Chapter Text
The dice were loaded, of course. No other way to play.
Talrose had purchased them for a very reasonable price. Made of rat bones, they were, crudely painted. Better quality than her last ones. She flung them into the table and turned away to pull off her bottle of wine, didn’t need to look at the result, listened to the outraged shouting from the men around her.
“That’s cheating, is what it is,” an Imperial pirate slammed his fist into the side of the table. Piracy was, of course, illegal in Cyrodiil. Not like the port authority could tell a pirate from a parrot.
“Cheating?” Tal feigned indignation, placing a hand on her chest. “Me?”
The fellows around the table grumbled, swirling their drinks while she raked the pile of coins towards herself. Music was banged out by a triplet of Argonians in the corner of the room, drums, strings and a strange hissing singing. It was a little barnacle called the Flowing Bowl, technically an inn, but mostly utilized by locals as a hole to get drunk in.
“Always said, can’t trust a Dark Elf,” a Nord behind her muttered. “Least of all at gambling.”
Talrose hooked an arm over the back of her chair and twisted to face him. “You tell that to your sister while you were fucking her?”
One of the sailors dissolved into hysterical giggles. The Nord went red in the face. “Come here and say that to my face, you little milk-drinker!”
“Is that what you call a face where you come from?” She grinned. “We call it something else in Morrowind.”
“I’ll show you a face, you…” he was caught, mid-knuckle-cracking, around the elbow by his companion, a Breton man, for whom this was clearly not his first time calming his friend. After some muttering, the Nord dropped back down in his seat, snatching up his flagon of ale. “Forget it. Not worth the trouble.”
“Aye, Tal,” one of the sailors, an Imperial, snapped his fingers. A ruby earring winked at her. She knew this one, just couldn’t remember his name. “Let’s make this interesting. Double or nothing.”
“I think my luck’s run out, boys,” Tal turned back to the table, juggling her dice in her hand.
“No such thing!” Ruby Earring whistled to the bar. “Aye, barman! Get my friend here another bottle!”
The owner and barman, a Wood Elf named Maenlorn, smiled tightly at them and fetched another bottle of wine. When he set it in front of Tal, he said, “On your tab, again, I assume?”
“The very same, if you don’t mind.” She batted her eyelashes. “And some more bread and cheese for my friends, here. Can’t have them getting too drunk, I’ve not whipped them at dice nearly long enough.”
Ruby Earring cackled, slapping one of the other sailors on the back. Maenlorn scoffed, shaking his head as he returned to the bar, calling, “I want the tab in gold this time, not fish!”
Talrose could hardly take a drink from laughing too hard. Coughing back wine, she gasped, “All right, then, you salty fetchers. Who’s in this round?”
“I’m in,” Ruby Earring grinned, exposing rotted yellow nubs for teeth. “I’ll double my bet, if you throw in that fancy sword of yours.”
“What, this?” Talrose wiggled the hilt of her sword, Nammu, where it peeked over her shoulder. It was a magnificent longsword, the black leather sheath scratched from thirty rough years in her care. A perfect sphere of obsidian adorned the pommel, straight from the ashlands of her home. The damned thing was as old as the Red Mountain, had seen most of its use in the hands of her great-grandfather. “This one’s not for sale.”
“I’m not trying to buy it,” he said. “I’m trying to win it. Fair and square. We can use your dice, if that makes you feel all warm inside.”
A moment of sobriety narrowed her vision. “No.”
“How about that pretty necklace?” He pointed. Referring to the black pearl around her neck, a bluish-green, malformed blob that shimmered with iridescence like an Argonian’s scales. “Has to be worth something.”
She smiled. Typical slimy pirates. “Why are you trying to complicate this, serjo? Just use gold like a good boy.”
“What if I offered to throw in—"
“Kaoc’, I said no.” Tal snapped. “Don’t make me say it again.”
Ruby Earring sneered, and his eyes drifted over her shoulder. “Ah, just in time. Looks like your mam’s come calling you home.”
Talrose twisted around. Scanning the room at the entrance to the tavern was Mithel, frowning and twisting his hands. The instant he laid his eyes on her, he began pushing through the crowded drinking hall to reach her, apologizing and squeezing through.
