A Holy War Options

[Colonel Mustard]

I'm not going to say that this was inspired by Destri and H.E.R's stories, but…

This is totally your fault, guys.

A Holy War

Recommended listening - Mutilate, by Archive

Chapter I - Surrender
Dela started her day by sketching the city.

Stick of charcoal in her hand, she caught the shapes of empty Vivec’s cantons as they loomed from the dawn mist. She snatched the image from the morning light like a child grabbing an insect from the air and pinning it into a case. Later, she knew, the balconies of the huge pyramid buildings would be thronging with people, vendors selling wares from stalls, children running and playing, Ordinators on patrol in their magnificent golden armour and plumed helmets. The guards had always made her think of birds, the gaudy ones which flitted between the hanging fronds of the mushroom trees, puffing up their chests and displaying colourful feathers to win a mate.

There was a sense of outrage welling in her breast as she reproduced her view of a city which left her amazed. A sun of fury burned in her being with that wonder, a swelling tumour of anger, rage that this place could be so quiet and calm after all that had happened. For a moment Dela stopped her sketching, staring out at the city with her fingers gripping the charcoal.

With the faint ringing of a miniscule bell, the charcoal stick rattled on the floor and Dela cursed as she saw the fine fragments of grey powder that coated her finger. Sighing and brushing the particles off her hand, she picked the charcoal up and resumed her work with the end that wasn’t crushed. The mist that lay lethargic over the city became a smudge that consumed her page’s horizon and the furthest part of the cantons, the buildings’ lines emerging from the fog like clarity from confusion.

Accompanied by the sound of a faint splash, singing echoed up from a canal. Dela glanced down the sandstone slope of the Hlaalu Canton’s sides, craning over her windowsill to see a gondolier splashing through the water. Dipping his paddle into the water, raising it up again to swivel over his head like some warrior in combat whirling an axe or spear, the boatman guided his long, flat vessel through Vivec’s waterways. As he went, he sang, a low and slow song of mourning. The words were lost in the distance they travelled to Dela’s ear, but she recognised the tune.

“Tribunal three, we beseech thee,” she chanted along with him, voice low as she followed the melody of the gondolier’s prayer-drone. “Scholar guide, general guard, mother comfort. Watch the one we lay before you, carry them safe in your arms, bear them home.”

Who do you sing that for? she wondered. Everyone?

She added the gondolier to her sketch out of sympathy, capturing him as he stooped low and drew his paddle from the water. He was a formless outline in her drawing, nothing more than the flat cone of his hat and the column of his cloak, wielding his paddle. With the final detail of her sketch completed, Dela placed it on her desk, the chalk resting alongside it. She tugged the bell-pull that hung from the sandstone wall of her bedroom and busied herself with putting her sketch away into a guar-leather binder. The binder held her charcoal drawings of Vivec’s mornings, along with the one sketch she could never bring herself to look at.

“Mistress called?”

“Ah, Ta’varda, good morning,” Dela said, glancing towards the slight, ash-coloured khajiit who had appeared at the doorway. “I was about to prepare for the day. I was thinking the blue robe today, the one from Balmora, and the dark green moccasins to go with them.”

Ta’varda dipped her head, the chain collar she wore clinking with the movement.

“Of course, mistress,” she said. “Shall khajiit fetch some hackle-lo tea?”

“You didn’t bring it?”

“I am sorry, mistress, but khajiit was still doing her chores. She did not expect mistress to call for her so early in the morning.”

“You’re right,” Dela said. “Never mind, I’ll have some later with breakfast.”

“Of course, mistress.”

Bowing low once more, Dela’s hand-slave retreated. Dela spent her time staring out at the watery streets of her home city, absent and distant. After a moment, she dragged herself from her reverie; she wasn’t in a safe space right now and she couldn’t afford to lose herself, spend too much time in contemplation. Getting pulled back down again, as deep as the last time, that was dangerous. She couldn’t afford to do that.

She stood up, the motion decisive, striding to the dresser. Picking up her hairbrush, she began to pull it through the strands, sitting down once more. There was a determination in her movements. She had to do something, anything, just not spend too long sitting around in one spot. She would paint something, she decided, colour her sketch. She would need ochres for the sandstone of the cantons, a good amount of grey for the mist, and for the water. Would Aldano’s be open at this time in the morning? Probably not, but she could always send Ta’Varda out a bit later on that errand, once she had completed her chores. She would wile away the time by reading until then. Perhaps Odanris would be awake once she was dressed. If he wasn’t working, it would be nice to spend some time with him, though she suspected that he would be busy today. Of all days, she was sure today would be one of his busiest. Ta’Varda could keep her company, though.

