Faith-born Pt. 1
By Michaelu
Talania Pullo sat amongst her fellow Nibenese with slight discomfort. Around her stood the imperial chapel of Talos. Its white-grayish stone draped with banners of imperial red and bearing the dragon of the Empire of Cyrodil. Nearer to the chapel’s roof rested a stained glass window where a man short of hair and dressed in richly dyed purple and green robes, stood like a shepherd leading a flock. The man’s noble face gazed eastwards, toward the future, while behind him a red diamond blazed like a jewel of fire and blood.
“Oh Talos, save us.” Recited Arania, a fellow imperial Nibenese who looked longingly to the image of the man: Talos, otherwise known as Tiber Septim, the first emperor of the third human empire.
A priest, a spindly pale human, raised his hands. His fingertips moved slightly in the sunlight leaking through the stained glass window above. “Blessed are the Aedra: Our Ancestors—Our Gods! Talos sits among them. Once a mortal, now a divine. Honor him!”
By His will and that of the Gods, we shall turn Tamriel into a land of peace and order. Talania thought, smiling.
The service was almost up. As the faithful rose from their pews, the chapel erupted in a melody that made Talania’s skin run rampant with goosebumps. The women sang first, their voices reaching ever higher beyond the roof, beyond the clouds, all the way to Aetherius where the Gods were from. Then, the men followed in a lower-mournful call. Talania closed her eyes as she followed her fellow parishioners down towards the chapel door. With every step her imperial cuirass, freshly cleaned, dug into her skin.
“Arania,” Talania whispered.
“Shh, the service isn’t over ‘till we’re out of the chapel.”
“I…” Talania sighed, interrupting her own thought. They were nearer to the door now and the music reached its finale. The way the male and female voices closed their song made the forty year old legionnaire think of her mother. An angry woman who was quite unpleasant to be around, but when in the chapel, her voice had stunned many a listener. I wonder if that is how the voice of our Aedra sound.
“I really wish you would be more quiet during the service,” Arania said as they exited the shrine and entered the busy streets of the city of Old Ebonheart. “Even when you don’t talk, you shuffle around like a thrashing slaughterfish.”
Talania prepared to bite back but a glimmer of a golden septim caught the woman’s eye. The coin rested within a puddle by her feet. Talania blinked and it was as if she were nine again wandering the streets of her home city of Leyawiin: proud but hungry.
Her mother’s voice, both a song and a whip, struck her cheek. The little girl that was, closed her eyes, unable to control her bowels. “Where’s that damned septim? You dropped it?!”
Talania, legionnaire and combat veteran of several of the emperor’s most brutal campaigns, flinched. After a moment the woman reached down to pick up the coin. Mid-way through her reach, her reflection in the puddle stopped her in her tracks. She observed her taught olive skin with growing irritation. Around her cheeks, scars from her time fighting the fierce reptilian Argonian warriors of Black Marsh marred her right cheek. While her hair, once a solid brown, was peppered now with streaks of gray. She had tied it back behind her head in a tight bun to avoid noticing it but the reflection revealed all.
“I look terrible…” Talania blurted.
“Tch, you look a woman her age. Strong and quiet, so unlike us Nibenese with our folk songs and gossip. You’re sure you’re not Colovian?” Arania smiled cheekily, her dark-braided hair soaking up the light of the sun.
Talania picked up the coin quickly, stuffing it in a leather pouch by her hip. “Oh please, if I was a Colovian would I even bother speaking to you? I’d be grunting or snorting like a horse.”
“HA! I wouldn’t go that far, Tal. Those Colovians speak, just not proper-like.”
“They don’t dress well either.” Talania chuckled, remembering the rich colors of eastern Cyrodil: her homeland. “Do you remember, Arania? Little messy-haired rodents we were, running through rows of yellow and bright orange cloth left out to dry in the sun.”
“Hmmph… I do. I also remember running into a bunch of Colovians. You remember? Near my mom’s tavern? One of them tried to court me.”
She remembered. The boy had been exactly what a Colovian should not be: nervous, sniffling, and unsure of himself. Not like his stoic-faced and ill dressed elders at all. “You really told him off.”