“Great…” she muttered under her breath, hunching back over the table.
“Tal!” Mithel stumbled up to her. Her younger brother was skinny and tall, like a reed, with shorn black hair. Around his neck was a pearl, the twin to her own. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
She raised her bottle to him. “You found me. Well done.”
“You were supposed to be at work already,” he hissed. “Mirabelle sent me to find you. What are you doing here?”
“Having a drink with my wonderful new friends,” she gestured across the table at the greasy pirates and seamen. They raised their cups to her, chuckling along. “Join us! There’s room for one more.”
Mithel ran a hand down his face. “No, Tal. Come, we should be going.”
He grasped her under the elbow and pulled her up to her feet. Tal tore her arm away from him, stumbling back into the table. Towers of gold jumped and cascaded into piles, unattended drinks sloshed dangerously. “Get off of me!”
“Fine, fine,” he held up his hands. “Can we leave, please?”
“No.” Tal waved a finger at him, from the fist still holding her bottle. “I’m not going anywhere with…you. You think you’re like Father, but you’re not. You’re like Mother.”
Mithel put an arm around her back, pulling her away from her table of winnings. “Whatever you say. Come along.”
“I said, get off!” Tal wrenched back out of his grip, tripped and fell into someone.
Cold ale dumped over her head. She spluttered, wiped her face, tasted foam and hops. Mithel was apologizing above her, but not to her. Tal grasped the edge of the table and found her footing. A Breton man with an empty flagon was talking to her, but she didn’t care a whit what he was saying, could only feel the beer soaking her shirt and the hot embarrassment from her gambling table’s raucous laughter behind her. She snatched a handful of the Breton’s tunic and yanked him forward, straight into a wild punch she swung with her other fist. The bones of his cheek and her knuckles cracked together, and the man howled in pain, stumbling back.
“Talrose!” Mithel wailed.
“Hey!” The Nord from before dumped over a table, crashing through the room towards her. Tal shoved the first man away and faced him just in time to receive a brusque strike across the face, a bright hot burst of pain.
She laughed, wiping blood from her upper lip, shaking her sore hand. “Come on, n’wah!”
The Nord snarled and threw a clumsy punch, which she managed to duck. She slammed a fist into his gut, and he struck her away with a sharp slap to the side of her head. She snatched a cup from the table and whipped it at him, where it thumped anticlimactically against his chest. The Nord guffawed, grabbed her bodily around the chest, and flung her across the bar. She rolled across a table, felt it give under her weight, and yelped as she dumped over onto the other side. Clay mugs, beer, playing cards rained down on her, a symphony guided by the outraged shouting of the patrons whose table was now vertical.
As she brushed broken ceramic from her hair, the Nord wrenched aside the table, exposing her like a bug under a rock. She lunged for him again and he caught her around the neck with one meaty fist. With the other he punched her in the ribs, once, twice, more. She gagged, feeling sick in her throat. Talrose snarled like a beast, burying her nails in the hand around her neck, kicking at his knees. Her vision was swimming—she was being held off the ground.
“That’s enough!” Mithel grabbed the Nord’s arm, yanking on him. “She’s had enough!”
“Stop this madness!” Another voice hollered over the din. The music stopped.
Everything spun in a dizzy blur of light, the world was upside down. Something struck her back, the pressure on her neck was gone, and she could breathe again. Now on her knees, Tal coughed and spat a troublesome gob of something to the side. Her mouth tasted like blood. Hands shook her shoulders, and she blinked Mithel into view.
“…rose? Tal? Are you okay?” He patted her cheek. She slung an arm over his shoulders, and he dropped his head in a sigh of relief. “Ancestors, you scared me.”
She chuckled and spat again. “You scare too easy.”
Mithel lifted Tal up, holding her arm around his shoulders. The smeared colors of the tavern focused back into clear images. The bar had come to a standstill, half the room destroyed and most patrons now on their feet, uncertainly milling in the spaces between upturned tables. Awkward silence reigned, as the Argonian musicians exchanged nervous looks.
“All of you, out!” Maenlorn demanded, marching into the center of the room.