She was deathly afraid of spending too much time alone today. There was no knowing what she might do.

“Come in, Ta’Varda.” The khajiit entered from where she had knocked at the doorframe of Dela’s room, carrying her mistress’ clothes. She rose as the khajiit approached, and Ta’Varda placed the robe down as she went to help Dela out of the shift she had slept in. As the slave helped her dress, Dela looked out at the quiet city beyond her window. “Why is it so silent out there?”

“Mistress?”

“Why aren’t there people in the streets? Why aren’t there protests?” she said. “There should be people out there rioting. They should be kicking down doors, they should be burning things. This city should be screaming, Ta’Varda, but it’s just so…quiet.”

“Are you planning on doing anything like that, mistress?” Ta’Varda asked.

“No, of course not,” Dela said. “It’s just this silence, this sleepiness, nothing about it feels right. We should be outraged. We’ve…we’ve lost, Ta’Varda, we’ve given up everything. Our sovereignty, our pride as a nation, we’ve given it all away. Everything we sacrificed was for nothing.”

“People are still digesting it, mistress,” Ta’Varda said.

“I suppose you’re right. The shock must still be sinking in.”

It would make sense. After all, today was only the day after the treaty had been signed. Morrowind had been a nation under Tiber Septim’s rule for less than twenty four hours. So far, Vivec’s most vehement protest had been a few stones pitched at those souls unlucky enough to deliver the news, and the odd scuffles with the guards. There would be more trouble for a while, Dela was sure, but for what Ta’Varda said made sense; the city was still wrapping its collective head around this, digesting the news while it remained stunned and rocked back on its haunches.

“Do you think he’ll visit?” Dela asked as Ta’Varda helped her into her robe.

“Who, mistress?” the khajiit asked, tying the robe’s gold-threaded belt tight.

“Tiber Septim. Ysmir, Talos Stormcrown, whatever title he’s given himself now.” Dela gave a chortle of bitter amusement. “Maybe he’ll even think of a new one now he’s the ruler of Morrowind. He’s bound to come here sooner or later, to visit his latest conquest. There’ll be diplomatic matters to deal with, no doubt, maybe some kind of grand ceremony to hammer home the message of this treaty.”

“Message?”

“‘We own you dunmer now. Your armies have failed you and so have your gods. Your nation is ours now’.”

“They might be good owners,” Ta’Varda said. “Tiber Septim’s conquered territories seem to be doing well, do they not? You might have been conquered by a bad man, rather than this good one.”

Dela sighed. She supposed that Ta’Varda had more experience with being owned and controlled than Dela ever would.

As if sensing that she had hit a nerve, and well aware that her position in the household was dependent on Dela’s good will, Ta’Varda added; “But Khajiit can see why mistress would be upset by this.”

“Thank you,” Dela said. “You’re right, though, it’s just, after everything, with Edroth…” she cut herself off. “Are you going into town later today, Ta’Varda?”

“Khajiit had some errands to run, yes,” Ta’Varda nodded.

“Ah, good. While you’re there could you go to Aldano’s, please? I need some pigments to be picked up. I’ll give you a list.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

Once she was dressed, Dela made her way to the master bedroom. Odranris was still asleep in their bed, and Dela smiled as she saw the expression her husband wore, the faint open-lipped pout of sleep. There was an innocence in that look that she couldn’t help but find immensely endearing, one that was never present when he was awake, that expression was one of canny drive and intense calculation.

He stirred when Dela shook his shoulder, blinking awake.

“Dela,” he said. His red eyes flicked up and down as he took in his wife’s state of dress. “How long have you been up?” Those same eyes took a gleam of concern. “You did sleep, didn’t you?”

“I’ve only been awake an hour or so,” Dela said. “I was sketching.”

“Fine,” Odranris nodded. He stretched and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his broad, blue-grey palms. “One of your city sketches?”

“I’m sending Ta’Varda around to fetch some pigments for it later,” Dela said. “I’m going to turn it into a full painting. Today feels like it should be recorded.”

