter the reason, Trey was going to Skyrim.

* * * * *

Akavir was long ago, but he still remembered the Tsaesci. Even after he got over being startled by their appearance, he had trouble with their way of thinking. Except for the part about honor and obligation. That he understood, even if he was never entirely certain what impulse had sent him to that place, beyond a desire to go far from Morrowind.

And so he had missed most of Dagon’s War; had not been there to help the children. It was just as well, though. How much help did they really need- from a reformed thief who despised the Empire and refused to even carry a sword? So they found themselves in the middle of the crisis- just as their parents had done 20 years before. But at least they had had a bit more choice in the matter- if anyone who had fallen under the gaze of the Daedra ever really had a choice.

He wondered where they were now and what they were doing. Giving fits to the Thalmor, most likely, if it was up to Athynae. And his son- well, Athlain might have resigned from the Legion, but he had not given up all he had learned on his way to a knighthood. If Athynae was looking to put a spoke in the wheel of the Thalmor wagon, Athlain would be right there beside her, White Gold Concordiat or no.

One could serve the Empire without agreeing with all its decisions. And councils were more limited in their choices than individuals. If the youngsters were trying to tie a kink into the Thalmor’s bellies, maybe he would meet them, and lend a hand. It would be good to see them, even though it would probably break his heart all over again.

He was so distracted by thoughts of that imagined reunion that his first hint of the ambush was the blade leveled at his throat. He did some rapid calculations- the sword was steady and it had not spilled his life- yet. So- a professional- and one who wanted him alive. Which meant it was time to be very still- a promise was still a promise, no matter how many years had passed. Only his eyes moved, studying the hand that held the blade. Olive-skinned, battle-worn, with a few scars among the calluses. An Imperial. Confirmed a moment later by the calm voice that commented, “Don’t know what you think you are doing here, Breton, but this is a Stormcloak smuggler’s route. And my orders are to catch anyone coming across the mountains. Now that you’ve sprung our trap, my patrol has our quota, so we’re going to bind your hands and load you on the cart with the rest of the bag.”

The Legion veteran suited word to deed and then told his men, “Mount up; we’re going to Helgen.”