“She started this whole mess!” The Nord protested, looking up from attending the bruised face of his Breton companion.
“I don’t care who started what!” He waved his arms. “Get out of here before I get the port authority in here!”
Tal struggled out of Mithel’s grasp, finding unsteady ground. She fumbled to the table where she had been gambling and scraped her winnings into her purse with clumsy hands.
“Sorry, boys, but it seems to be last call for me.” She said, tying her purse.
Ruby Earring laughed, raising his drink. “Thank you kindly for a night of entertainment. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Be utterly bored, I’m sure.” Tal gave a mock curtsey, grabbed her half-spilled bottle of wine from the floor, and allowed herself to be towed away by Mithel.
Outside, the night air was as crisp as a cold cup of water. Talrose took a deep breath in, and coughed it out when pain from her ribs stabbed her. The sister moons of Masser and Secunda cast the dingy harbor in shades of blue and black. She slid to the side of the building and took refuge atop a stack of shipping crates, massaging her sore throat. Waves sloshed against the ships in the bay, creaking, like the songs of gigantic colorful birds.
“This can’t keep happening, Tal,” Mithel said. “What were you thinking?”
“Why do you care?” She rummaged for a tobacco leaf in her pocket, located it, tore the fresh green in half and popped it into her mouth. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”
“I know. Because if I had not come down here, I probably wouldn’t see you for the next few days.”
The door of the tavern opened beside them, blasting a beam of orange light, smoky air and laughter out onto the dark street. It was the Breton man, holding a swollen eye, followed shortly by the Nord, who slammed the door behind them.
“Sorry about your face!” Tal called to the Breton. The Nord shot her a glare, shook his head, and disappeared into the maze of back alleys.
Mithel stepped in front of her. “This is what I mean. Stop doing that!”
“Doing what?”
“Starting fights! How many times are you going to get your arse handed to you before you learn?” He rubbed his temples, blowing out a long sigh. “I swear, sometimes I feel like we were born in the wrong order.”
“Right.” She clapped her hands on her knees and slid off of her crate. “If you’re so talented, why do you bother with me? Plenty of houses for sale in the city. Just go off on your own, already.” She stalked off into the dark wharf.
“Where are you going?” He called, exasperated.
She waved, not looking back. “Hopefully, somewhere I’m not banned!”
“Talrose!” He protested, but she was off. No point in arguing with him. Precious little Mithel went to Balmora for an education, and ever since, he was never wrong. Just because she liked having fun didn’t mean she was a child. After everything she sacrificed for them, for their family. All the years she spent laboring over Father, with nothing but a catatonic mother for thanks. Getting drunk once in a while was only the least of what she deserved.
The Anvil harbor was a huge fishhook, a gulf of water where the ships came to port, lined with houses. Neighborhood and business were as one in the harborside district. The buildings started tall nearest the port and gradually slipped back, becoming more stunted, abandoned, in disrepair, with the worst of the lot being crammed right up to the wall of the city. Although the harbor was considered an official district of Anvil, it was outside the city walls, probably for some convenient tax reason. Talrose didn’t care. The guards who patrolled the harbor were just as crooked as everyone else who lived there, and that level of quasi-lawfulness suited her just fine.
She passed the flickering lights from windows along the street, stepping over the prone bodies of beggars. Skooma dealers and their clients muttered in dark corners. A duo of city guards passed her, exchanging a flask and chuckling. A group of men hunched over in a doorway, shaking dice, casting suspicious looks her way. Tal was tempted to stop and join, but she kept on, eventually finding a nest of fishing net off the main street. Groaning, she plopped down, rubbing her sore limbs. Damned Nord. Supposed she had started it, though.
“Ancestors, damn it…” she dropped her head back, jerking when she knocked her skull on Nammu’s hilt. “Ugh…”
She shrugged the sword off her back and into her arms, cradling it. Part of her wanted to return to the Flowing Bowl and apologize to Mithel, go with him to work, and just forget about their fight. Tal shut her eyes, settling into her fishnet bed, scaring away those complicated thoughts. She’d go home soon. Just needed to lick her wounds.