“Today is going to be busy, certainly,” Odranis said, propping himself up on his elbows. “There’s a whole army of Imperial bureaucrats and clerks descending on the city, wanting to talk about tariffs and imports and exports and all that. Visceral, thrilling stuff, but the Council want it dealt with now.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Dela said. “So it’s business as usual, isn’t it?”

“Who doesn’t want that?” Odanris said. “We’re far away from the front lines for business as usual to be the form of the day. Better that than the mess they’re in in Mournhold. Besides, making money hand over fist is the Hlaalu way, and in the Council’s eyes the sooner we can re-establish trade with Cyrodiil the better.”

He hauled himself out of bed, shaking his head to try and wake himself up like a Guar trying to dislodge ticks.

“When’s breakfast?” he asked, and that was when Dela realised that he was glad the war was over, even if Tiber Septim had won. The urge to confront him over it rose, but Dela quashed it. This wasn’t a morning where she wanted to argue.

Once Ta’Varda had the asked-for pigments, she would paint.



This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Oct 12 2014, 04:46 PM

[SubRosa]

This is a nice, atmospheric piece. You really bring home the feel of Vivec City, and like Dela, paint us a lovely picture.

Ahh, so it is set at the beginning of the 4th Era, the day after Tiber/Talos/Hjalti conquested Morrowind. Ta'Varda is right. Dela could have been conquered by far worse. If Tiber had been more like the Dunmer, Dela would be in chains now, just like Ta'Varda.


Nits
The {?} held her charcoal drawings of Vivec's mornings
I think you missed something in the area where I inserted the question mark? The binder?

and Dela smiled as she saw the expression her husband {?}, the faint open-lipped pout of sleep.
Another missing in action word here. Made perhaps?

There's a whole army of Imperial bureaucrat{s} and clerks descending on the city
I think you missed an 's' to pluralize bureaucrats.

[Destri Melarg]

I couldn’t help being mad at Dela for whining about being conquered to her hand-slave, of all people! But you anticipated that and had Dela acknowledge the harsh irony of the situation.

You have the soul of a poet, Must’d. Some of your descriptions are absolutely brilliant! Like this one:

Ordinators on patrol in their magnificent golden armour and plumed helmets. The guards had always made her think of birds, the gaudy ones which flitted between the hanging fronds of the mushroom trees, puffing up their chests and displayed colourful feathers to win a mate.

That description completely brings your vision of an Ordinator to life. One place you lose it, however, is in your tendency to jump between present and past tense in the same sentence (the bold words above). Be careful with that.

There was a sense of appalled awe welling in her breast as she sketched, while she reproduced her view of a city which left her so amazed.

This one lacks the focus of your description of an Ordinator. ‘Appalled awe’ is vague and doesn’t add to Dela’s amazement. One problem we wordsmiths (and you are one, make no mistake about that) have is our tendency to get too flowery when the simplistic would serve us better. It is something that I am constantly wrestling with in my own writing, which makes it easy to recognize in yours.

A sun of outrage burned with that wonder, a swelling tumour of anger, rage that this place could be so quiet and calm after all that had happened.

You buried your lead slightly here. It took me a moment to realize that the ‘sun’ you referred to was within Dela, and not the literal sun overhead . Her outrage is the upshot of this sentence, and the description of it as ‘a swelling tumour of anger, etc. is more than enough to get your point across.

The mist became a smudge that obscured the horizon and the furthest part of the cantons in the drawing, the buildings' lines emerging from the fog like clarity from confusion.

This sentence is the one that convinced me that you have it in you to become a truly great writer! I have several quotes, lines, and paragraphs that I keep on the bulletin board near my computer for inspiration. One of them is from the opening of Dickens’ Bleak House. Check out how he handled the atmospheric omnipresence of fog:

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green alts and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering ‘prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all around them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Note the repetition of the word. You feel weighed down by it even as it seeps everywhere. Also, note the specificity. You have every club in the bag to create descriptions like this yourself!

Accompanied by the sound of a faint splash, singing echoed up from a canal. Dela glanced down the sandstone slope of the Hlaalu Canton's sides, craning over her windowsill to see a gondolier splashing through the water. Dipping his paddle into the water, raising it up again to swivel over his head like some warrior in combat whirling an axe or spear, the boatman guided his long, flat vessel through Vivec's waterways. As he went, he sang, a low and slow song of mourning. The words were lost in the distance they travelled to Dela's ear, but she recognised the tune.

