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

[Darkness Eternal]

Postcard! An excerpt from one of my stories titled Tomorrow is Promised To No Man. This is part one. I'll post part two later on

=Tomorrow Is Promised To No Man=

Primo clutched his belly with one hand while he held an empty sack with the other as he trekked through the Great Forest with a tremendous pain knotting over his stomach. He walked weakly through the thickness of the shrubs tangled around his pigskin shoes. The wool covering the sides of his body offered little protection against the invasive branches that occasionally poked out to scratch him, as if saying his presence was unwelcome here.

The smallfolk hereabouts shunned the place; it was said to be haunted by the ghosts of people who were killed by some fell beast that had dwelled there. Primo heard about the legends of the forest, and about the victims, but ghosts did not frighten him. He used to hide in the crypts of Bravil when he was little, and play games of and monsters and maidens in cemeteries. Yet even so, the hair on the back of his neck stood up whenever he wandered deeper into the forest. He was thankful it wasn't night. Bad things happened at night.

The midday sun was enough to warm his skin from the gentle breeze blowing past him.

How strange, that even a breeze is making me uncomfortable, Primo thought. I guess being nearly starved to death makes everything pleasant feel that way. I wish I had some food. But beggars can't be choosers.

Primo pushed his way out into the clearing, past the overbearing congregation of trees and plants that nearly suffocated him. The ground beneath his feet gave way to greener and smoother pasture, and he realized he came into another person's territory.

A farm, he noted. He stopped, releasing his hand from his belly for just a second as he watched the pleasant sight before him; sheep, goats and cows wandered freely within the confines of a large wooden fence , while oxen plodded along the riverbank in search of grass. Not too far off he could see a lone cottage sitting there, smoking from the roof.

Smoking . . .

Fire . . .

Cooking . . .

The Imperial boy smiled widely. "Thank the Divines!"

His thanks could be doubled as his eyes saw a garden just beside the cottage. The garden could only have been blessed by the gods themselves. It was full of vegetables; carrots, garlic, leek and lettuce, potatoes and tomatoes. Not counting what he could find if he saw the other half had the cottage not obscured his view.
Primo cast a cautious look around him as he did many times before in the cities. But instead of guards or Imperial soldiers, he saw the fleeting glance from the grazing livestock all around him that were far too concerned in the grass beneath their noses than a starving lad in their midst.

In this part of Cyrodiil there were little guards and men of the law. No figures of authority to throw him in jail should he be tempted to grab a few crops. Most of the people here were commonfolk: crofters, fieldhands, fishermen, sheep and swineherds, the sons of innkeeps and traders, masons and tanners. There were no snotty highborn lords or merchant princes or counts here that would have him sent to the noose for so much as looking as a steaming chicken breast.

Here . . . they'd be too busy blaming it on foxes and rats.

They were poor folks, just like him. No bright future, no hopes of any grandeur. It wouldn't be right stealing from them. But he'd been so hungry, though, and the farm before him was too much a temptation. The bread and cheese he had stolen from an inn had given out six days ago, back in the thick of the wood many miles off.

They are farmers, thought Primo after some consideration. They have a home and food . . . I don't.

When his hunger demanded action, Primo sprung into a low sprint as he rushed to the cottage. The sheep scattered from his presence as he ran past them to the side of the building. The windows were open, and the smell of burning meat waved out of them to tempt his nose with tantalizing promise. His stomach reacted to it by crying and rumbling. The smell of roast mutton drifted from one cookfire, and at another he saw a boar turning on a wooden spit. He peeked further in and saw a man working it.

A tall man.

A very tall and muscular man.

Primo's eyes grew bigger as he analyzed the brute from head to toe. By Azura's teats, could one call this a man?

The Imperial in the cottage was the biggest Imperial he'd seen in his life. He looked to be in his mid thirties. He had straight black hair that hung down to his shoulders, and his skin was brown and leathery from a decade of exposure to the burning sun. There was nothing about his appearance to suggest he was a man of wealth or importance, yet Primo could sense his calm inner strength. The man's arms were as thick as his own head and through those arms veins ran under his skin like rivulets. His chest was broad and massive and hairy, but no visible scars were there. From what Primo could see, the man's face was clean-shaven yet it was thick with shadow. Even the inside of his ears seemed to be growing a lot of hair that looked more like fur than anything else.

His clothes were modest. His faded brown shirt was mended here and there with old leather patches, he had a woodman’s axe slung across his back. There was a patch of deerskin on the right shoulder, and the brown sackcloth pants he wore was frayed.

He was oblivious to Primo's presence as he focused on rotating the pig in the fire. Just beneath the giant was a timber wolf that had the attributes of a dog. The canine, too, was too busy slobbering at the sight of a spinning pig than the boy watching them through the window.

Sometimes, Primo thought, being ignored isn't always bad.

Primo bent again, and decided that it would be best to act now. While the man was inside, he could grab the crops and stuff them all in the sack and turn upon heel and bolt the hell out of there.

Alright, Primo. Go to the garden, steal the veggies and run as fast as you can.

The lad swallowed hard and took one more peek. The man was still there, rotating the swine while the vicious-looking wolfhound watched.

Now or never.

Primo ducked and snuck around the cottage and hopped over the fence and into soft soil. The farm was large and the garden was no different. The man probably wouldn't notice a few missing crops. Though he was skinny and malnourished, he had the unshakable confidence in himself that he could carry a heavy sack of food in his back. He had strength for that.

