#serethi

[yarti]

[ Galtis ] [ The Itch ]

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Story Below:

"BURN IT DOWN."

The growing crowd roared. It is as if it were just moments ago. I feel it, smell it. The rush, the panic. Our new Matron, sister Lette. You had done a bad thing. I was there for the reading of your decree and my body took one of the first arrows. I searched the markets, the bath and lastly your chambers, but you had long gone. Likely bound up river by ship, that much I had gathered from those that barred my paths.

Our house dissolved. How could you? You had no right. What of us? What of your family? You cared not. The city went mad. The work took up arms up against my guard. Did you even consider what the vermin would do? They worshiped you and you gave them explicit permission to destroy all that you should have held dear. Brothers and sisters fell before my eyes. If any of them escaped, they would certainly be of like-mind to my own. They would hold you responsible as do I.  My arm. It twitched as I recalled the sword hewing it nearly in twain. The silken Dunmeri clothes of that day cooked into my melting chest. I have since came to know only exhaustion and this itch. I had little recollection of the events since the fire took me.

Over time, I became more aware of my situation. Those first truly alert days were quite the experience. My caretaker took great interest in changing my bandages and keeping me fed. I would wake to the sensation, a touch gentle or healing hand. Kind words, though I could rarely make out those words. At times she would lie with me and hold me, nude herself. I allowed her curiosity or lust as it were. It was a rare sight outside of a wealthy bedchamber, the bare body of a Serethi. One such as she would have never had the chance. I recall the amputation. The shock and defeat of it. She had to keep me sedated and I had not opened my eyes since first laying eyes upon it. It continued in that way, in and out of near-sleep for some time, even after the last of the bandages. Moving not a muscle but to scratch or shift my weight. There eventually came a day where I felt well enough to open my eyes again, and so I did. I glanced to my left, my remains of my arm. And to the right, a room dark. Then toward my feet. Immediately there came a shuffling and the creek of floorboards. The far side of the room, a dim stairwell and two peeping red eyes. Our eyes met, then a voice ushered her from her hiding spot.

"Master Serethi. I feared you'd never wake." Her tone was most odd. As she crossed the room I feebly rose and hobbled to the foot of the bed. Around my waist, a vibrant cloth or towel clung tightly to my nethers. "How long?" I croaked, clearing my throat mid-speech.

The Dunmer lass slowly approached my bedside, hand outstretched. Hesitation. Fear. With a moment of thought, she brought the back of her hand to my stinging forehead. "No more fever, ah." She whispered under her breath, seemingly frustrated or upset that I had finally awoken. Her eyes trailed from my own, down my bare chest and to what remained of my ruined arm. Hives or blisters spread from the site, along the shoulder and upon my breast. Infection. From the itching, I assumed it continued along my back as well but she offered not a looking glass. Seeing what my sister had certainly wrought, it put a seething firestorm in the very depths of my charred heart. Trembling, the lass took hold of my head and lifted it to inspect my neck before stepping away. "How long has it been?" I asked again. Stuttering, she responded. "Two weeks." Wringing her hands, she began again. "Do you remember what happ-" but I cut her off with a stern "Yes."

"Well", she sighed. "Stay in bed for now, wake or not. You're in no shape to be up and about, my lord. I'll go put supper on." She squeaked then darted back down the stairwell before I could respond. Stumbling, feeble legs held firm. I ran my hand along the newfound scars and grooves, flesh blackened and inflamed. My hand, my only hand. It came to rest upon my disheveled chin. Hair matted and burned. It seemed that my nurse had attempted to shave me at one point but given up. My legs were ever-so weak, tingling, but after a few steps, the numbness began to subside. Lette had taken my looks, my arm, my home. My mind soared and I began to mumble to myself. "Sister Lette, why have you done this? If you wanted not the seat, you knew there were others that had sought long for it. You are selfish. Despicable. No better than the beasts you protect." I growled, scraping the hives, overgrown nails drawing dark blood from wounds not yet healed. Hate became fuel, energy. "I should have put that sword to use when we spoke that morning. The pack, that look in your eye, the way you carried yourself. By the time we discovered that a stand-in would give your decree, I had already feared for the worst. I could have stopped you there in the foyer. I was generous, benevolent, I stayed my hand. But not again."