This is exactly what I’m talking about! You recognize specificity in the actions of your gondolier. That specificity makes him vivid and alive. Once again, just be careful of past/present tense in the same sentence.

Sorry, I have never had a chance to really delve into your work from the beginning before, and I get carried away whenever I encounter a fellow traveller. I could go on all day, but I won’t because I’m sure others want to comment. This is a great start, Colonel!

[Acadian]

So nice to see another story from you!

I certainly endorse the comments of both SubRosa and Destri in that this was a delightfully atmospheric episode and the ‘paint with words’ style you used was purrrfect.

Let me highlight one such ‘paint with words’ magnificent passage. Even as, alas, it has a tiny nit within:
’She snatched the image from the morning light like a child grabbing insects from the air and pinning it into a case.’
The metaphor is both beautiful and wonderfully ‘painted’ – testimony to your considerable skill with words and crafting sentences that could make a poet envious. You have however mixed singular and plural. You want to either pair 'insects' with 'them' or 'insect' with 'it'. Let me suggest you keep this beautiful metaphor completely in the singular to be consistent with your use of 'image'; that is, have the child grab ‘an insect’ and pin 'it' into the case.

“They might be good owners,” Ta’Varda said.’ - - What a fabulously profound observation into the mindset of Ta’Varda you give us. Without overstating it, you make it very clear that she is indeed a slave and has likely been one for a long time.

‘the city was still wrapping it {its?} collective head around this,’ - - I recommend you make ‘it’ possessive.

‘He stretched and rubbed his eyes {with?} the heels of his broad, blue-grey palms.’ - - This seems to missing a word – perhaps a ‘with’ where I indicated?

Again, well done!

[haute ecole rider]

I'm not going to say that this was inspired by Destri and H.E.R's stories, but…

This is totally your fault, guys.

Who, moi?

How delightful to see something from the beginning of the Third Era, back in the time of Destri's and my stories (Interregnum and Cardonaccum). It seems we all love writing about times of transit and change, and how people deal with them. IMHO, those make the most compelling stories to read because the story is not just about the character, but the world the character lives in as well.

As someone who has dabbled in art myself, I really loved your picture of Dela as an artistic type. I've worked with charcoal before and relate to her difficulties with the stick! Yet, when handled well, it is an amazing medium.

I see that Destri, SubRosa and Acadian have caught many of the nits I noticed on the first read-through. I only have this one to add:

“Today is going to be busy, certainly,” Odranis said, propping himself up on his elbows. “There’s a whole army of Imperial bureaucrats and clerks descending on the city, wanting to talk about tariffs and imports and exports and all that. Visceral, thrilling stuff, but the Council want it dealt with now.”

As Council is singular, you would want to change that verb to wants.

“Why aren’t there people in the streets? Why aren’t there protests?” she said. “There should be people out there rioting. They should be kicking down doors, they should be burning things. This city should be screaming, Ta’Varda, but it’s just so…quiet.”

“Are you planning on doing anything like that, mistress?” Ta’Varda asked.

This little bit jumps out at me as a bit of sly, dark humor. This little khajiit is one intelligent kitty with a well-developed sense of humor, much like the cats who have owned me both past and present have! I really liked this insight into the relationship between the two.

All in all a promising start! I would like to read more, please.

[Grits]

“They might be good owners,” Ta’Varda said. “Tiber Septim’s conquered territories seem to be doing well, do they not? You might have been conquered by a bad man, rather than this good one.”

This was the high point for me. I expect that Ta’Varda has a lot more that she could say, if it were prudent.

I loved the atmospheric start, and your characters have already grabbed my imagination. I’m looking forward to this story, Mustard!

[Colonel Mustard]

Subrosa: Thank you! Vivec is one of my favourite video game cities, and I wanted to try and capture the atmosphere of it which I loved so much. I find this period in TES lore a really intersting time to read about in Destri and H.E.R's fics, and I wanted to try it for myself, and I figured I'd try combining this time period with the setting. Ta'Varda certainly has a point on how she could have been conquered by worse, but Dela also has her own limitations of perspective beyond her culture.

Thanks for picking up on those nits. That's what I get for proofreading whilst riding a massive caffeine high.

Destri MLAAAAAAAARGH!!: That post. That post there is why I like you Thanks for the critique and nitpicking, and it's always nice to have that kind of encouragement too.