Talrose snorted awake. Pale morning light was struggling through the overcast sky. She smacked her lips, turned and spat out a sticky half leaf of tobacco. Her stiff arms were still wrapped awkwardly around Nammu. Joints creaking, she got to her feet, kicking off tangled fishnet. One fist was still clutched around her bottle, but when she went to drink, received only a couple meager drops. She flung it over her shoulder. Everything throbbed from her beating the previous night.
“Getting too old for this…” she slung Nammu over one shoulder and stepped out into the main street.
Seagulls screeched overhead, circling the crowded masts in the bay. The black crust of the wharf was receding in the daylight, soon to be replaced with only a slightly more respectable breed. Mostly sailors, doing their duties for the day before they set sail, moving cargo and the like, jobs she herself had done when short on cash. Vendors with rickety stalls tried to sell her fish, imported vegetables, porridge.
She slowed at a table propped up on the window to a house. Fresh wheat rolls were steaming on the table, glistening with honey. No one in sight. Tal grabbed three buns in one hand, jammed a fourth in her mouth, and quickly bustled away down the wharf. Not running—running was too obvious. Just walk.
Mithel wouldn’t be too pleased with her methods of acquiring breakfast, but he wouldn’t be complaining once he got some food. They had to survive. He was just too much of a coward to do what needed to be done. Besides, she owed him a peace offering after last night.
Their house was a few alleys back, not quite beachfront property. It was saddled in the middle of a dozen other apartments just like it, a slumped mess of boarded-up windows, ill-fitting doors, and would-be balconies melting into each other. A few dying potted plants attempted to brighten the scenery. Old ship sails were slung across the street between homes, casting permanent twilight over the block.
Talrose reached for the handle to the door, and stopped cold.
Blood.
A large handprint grasped the doorway, smeared, rusty red, already dry. A stifled noise came out of her throat and she fell back a few steps. Red boot prints were leading out from under the door, away around the corner. Fear had a cold fist around her spine, nailing her to the spot.
“Ancestors, damn it all…” she dropped the honey rolls, wiped her sweating palms on her trousers, shrugged one shoulder down to let Nammu fall down her arm. She drew the blade, the long steel whispering in the silence. After a long, stony moment, feeling came back into her legs, and she kicked open the door, lunging in with Nammu leading, half expecting something to jump out at her.
And on the other side was…nothing. Nothing but dusty silence. Tal crept into her house, surveying the scene before her.
It stank of old fish, salt and metallic blood. The one table she owned had been upended, the chairs too. Shattered wood from the furniture was strewn across the floor. Both sleeping cots were covered in muddy boot prints, snapped frames like broken bones. The stew pot was on its side, vomiting old soup onto the wet earth. Embers from the fireplace were spilt out into the living area. And across everything, blood. It was dashed across the walls, smeared in handprints on everything. A small pool of it was drying in the middle of the floor, the size of her fist, still black-red and glistening wet.
“Mithel?” Her voice was tiny in the empty room. No one answered back.
The room was spinning. Her ears were ringing. She fell back against the door, dropped Nammu with a clatter, and ended up on her ass, eye level with the carnage. It was as though she were watching herself from outside, looking down. Minutes went by in dead silence.
It had to be a dream. Tal squeezed her eyes shut, bringing her knees up to her forehead. Never before had she wanted to badly to wake up in an alley. Start the entire day over. When she opened her eyes, she was still alone on the floor of her house.
Something glittered amongst the wreckage. Talrose saw it winking at her, beckoning. She closed her dry mouth and crawled through the filth to meet it.
The glittering prize was half submerged in the shallow pool of blood. It was her necklace. No—not hers. The other one. Mithel’s matching one. She drew it out of the blood, shuddering at how cold it was. The leather cord was drenched, snapped at the back. A fat bead of blood dripped off the purple-green pearl. Syrupy.
She gripped it tight in her hand.
Everything came crashing back down on her. Sound, light, the smell of the world. She tied Mithel’s necklace around her neck. It was cold and damp. Blood drooled down her chest. Anger ignited in her stomach and she grasped ahold of it. Anger was good, hot, a friend she could rely on. Anger got her feet moving. She snatched Nammu up off the floor and stormed out of the house, smashing the door open with her bare foot.
It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.