With ears well learned, sounds from below tore me from my thoughts. I heard the front door open and the lass step out. Moments became minutes before she returned with company. Not a voice of ash but a voice of man. A lowly Nord, a guard perhaps from what context I could gather. Hushed words, whispers. "Have him step outside for a breath of fresh air and we'll handle the rest. Once he's behind bars, you have my word that we'll not lay a finger on him. Not today at least. But after his trials, who can say? You might not be one of us, but you are no Serethi. Your lot in life was not far from ours. Things will be better now, we just have to try. Our lady has given us a new leaf. A harvest anew. We just need to finish clearing the chaff then sew new seeds. Chin up, you've done well." From the jingle of coin purses, they shook hands or perhaps embraced before parting. With the locking and shutting of the door, she went to the cookpot. In the meantime, I had let myself down the stairs on muffled foot and stood just behind her out of view.

"Will our guest not be staying for supper?

My words startled her, spoon silent. Frozen. Moments to minutes, her mind roared as she dug up a delectable lie.

"You should not have gotten out of bed. That was the chemist, he brought salve for your burns." The audacity.

"Ah, did he now? He sounded like a Nord. Surely you aren't treating me with salves from the slums, dear. That certainly explains a lot." My words fell flat. She scraped the bottom of the cookpot for further lies to feed me.

"Apologies my lord, but with the... " she paused too choose her words. "With the decree, the riots, we must make do with what we have. You were found outside my door and responsibility fell to me. I am no proper healer. My mother would have had you back in top shape by now." Around her shoulder, I found eyes staring at my missing piece before they flicked about the room then back to me. "As best she could anyway. That was my first amputation." Grimacing, she turned her attention back to the pot. "I am sorry but I tried my best. The soup will be ready soon, then maybe we'll get you some fresh air. It'll do us both some good."

As her form moved before the firepit, light found a tanto off to my right. Freshly but poorly cleaned, bits of ash yam still clung to the edge. I took it into my waistband then stood. "And what became of mother?"

"She ran off. The crazies I suppose. She had been having nightmares for the longest time. One day we had a fight and the next, she was gone. She took only the clothes on her back. Off to find the man from her dreams. What was that name again?" Tiny fingers prodded her chin as she pondered. "Asput, Abbut, Assut-" The tanto found the meat of her spine. "WE were not the chaff." I hissed.

As she slumped to the floor, my gaze met the linens about my waist. A cheap towel, unfitting for one of my standing. I threw it aside and was amazed and heartened to see that my loins had gone unscathed. Of course she had taken great care in preserving those. But what of my arm? Under better light, I found scars and burns that had actually healed, across my chest and even down the severed arm. The arrow wound was entirely gone. Perhaps the poor girl had truly tried after all. Good. "Thank you, lass." I called out to deaf ears and made way to her wardrobes, pilfering as I saw fit. "Your mother had quite the eye for fabrics. This coat is exquisite. Like one of my own." Because it was one of my own. Alongside it, silverware, belts and brooches. Curtains and gilded scales. It seems even the Dunmer had a hand in the raiding. This would not do. Need I kill them all and start over? I would already need to reforge our connections with the other Houses, rebuild, invest. There would be much to do.

Taking an apple in hand, and blade upon my hip, I felt a shred of my old self. Galtis Serethi, eldest son of the House, Patron-to-be. The blade would suffice I hoped. There is no way of knowing just what might await me when I finally step out for that fresh air.