“Did more than that, Tal. I kicked him in his groin.”
“By the Nine. Brutal.”
“Wasn’t about to let some country bumpkin think he was good enough to get me. Had to show him, may his jewels rest in peace.”
Nervous feet shuffled close behind Talania as Arania pretended not to notice.
“Excuse me? Hello!” The voice was like the rumbling of a volcano. It was a hoarse voice that spoke each word with great strain. Both women turned to find a Dark Elf in front of a mobile trader's stall.
Talania narrowed her eyes. The Dark Elf savage wore a gray robe with an image or pictograph of a woman holding in one hand a crescent moon and in the other a star. The Elf’s skin: ashen and unsettling as the country that surrounded them, stretched itself over lean muscle and a lifetime of toil. The Elf smiled at them with his teeth and ruby-red eyes, wielding only the faintest notes of handsomeness his vermin race was allowed. Upon his head, he wore a low cut mohawk that ended in a braided ponytail that ran down the back of his robe. The legionnaire’s steely gaze rested on the elf’s lips, unsure why her heart began to flutter like a fleeing butterfly.
“May—Uh, I interest you in my humble wares? I have pottery from the province of Black Marsh and Elsweyr; I even have mithril boots given to me by a Telvanni exile. Please have a look—”
Arania stepped up as if in battle formation: her mailed fist or boot ready to abuse someone who would dare to bother members of the emperor’s fist. But before the dark haired Nibenese could do anything, Talania brought her hand out to halt her. Arania looked harshly at her friend but eventually relented.
“So what will it be? I just know that I have something for you wonderful ladies!” The Elf smiled and a tattoo of a crescent moon waned over his right cheek. Talania rolled her eyes at his idiotic and simpleton smile.
This idiot doesn’t realize how close he came to losing his left and right nut. Talania grunted. “We’re not interested, Elf. Move along.”
“Please—Wait! At least have a look at the mithril boots. They’re incredibly light and durab–” Talania grabbed the elf by the collar of his robe and tried to lift him up. The Elf was surprisingly heavy and instinctively raised his hand to grip Talania’s arm. The grip of his hand was like a vise and the legionnaire knew that sooner rather than later the pressure would begin to hurt. This close to him, Talania caught a whiff of what smelled like a cologne. The scent brought to mind the image of gold kanet flowers whose sweet almost lemony smell she’d encountered on patrols through this land’s rugged terrain.
“Hehe. You’re a pretty strong imperial. Now about the boots–”
“Will you shut up?” Talania’s eyes widened as the Elf showed no signs of letting up. He’s not a soldier. Not even one of those silent ordinator guards, yet his hand feels like he’s about to break my arm.
The overconfident merchant raised an eyebrow. “No.”
Arania stepped forward again, her teeth gritted in the way they had been when she’d scared those foolish boys off all those years ago. “What in Oblivion did you say? You damned savage.”
The Elf laughed. “No, I won't shut up. If I don’t sell you these boots, then I don’t eat. You’re imperials. Septims–coin leaks from out of your mouths like rushing waterfalls. And I know I can get a deal with you.” He looked into Talania’s eyes; she stared back observing red within red like imperial dragon banners. To her dismay, the legionnaire began to feel an onrush of warmth behind her ears.
She let go of him and brought her hand up quickly to rub away the growing flush on her face.
Arania put a hand on Tal’s arm, ignoring the merchant. “Are you well? Has the Dark Elf done some wicked devilry upon you?”
“I’m fine!” Talania groaned as she brought her hand down. She turned back to the merchant and sighed. “Dammit you’re persistent.”
“I have to be,” the merchant replied while his stomach rumbled.
“Hmmph… Oh Talos, how much?”
“Forty septims.”
“Forty septims? For mithril? There’s gotta be a catch,” Arania punched Tal’s arm. “This shifty Dark Elf is selling what should go for hundreds of septims for so cheap. I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust any Elf, Arania.”
“Heeeeey, that’s not true. I don’t trust any Dark Elves. High Elves I get along with just fine. There’s a difference.”
The merchant chuckled. “Dun. Mer.” His voice was raspy but his smile was young.