Primo began plucking the food from the dirt, ripping carrots and lettuce and everything else the black ground had to offer. One by one he stuffed them in the sack as quickly as he was able, only looking back to check if the giant man and his hound was there.

They weren't.

The lad smiled despite the feeling that his heart would give out from beating so fast. He would feed good today.

After two minutes or so Primo had a full sack of food. He tied the top and hauled it over his back. The hard part was done. All that was left now was to run into the forest, make for Lake Rumare and eat his food under the bridge. Maybe kill a mudcrab or two to add to the meal.

Damn begging for coin. Thieving is much more productive, yet risky.

Primo made his way around the cottage to make a dash for the direction where he came, but stopped just behind the corner of the house when he saw the man standing over a chopping-block. His huge hand dropped a heavy log that Primo knew for certain only two hands would be able to carry yet he did it effortlessly.

The man dropped the thick wood and raised the axe that was in his hand. The axe went high above his head, stood there for a second and came down with such quickness that Primo thought he had blinked. The thick wood chopped cleanly in half and the stub of the block splintered at the force of the blow.

Divines, this man is strong!

Primo watched the man do it once more and the sheer strength and speed was dumbfounding just as it was intimidating.

I better get out of here. I hope the man isn't quick on his feet as he's strong with that arm.

Primo turned around to run when he came face-to-face with a wrinkled muzzle and a set of white canines. He dropped the sack, fell back on his rump and began scrambling backwards. The hound was there, snarling at the thieving intruder. He wasn't happy and he was obviously hungry.

That makes two of us!

Primo scooted back and back while the dog advanced forward, jaws snapping and saliva spitting in all directions. The hound's eyes were wide and savage and mad. Its bark was loud, too loud.

"Shhh," Primo whispered reaching into the sack. He grabbed a potato and tossed it at the dog's snout. "Shhh. Here, take it."

The dog didn't so much as look at the vegetable. But it only enraged him more.

When he crept closer, Primo closed his eyes. He felt something grab him from behind. A pressure thickened and tightened around his neck and he was compelled to reopen his eyes. He was being dragged from the ground and the hound was running to pounce on him. Primo yelped but before the dog could bite him he felt his feet lift from the ground and up in the air.

"Down," said a harsh, throaty voice.

Primo tried to squirm but the grip on his neck was too strong. He kicked his feet to break free but to no avail. He was being taken away. "No, wait. I'm sorry! Sorry!"

Everything happened so quick and so fast that Primo had trouble registering it. All he felt was the weight loosen around his neck and the hard crunch of his chest on the chopping block. He looked up and saw that same Imperial man raise his axe in the air.

Primo froze. He couldn't move. He couldn't say a word. He didn't even blink.

The axe dropped.

It came down hard and swift.

Primo felt nothing but the wind in his ear and the sound of metal against wood. He looked to his side after a moment and saw a patch of his brown hair severed from his head, spread about the axe's sharp tip.

His hand flew to his head and felt a missing patch of hair there. I almost died. I almost died! He could've killed me!

He looked up at the man, and his face was even more terrifying than the dog. His eyes were a bright tint of honey, and his face was expressionless. Neither angry nor happy. Just plain.

The man folded his arms across his chest and stared down at him.

Everything darkened. Was it because the giant eclipsed the sun or because he losing consciousness?

Primo couldn't focus. The beating of his heart was louder than before, and he was quite sure his bladder failed to contain the fluids. His pants were soaked.

Apologize, Primo.

"I," he swallowed. "I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . ."

The Imperial stared. Not a word came from his lips. He didn't move a muscle. He could've been a statue.

A statue that just almost took my head off.

"You're trespassing," the man finally said low but gruff voice. "You came here uninvited. You tried to steal my crops."

Primo was at loss for words.

The Imperial bent down, snapped the axe from the wood and held it over his shoulder. "Lost your tongue, you little runt? Thieves that stole from me lost a lot more than that. What's your name, boy?"

"Pri--Primo."

The man sized him up. Surely thinking how skinny of a runt he was. How his arms looked like thin sickly branches in a winter's cold or how twig-like his body was. Maybe he was thinking how easy it would be to kill him then and there. The man's piercing eyes lowered, and so did his hand. He grabbed Primo by the collar of his shirt and hauled him up to his feet. His grip released, and Primo's legs felt like rubber.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve." Primo answered the Imperial. The man kept his eyes on him, and only occasionally looked from one direction to another all around him. Attentive and alert. Maybe he was looking to see if there was anyone else there. Maybe accomplices that would threaten to steal his food.

"You look hungry."

Primo's stomach just remembered, and so did he. He nodded gently, still feeling the hot mess between his legs and further down at the sides. He felt his face flush at the yellow puddle gathered around his feet.

"Get my crops from that sack and bring them inside."

Inside is where there's meat to be had.

The thought of hot food made Primo's belly rumble, but he didn’t trust this man. Not everyone who spoke to him friendly was really his friend. Especially after they nearly damn decapitated him over some lousy crops.

What he might be really doing is trying to lure me inside so he can cook me! But would he need to try and use words? With big hands like that, all he could do is just toss me into a damn cauldron and stir me as stew.

He thought to say no to the man, but because of his hunger and his fear, he only obliged. He nodded, picked up the full sack and walked to the side of the man's cottage. When he turned around, the man was there staring at him with those eyes of his. The dog, standing at the man's side like a loyal hound, did just the same.

They uttered no word or sound but the look in their eyes said Don't you dare try to run. If you do, we'll catch you.

The lad felt a cold in the pit of his stomach.

See Primo, this is what hunger gets you.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 23 2019, 03:25 AM