Among the rifled papers and books, I found the journal of the healer, the mother. I examined it as I tended to supper, having finished packing away supplies and reclaiming my stolen belongings. The journal spiraled into madness as I flipped further. Entire pages were devoted to phrases and crude drawings. Red eyes in the dark, monsters and other Sixth House blasphemies. A loon indeed. I chucked the book into the fireplace and washed my hands of it. The phrase, "He will make me whole." stuck at out at me. It gnawed at me and urged me to retrieve the journal before it was too late. In clearer minds I would have never given second thought to such ravings. "A miracle maker." If he could give me back my arm, that would be a good start. What nonsense. There would be no miracles, only revenge. Lette would pay handsomely for her deeds. And what of my caretaker? Lest I forget her part in this. Certainly, it is a shame. Even now she sits quiet as bones on the floor as I pen these very words to a blank journal. I merely lost my temper. Who could blame me after my ordeals? Her death, does it pain me? Not quite, but perhaps once my new seeds are sewn, once the true chaff is cleared. I may have a statue cast in her likeness. A monument to her generosity in these trying times. She will have saved the life of our Patron after all. But for now, I have an itch that I must scratch.

[yarti]

[ Dresses for Lette ]

[yarti]

[ Lette - Randoms ]

[yarti]

Randoms

[yarti]

[ Lette ] [ This Long Reunion ]

Story Below:

This once depressing hovel, though now cramped, had certainly grown warmer. The nightmares all but chased away by gleeful words, laughs, and occasional sobbing. Tear soaked shoulders abound, we talked of things. Things that were, and those yet to be. Many words. My reason for being here, and theirs. The town left in flames, brothers and sisters, her aunts and uncles left to their fates, the line of dead from here to there. My coldness shocked her. That Nord blood had mellowed her. I always expected as much and would honestly have it no other way. There is hardly a Dunmer there at all. She could not truly understand how, but she understood why. The children. My grandchildren. The mere thought of them likened my shriveled grey heart to an ever burning coals. They were so small, yet so familiar. The girl, Fannah. I said their names over and over again in my mind. She was the very image of my young daughter. Her mannerisms, her voice. Everything. The boy too, Fanar, though to a lesser extent. As we talked, they ransacked the room in search of sweets or playthings. Finding neither, they found themselves bouncing on the bed. The father. My son-in-law. A man of mysteries it seemed. I was just to call him "Snake" for now. He sat boldly in front of the fire pit, smoking his pipe. My daughter, her skin, clear and unblemished as mine once was, stood behind him. Her arms thrown about his neck. They would occasionally trade passionate glances, a thing I once knew. All but a memory now. I looked away, his face filling my mind. In this hour, in our merriment, there were times that he was not the center of my mind. I had urges to quit here, to take what I had found with me, or to go with them. The realization sickened me. How easily I could be swayed. In time, I came to accept it. That if I were to go with them, it would be temporary. A much needed respite before continuing my search. I could live with that, just a bit longer. I would hold him, if not today, then soon. In the end it mattered not, but I resided in those thoughts. Behind our voices, the streets outside had grown ever more crowded. Yarti would at times leave Snake's side and peek out the window with some concern. On more than one occasion, one of us had questioned what exactly was going on, yet none wanted to interrupt the reunion to check. It had finally began to calm down when came a frantic knock on our door and a fretful tone. "Is there a healer in there?"