“What did you say?” Arania, ever hot tempered, made a step forward. The merchant stared on, unafraid.
“I said: DUNMER. The Ashen Folk.”
“What in the Nine Divines is the difference?” Arania pointed.
“The difference, good imperial, is that one is the name of my people and the other… well… I’ve only ever heard from you humans.”
There was something about the Elf's response that made Talania want to chuckle. He is a bold one. Talania’s hand drifted down to her coin pouch ever so slightly as if she were running it over tall grass. “I want to see the boots.” She said, forcing her brow to furrow.
Arania groaned, facepalming but realizing she could do nothing to dissuade her friend from her choice.
The merchant grinned and turned with glee towards his cart. The late morning sun was beginning to settle into its midday station as the city around the three bellowed with similar merchants and imperials. After a moment the Dunmer had found the boots and walked up slowly towards Talania. The metal, almost white, glimmered in the sun. Inside of the boots there seemed to be some padding that promised comfort as well as protection.
Arania, who a second ago could not control her temper, was quiet, watching with wide eyes as the merchant handed the boots to her friend.
“Well? What do you think?” The boots were definitely used, sporting scratches and tiny dents in the metal.
Used boots are proven. This is a steal. Talania brought her eyes up and asked, “Where did you say you got these boots from?”
“A Telvanni exile. I saved his life and he rewarded me with these.”
“Why… Why would any House El–Dunmer, voluntarily part with such a treasure?”
The merchant stopped smiling and looked thoughtfully at the pair of boots. “I know you probably can’t tell the difference between us Dunmer, but I’m actually not from around here.” The merchant took in the space and for the first time the legionnaire noticed how his clothing seemed rather rugged, distinct, from the more Cyrodilic or foreign influenced jerkins and tunics worn by the city dwellers of Old Ebonheart. “I’m an Ashlander of the Zainab folk–”
“You’re a barbarian?” Arania crossed her arms. “No wonder you act the way you do. That High Elf at the mages Guild back at Firewatch warned me about these folk, Tal. Killers and Raiders. You are a barbarian, then?”
The Dunmer laughed. “Barbarian? I was one, yes. But I’m also a hunter. A tracker. A merchant. A cook… We have more roles than many House Dunmer or other foreigners realize. Yet, no matter how many different cloaks we wear, our hearts beat only to survive. My people believe that survival means being willing to sacrifice what makes you comfortable.” Talania’s hand ascended, wielding aloft the 40 septims as the Dunmer gently placed the boots in her other hand. “As you’ve been hearing, my belly has ached, and unfortunately I cannot break my fast on mithril.”
Good boots, Talania thought as she inspected them again in the sun. Used. Proven. Talania frowned. “Why lower your price for less than its worth? How does that help you survive?”
“My eldest brother used to tell me that those who sell their prize for cheap may wield less foreign coin, but should they get lost in the wastes, they may wander within a larger shadow and holding more wealth.”
The Dunmer's words brought to mind the image of Ashlander tribesman, their kin and family all around them, wandering through golden grass. Talania imagined this Elf in front of her walking more freely without a care in the world.
“Sounds like savage horseshit to me.”
“Arania!”
“Whaaat?” Talania glared at her friend until the dark-haired Nibenese relented once more and rolled her eyes in seething quiet.
“Ha! Well you don’t lack for spirit. Now, miss legionnaire, did you want to try the boots?”
Talania couldn't control the beginning of a slight smirk. Her smile, infectious, was reflected by the Dunmer in front of her. "I'll try em when I'm not standing in the street. What's your name, Ashlander?"
For the first time the whole conversation the Dunmer seemed taken aback, almost flustered. "I... I am Massour. Massour of the Grazelands. And you?"
"Talania Pullo. I hail from Leyawiin."
Massour nodded, though his expression indicated he knew not of her city. Why would he know where I am from? He's probably never been outside Morrowind.
He proceeded to take out one of the septims from the coin pouch, ironically the one she'd picked up in the puddle just a few feet away, and again his stomach rumbled. "I will eat good tonight. I hope... I hope we meet again."
Talania smiled, feeling not her age. "Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, Massour."
END
