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

[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!