We looked to each-other and then to the door. Yarti stood, tracing her hand down Snake's arm as she stepped forward. He rose behind her, his arms encircling the kids and ushering them to a quiet corner of the house. With my daughter at my side, I opened the door and stepped out into the faded light. The woman who had knocked on the door motioned toward us before darting across the street. The crowd had dispersed, revealing a crashed Sky Render just shy of it's platform. I took note of the sickening smell, something akin to Kwama innards. Against it's mangled abdomen, the townfolk had propped up it's presumed passengers. My failing eyesight made it difficult at first, but as we got closer I could make out the rest of the scene. A Dunmer man in Telvanni garb, certainly dead. Beside him, a Dunmer woman. A mercenary or something of the like, she wore cumbersome iron armor that had done little to save her. She looked as though she were crushed. Perhaps found under the mount. And lastly, an older Nord man. A pitiful weary old man. Clothed in a Telvanni robe and topped with a Dwemer skullcap of some make. Enchanted, heavily so if the shimmer was any indication. Beneath the cap, a handlebar mustache and worn pink paint covering half of a wrinkled face. His face. My legs gave way at the sight of him. My Sanbosm, haggard and aged beyond his years. I fell to one knee, gasping and clawing at the dirt before me. I thought my heart to explode. Yarti saw me go down. I think she knew, somehow. She nodded and continued toward him, hands aglow. Laying them upon his chest, his body consumed in her light. I found my footing and came to join her, eyes pouring like rain. My mind raced, hands joining hers, their glow paling in comparison. Sorrow, anger and regret, white magics flecked with green. I could do no good here, I would poison him. It was too much. I fell back on my knees while daughter carried on as best she could. My hands found his face, holding it between them. I peered into his wrinkled visage. He was alive but injured. Minutes felt like ages as his wounds were undone.

He was conscious, but did not speak or acknowledge us. We took him atop our shoulders and made way back to our room. Each of his pained grunts took my breath, making our passage more difficult. He was far too large a man to be carried by two Dunmer of our stature, but we managed by grace of Azura or whoever had brought me here. There were no words. Again, there could be none. These bones would be dust before I could say half of what need be said. We brought him in and tossed aside his heavy robe before hauling him to the bed. I wrapped my hands about his Dwemer skullcap and attempted to remove it, only to be met by a low snarl from his lips. Voice weak, matured, shrill, hateful. A voice quite unlike the one in my memories and dreams.

"Leave it."

He spoke no more, seemingly content to rest and recuperate, so we allowed it. We had time. Some hours into our endeavor, Snake disappeared, only to return with a Dunmer friend of his. Darfin I believe. We stood around the bed, a crowd of our own, yet the room lay silent. Yarti had came prepared and by nightfall, had laid out bedrolls for each of us. With that done, she devoted herself to a warm meal. Her cooking was special to me. I had never been one to cook, my meals had always been tended to by others. I did not teach her this. I taught her nothing. She made me proud. They all did. Even my Sanbosm. He had lived on without me. His body littered with scars, but ever so toned. He had been busy, active. He had done things these long years, made something of himself. While I withered away, solitary and sedentary. My creams and oils thrown aside, a face once clear as that of my child, now racked by the age I had so long hidden. My Sanbosm. He was a young man when I knew him. Bounding with energy, but now shriveled and bedridden. His hideous crone, clothes thick with rage and guilt, hovering above his would-be deathbed. Waiting and hoping. At once, his breath hastened, eyes fumbling in their sockets. He grunted and blinked, gazing through the gloss and matter, his wandering eyes found mine. His violet met my crimson. The end and beginning of this long overdo reunion.

"Lette?"

[yarti]

Young Lette armor test.

[yarti]

Lette Serethi - The Matron - Age: 261 (prounced Letti/Letty)

Crossbow/Poison Spells

Upon the death of the patron, the fate of the community fell to Lette, the eldest. The traditions, goals, and rules of the House were put to rest alongside him. Her first creed laid open the gates. It was to become a common town, welcoming all. Her final creed dissolved the House. It’s assets distributed amongst the people. First to the Nords, the laborers, farmers. Her brothers and sisters were to fight over the final scraps. The shambles of her House dismantled, she set out into distant lands. In search of the one she had once been denied and of news of their child wherever she might be.

(To be officially introduced eventually. I hope.)

[yarti]

Jaded

Nothing of note in the passing week. I made poor time I suppose. I just walked. Town to town, house to house. Plantation to plantation. The same questions at every stop. Usually met with the same answers. No sign of either of them. It had been far too long. They could be across the continent by now. They could be dead. I would sooner join them than give up.