As for Dela 'whining' about Talos' victory, she does a) come from a culture that is currently in a social/theological crisis what with the treaty and has her own reasons why own perspective and objectivity would be severely compromised.

Acadian: Yep, yet another story. I'm terrible, I know.

Thanks for the kind words, and for the nits. Again, this is what I get for proofing while hyped up on coffee.

H.E.R.: Thank you!

Like I was saying to Subrosa, the emergence of the empire is a really interesting time in TES lore, and I really like these stories where the events around the characters are as big as, or even bigger, than the characters themselves.

I'm glad you're already liking the relationship between Dela and Ta'Varda; that's going to be a major part of the story.

Grits: Thank you! Ta'Varda definitely has more she could say, but she's smart enough not to; she's used to surviving within a slave-owning culture, and that requires a good measure of brains. Glad you like this, and I hope you enjoy the rest



Recommended listening - The Sole Regret, by Darren Korb



Chapter II – False Gods
Vivec had always been a trial for Ta’Varda’s sensitive nose.

The city stank of spices and sweat and roasting meat, trapped by the heavy stone ceilings of the Redoran canton’s innards. Slipping through crowds of dunmer, past stalls selling silks or books or food, Ta’Varda found herself being assaulted from every angle by the city’s pungent, frenzied scent, as if the canal-bound metropolis were in heat.

Perhaps in heat was the wrong word to describe it, Ta’Varda reflected. The city felt tense, coiled. There was a slow-building energy rising in the crowds, and with the usual stenches she was reminded of a bull mastodon in musth, spoiling for a fight. As a foreigner and a slave, she made a point of sticking close to the Ordinators that patrolled the streets. They would protect her from anyone trying to vent their frustrations, duty compelling them to keep her safe in the same way they would stop a mob from pitching stones through a shop’s window. The guards were imposing in their golden armour and callous in their metal masks, and frightened her a good deal, but at the very least they should keep her safe; her collar gave her a shield as much as it made her a target. As if it might served as a shield, Ta’Varda held the satchel she carried close.

On a corner of the Redoran Canton, Ta’Varda came across a crowd. She stuck to its edges, out of the gaze of the group, but the effort was unnecessary. The attention of the gathered dunmer was pointed inwards at a lone figure stood right at the very edge, just next to one of the city’s many canals. For a moment Ta’Varda stopped, curious of the spectacle.

“We’ve been betrayed!” the dunmer in front of the crowd declared. “We’ve been sold off to foreign invaders, and we’ve stabbed in the back by liars. When this war began we were promised victory, we were promised that these Imperials would be driven back to their borders. What happens? Our so-called gods lose Mournhold and then they surrender our home without a further fight.”

Normally, such a slur against the Tribunal would have had this mer pelted with stones for his blasphemy, but today the crowd were silent. They were listening, something which worried Ta’Varda.

“The Tribunal lied to us,” the speaker continued. “They lied to us about victory and I ask, what else have they lied to us about? The god there-” He pointed south, towards the Palace of Vivec. “Is a trickster and a charlatan! A false god!”

“Citizen! Quiet down at once,” a voice rasped from the edge of the crowd. Ta’Varda glanced towards its source, seeing a pair of Ordinators. One had his sword drawn and was already pushing through the crowd, and the other was stood at its perimeter with a nimbus of arcane power crackling on his open palm. “Stay where you are.”

The crowd parted before the Ordinator, not angry enough risk a fight with one of Vivec’s guards.

“You can’t silence us forever! Give us back our nation!” the orator in the middle of the crowd called. For a moment, Ta’Varda thought he was going to stand his ground, but after that final statement he hopped down from his impromptu pedestal, trying to get away. He was too slow, the pursuing Ordinator catching up to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. The fleeing dunmer spasmed and yelled, jerking like a fish on a hook before he slumped to the ground with a groan. The Ordinator who had caught him hauled the unfortunate dissident up and glared about the crowd.

“Go about your day,” he ordered. His mask lent his voice a metallic timbre that made it seem as if some dwemer automaton were speaking. Ta’Varda took that moment to disappear into the Redoran canton’s innards. In retrospect, she shouldn’t have been surprised by such a commotion; the Armistice may have marked the defeat of Morrowind’s armies, but it would take more than a treaty to triumph over Redoran pride. She just hoped that the arrested man had been taken in by the Order of the Watch instead of the Order of the Inquisition; the Watch would likely slap him with a fine for disturbing the peace, while the Inquisition might well take him to the Ministry of Truth for the crime of blasphemy. Ta’Varda shuddered at the thought, knowing too well the frightening rumours that originated from the rock that floated above Vivec’s palace.

