Middas, 9th of First Seed, 4E 10
"I don't believe you heard me," the man said tensely as he rubbed his palms together in agitation. "I ordered twenty-six crates of Colovian brandy, and that… fool of a merchant sent me twenty-four!" His fat fingers clenched into a fist and slammed hard on the desk. "I demand retribution!"
Tedryn Thalor sighed in frustration and slid a form across the desk. "As I have already explained to you, sera, you can record your complaint on this form and I'll pass it along to the appropriate officials"
"And my missing brandy?"
"Go to the temple and pray to Zenithar, I'm sure he'll take care of everything"
The man snorted with contempt, stood up, and slid the form back across the desk. "One way or another, I'll have my brandy," he said indignantly before turning his back and beginning to exit the office.
"S'wit"
"What?"
"I said 'have a pleasant evening', sera"
The door shut with a thud. Tedryn yawned loudly and looked around at the now quiet Office of Imperial Commerce. His simple wooden desk was cluttered with all manner of documents, quills, inkpots, and other unorganised clutter. Large Nibenese tapestries hung on the walls, and orange flowers from the Blackwood forest bloomed in a pot behind him. In truth, the office was somewhat small for the scale of work performed within it, and the byzantine filing system preferred in all bureaucratic institutions of the Empire was evidently ignored by the employees of that particular office, who were prone to leaving files on Breton wine merchants in the folders of Khajiiti caravan bosses, and confusing East Empire fishing charters with manuals on the production of cheap pottery.
As grateful as he was to have been granted the position of Second Assistant Clerk of Commercial Imports and Exports (Skyrim and Morrowind), Tedryn was bored. Not the kind of boredom one feels when they've nothing to do on a lazy Sundas afternoon; no, this was a deep, infectious boredom that spread through every bone in his body and seeped into his soul. It was an unshakable urge for something more from his life than his current mundane existence. All his life, stories of heroes like Indoril Nerevar, Sotha Sil, Saint Jiub and the Nerevarine had inspired him to be something great, to be a hero of the people and become an inspiration himself. Yet there he was, one hundred and twenty-two years old and working a mediocre job for mediocre pay, living a totally inconsequential life.
'What could I do anyway?' he often thought to himself whenever his current state brought on a depression. 'Those great heroes of history were surely chosen by divine favour. Heroes are destined, not made.'
As the sun began to set over the Imperial City, Tedryn finished writing the last of half a dozen letters to various lumber mill operators across eastern Skyrim, politely requesting their most recent export figures for tax purposes. He sighed, wiped dry his quill, then collected his coat and left the office. From his pocket he pulled a keyring, and used a large bronze key to lock the door. It was raining lightly now, and he walked with quickened pace through the market district. The plethora of shops and stalls had astounded him when he first arrived from Balmora, which he had taken to be a great city in its own right. But nothing he had ever seen could compare to the awe and splendour of the Imperial City, with its ornate marble buildings, enormous statues and seemingly endless bustle of people. The city was thousands of years old, and Tedryn often marvelled at the craftsmanship of the ancient Ayleids, their architecture in the first era far surpassing that of any civilisation since.
Of course, the damage wrought by the oblivion crisis ten years earlier was not invisible. Though not as obvious as in the temple district, many buildings in the market district had suffered damage to their exteriors. The ensuing chaos caused by the absence of an emperor on the ruby throne, the Red Year, and the secession of Morrowind, Elsweyr and Black Marsh from the Empire had led to a period of deep economic recession in recent years. Many of the stores Tedryn now passed were boarded up, their proprietors no longer able to afford to keep them open. Beggars lined the streets, desperately pleading for a few septims from anyone passing even remotely near them. In the shadows, it was rumoured, a guild of thieves had become increasingly successful, and anyone with wealth was now hiring guards to protect their homes.