In time I came upon a group of slavers. One of several gangs in the area. Outlawing did little to stop it, in truth. They just fled further into the shadows. Became more reliant on people like us to keep them going. This group in particular, a cut went straight to the House. Hushmoney. Illegal, yes, but cold septims have a way of persuading one to look the other way. I did not approve, but I had my hand in their affairs as often as most. It was business. News of the town had likely not yet reached this far. I thought perhaps that could work to my advantage.

The air of respect I had grown accustomed to in the presence of employees was suspiciously absent. The guards regarded me as a passerby. I was stopped several times before making my way to the main house.The leader sat on a porch overseeing his workers. A stern Dunmer. Perhaps half my age. A skooma pipe to his left, a plate of aging Nix meat lie in the open air beside that, flies buzzing about it. His filthy hand clutched moldy bread, a scowl passing his rigid visage with every passing bite. At the sight of me, he spoke. “What brings you to these parts, my lady? Our piece has been paid this month.” He turned back to his bread, choking down another bite before peering back at me.

“I wouldn’t worry about that for now. I have other business with you. I search for a Nord wizard. He would be getting on in the years by now, I imagine. Have any passed through here lately? What of ages ago? In the last 30, 40 years by chance? Think back and do be direct. And another. My -”

“Hmm...” he interrupted.

“30 years of r’membering is asking a lot of a man. You might need to jog my memory”. His hand crept forward, brushing against mine as he tried to clasp it. I pulled away and spoke.

“He is very important to me.”

Again he pondered then stood, stepping around his chair and up to the door to his shack. He turned to face me, gesturing to the handle. “Lets take this indoors, I have some records I need to look through.”

His grey lips parted into rotten smile as he lifted two fingers. “I’ll get us some drinks.” He shut the door behind us, locked it and soon sat about our preparing drinks. Next he found himself shuffling through documents beside the bed.

“Lets see...”

“A Nord wizard bought a pair of workers from us last year. Aye I remember him. An old man in their times. I can’t seem to read the name. Ah well, maybe after the jogging.”

He then rolled up the paper and slid it under the mattress. Giving it a firm pat for good measure.

“Do make yourself comfortable, Matron. We could be a while.” he chuckled, perching on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. 

It would seem news had traveled quicker than I had thought. On any other day he wouldn’t dare make such advances. Out of necessary respect, or fear of the consequences. A creeping disgust welled in me. I excused myself and turned the corner. A not-so-difficult decision. He had no time to react. The bolt hit him behind the ear. Instant. Quiet. A soft twang, then silence. I retrieved the document, a violet shimmer engulfing my left hand as my magics picked the lock. 

My thirst was not yet sated. My right hand, a pulsating green inferno. From the ground rose the most vile of mists. The color of Vvardenfell glass. The guard before me suffocated, his grey skin foaming beneath his armor as he met his end. 100 years under father’s employ. An enforcer, persuader. On to the next, my clouds filled him, lung and blood, leaving nothing but a coughing shell of a man. 50 years as a dock guard to earn my titles. A hundred lie back-stabbed, poisoned in my wake. Forgotten but not forgotten. Business. The crackle of splinters. Arrows lodged themselves in the walls beside me. Foolish. After the first cloud, the rest should have fled. Near 50 more in the deepest recesses of regret. A swelling rage that no man should ever cross. They had plenty of time. I walked. They would live with their mistakes as I have, for but a short while more. One dove through the jaded cloud, an attempt to grapple me, only to find himself lifted and paralyzed. I held him mid-air until his heart stopped. The last of the alarms, the last of the soaring arrows. My clouds dissipated, leaving a subtle glow above the ground.

The workers, slaves, cowering forms behind rafters and fences. I called out to them amidst their abusers final gurgles and labored breaths. “To me, it is over.”

I lead them to the main road and asked them to travel south if they sought their freedom. My old nerves began to calm at last. With haste, I unfurled the document and skimmed through the contents by Candlelight. Shock, awe, happiness. It was him.