The innards of the canton felt far more cramped than its balconies, the crowds here thicker and more overwhelming. Ta’Varda was glad of her natural talents for quick movement and dexterity, and she slipped around the edges of the crowds before following the trail that three porters left as their bulk let them bull through the press, clutching the satchel she held. From somewhere nearby she could hear music, and she passed a musician with a tall Yavarnis flute braced against his feet where he sat cross-legged, a hat laid before him with its cheap cloth lining studded with coins.

Ta’Varda bowed out from the crowds, ducking into a doorway from which the hot smell of fresh bread roared. The bakery that she had entered was already full, crowded by customers. Many of them were khajiit or argonians who wore slave collars or bracers, all on their morning errands. Like Ta’Varda, they paid with money that was not their own. The dunmer behind the counter took her money without comment, and the khajiit turned without further ado; she did not bother getting a receipt, knowing Dela would trust her enough.

“Ta’Varda,” an argonian rasped as he reached the doorway of the bakery. Ta’Varda’s gaze flicked over to him, recognising Property-of-Olmas. “Kazell see you are well.”

There were, Ta’Varda realised, fresh bandages wrapped across the chest of Property-of-Olmas, or ‘Kazell’ as he called himself in his one small act of rebellion. Her ears flattened in sympathy.

“Olmas didn’t take the news well?” she asked, nodding to the injuries.

“No he did not,” Kazell replied. “Kazell is not surprised, but the whipping was far from the worst.” The argonian bared his teeth in a grin. “The people of this city will see my injuries and they will hear Olmas’ name with my own, and the shame that that will bring will be my revenge.”

“Loosen your shirt a little more then, Kazell,” Ta’Varda said. “Bring the old thijzz much embarrassment.”

“How fares your own mistress?” Kazell asked.

“She is quiet. She spends much time in thought.”

“When does she not? At least Olmas does real work.”

Ta’Varda shrugged, annoyed at the slight against Dela.

“I’ll leave you to your day,” she said. “I’m sure you have much to do.”

It was a strange thing, the khajiit reflected, how often slaves would reflexively defend or elevate their masters, even ones belonging to tyrants and sadists. Property-of-Olmas was whipped regularly, despite the fact that most Vivec-dwelling dunmer considered the act distasteful, and had even had his name taken from him in a spiteful play on the conventions of Argonian naming. Even then, he defended Olmas over Dela, and Ta’Varda had in turn felt angered on behalf of her mistress.

Such was the case with every slave that Ta’Varda knew; their master might be a petty despot who whipped them, starved them and forced them to sleep in the cold, but they were invariable better people than the owners of other slaves. Their owners were richer, of higher social standing, of more refined tastes. Ta’Varda had seen fights break out between slaves over such subjects before, born from some bizarre loyalty that, when examined rationally, no slave could really explain. The minds of mortals were strange things, she reflected.

Still, she decided, her own loyalty to Dela wasn’t founded on such tenuous ground. Dela, and to a lesser extent Odanris, were good to her. She had her own bed, she never went hungry and her mistress had never struck a blow against her; Ta’Varda reflected that the artist would never be able to do such a thing. The generosity of her mistress even extended to a day off every week and a small stipend of money was given to Ta’Varda to spend on what she wished, though that generosity met its limit before giving the khajiit true freedom. All that said, Ta’Varda knew she had been very lucky when rolling the weighted dice of slavedom; when she was enslaved, taken all those years ago, she had been deemed too skinny for the fields and not pretty enough to be a brothel’s exotic fare. Instead, the slavers had advertised her as a house slave and she had been bought by Dela, then a young dunmer woman just married and expecting a child. That had been over twenty years ago, and Ta’Varda knew that other slaves had not even been lucky to live that long.

Her final stop was in the foreign quarter. Here she could see signs of trouble, where the canton had been hit by the first convulsions of civic rage. So far it was nothing more than a few smashed windows, and a wall where ‘nwahs get out or die’ had been scrawled, but Ta’Varda knew that that would not be the last of it. She could see ordinators on the corners, more than usual, and their stance suggested that they were expecting trouble. Ta’Varda didn’t blame them.

