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.