Rounding a corner marred with the declaration of ‘Our nation not yours’, Ta’Varda came to her destination, Aldano’s Artistry. As she pushed open the door, she noticed the paintings that usually adorned the shop’s walls were gone, and the start that the altmer behind the counter gave when she came in.

“Oh, Ta’Varda,” Aldano said as he realised who it was. “It’s you.”

“Long night?” Ta’Varda asked. Aldano looked worn out, his eyes shadowed and his hair, usually kept with meticulous care, mussed and lank.

“You could certainly say that,” the altmer said. “There were angry gangs marauding the streets all last night, looking for anyone who might give them a fight. I barely slept at all. Of course the Ordinators didn’t do a damn thing and I was lucky nobody decided to loot the place.” He shook his head. “I spend years making an honest living and paying my taxes like any good citizen and they just stand by and do nothing.”

“They seem to be out in force today,” Ta’Varda pointed out.

“That they are,” Aldano nodded. “I don’t know if that means they’ll actually do anything or not, but seeing as the Imperials have an embassy here I don’t think they’ll get away with turning a blind eye for too long. I hope.”

“If you’re worried, khajiit is sure Dela and Odanris would be happy to let you stay at the house,” Ta’Varda said.

“I appreciate the offer, but I should stay here and look after my shop.” Odanris gave a wry smile. “Besides, those mobs have got to buy paint for their graffiti from somewhere.”

“Speaking of paint, Dela sent khajiit here to pick up some pigments,” Ta’Varda said. “You are still selling them, yes?”

“Oh, it’s business as usual,” Odanris confirmed. “I just decided to put some of my more valuable stock in the back, in case I had the bad luck to be hit by looters with an appreciation for the finer things. How is she taking things, by the way?”

“She isn’t looking to join any mobs, if that is what you worry.”

“Well there’s a relief. What were the pigments you needed, then?”

“Ochres, I think,” Ta’Varda said, reaching into her satchel and pulling forth the scrap of parchment. “I’ve got a list of everything on here.”

“Let’s see.” Aldano took the list and scanned the paper. “Yes, I should have everything here.” He disappeared under the counter, pulling open draws and rummaging within the innards, emerging with several glass vials filled with fine powder. “Here we are.”

Pigments in hand, Ta’Varda made her farewells to Aldano. She left the foreign quarter, crossing the bridges and canals of Vivec on her way back to Dela and her home.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Oct 19 2014, 10:21 PM

[haute ecole rider]

I'm liking Ta'Varda more and more. This is a wonderful insight into her personality and character.

A long-lived slave! A rarity, indeed! My own pet cats unfortunately don't live so long!

One nit:

Her final stop was in the foreign quarter. Here she could see signs of trouble, where the canton had been hit by the first convulsions of civic range.

Did you mean rage here?

I also loved the city's initial reaction to the news of the Treaty (or Abomination perhaps?) the next day, as seen through the eyes of a slave. I also enjoyed the musings on Ta'Varda's part about slaves' feelings toward their owners.

I will keep an eye for more of Morrowind in the time of Tiber Septim!

[SubRosa]

I liked that Ta'Varda's first thought was of the smell of the city. It helps reinforce in our minds that she is a Khajiit, not a human or elf, and as such is much more aware of scents.

I also thought Ta'Varda's desire to scuttle around out of sight and out of mind was very well done. Being a slave, the last thing she wants is to be noticed by free people. That never ends well.

The demagogue railing against the Tribunal was a good touch. He'll be in the floating rock prison in no time at all. Seems to me that the Dunmer ought to get themselves some new gods. Or maybe get some old ones back?

Some good musings about the complicated relationships between owners and slaves. Ta'Varda is indeed lucky, as luck goes. Just like the Dunmer in their capitulation, things could have gone much worse for her.

The worried Altmer was another good touch of revealing how the city has been taking the news of the surrender. And taking it out on the foreigners, Imperial or not. Mobs don't make distinctions.

[Grits]

What a fabulous pair of opening paragraphs!

I like the way Ta’Varda thinks of her safety in terms of being property and tries to avoid notice. Her way of thinking shows a lot about her. Then Aldano’s worry about his shop makes me think that even Ta’Varda’s “lucky” slave situation may be at risk. I love the slowly building tension.