Despite these troubled times, Tedryn was fortunate. He had fled Vvardenfell with nothing but the clothes on his back, and now held a respectable government position in the greatest city in Tamriel, even being lucky enough to own his own property, albeit in the waterfront district. He often felt deeply guilty about his own dissatisfaction with his life, knowing there were dunmer on Vvardenfell who would give anything to be where he was. Despite it all, it just wasn't enough for him. He'd gladly give up his job, his house and his meagre wealth for just a moment of fame and glory. He'd give it all just to have his name on the front page of the Black Horse Courier for having rescued a count's daughter from a band of orcs, or slain a gruesome minotaur with his bare hands. Anything, so long as it brought him adventure and grandeur.
He was disrupted from his daydream by the sound of chatter and celebration and the strong smell of ale and roast beef coming from a nearby tavern. He weighed his coin purse in his hand, and feeling it had some heft to it, decided he could afford to have a meal and a couple of drinks.
The warmth of a hearth washed over him immediately as he entered the cosy but spacious room. The ceiling was very high, though this was not unusual in the Imperial City, and the floor was filled with tables and benches. On the other side of the room, facing the door, was the serving counter. An unshaven bartender rested against it on his elbows; on the wall behind him were racks containing various cheap wines and meads, most of them imported though some were locally produced. At the table closest to the door sat four burly nords, drinking merrily and revelling in something which was not immediately apparent to Tedryn, who had only just arrived. At a small table in a corner to the side of the bar, two bosmer were drinking and talking quietly, the two of them clearly engaged in deep discussion. At a table near them, a lone man drunk from a bottle of mead and muttered to himself, evidently quite drunk.
Tedryn walked up to the bar and took a seat. The bartender looked at him indifferently and sniffed.
"What can I get you?"
"Do you serve sujamma?"
"Do I serve what?"
"Never mind. A mug of ale and a plate of roast beef, please"
The bartender whistled loudly, and a moment later a young serving girl appeared from behind a closed door. She wore an apron stained from carving meat and had her hair tied neatly behind her head.
"Vittoria, a plate of roast beef for the gentleman here"
She nodded obediently and disappeared once more behind the door. The bartender cleared his throat and took an already opened bottle of ale from the shelf behind him. He pulled a silver mug from under the counter and filled it three quarters of the way full, before sliding it towards Tedryn. At this point the drunken man, having apparently finished his drink, rose and stumbled over to the bar, tripping over a chair on the way.
"Give me another drink, barkeep", he slurred rudely. Though his speech was affected by the alcohol, Tedryn could still make out his Colovian accent, possibly from Chorrol or Skingrad. He'd always had an ear for accents.
"I'll give you another drink when you pay up your tab, you filthy drunk. You owe me 15 septims!"
The colovian snarled, and then looked at Tedryn.
"Hello there, my grey-skinned brother," the colovian began, but Tedryn just shook his head firmly and the colovian growled and stumbled back to his table. The serving girl returned carrying a plate of roast beef and placed it before Tedryn.
"Six septims", the bartender said impatiently, still agitated from his recent argument. He quickly paid up and eagerly began his meal, pausing intermittently to drink from his mug.
The two bosmer in the corner were by now quite drunk also, and had begun to talk and laugh much louder.
"I'll bet mine is at least two inches bigger than yours!" exclaimed the taller one, taking a swig from his tankard.
"It's not the size, my friend, it's the way you use it! Still, I'd be willing to bet on that," replied the shorter.
"Ha! Show it to me right now then"
The shorter elf snapped his fingers, and a tall orange flame ignited at the tip of his index finger. The other looked rather bemused, and did the same, though his was not as big. Their fun was interrupted by two large hands slamming down on their table.
"Get that… evil away from here!" cried the colovian, visibly upset at their showmanship.
"Leave us alone, you drunken fool," the taller elf said in annoyance.
"Do you know what that accursed power has done to this world? Did you not see Hell itself open up and destroy everything?"
"We're making six inch flames, not opening a portal to Oblivion," the taller one laughed. The colovian grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled his face close to his.
"I was in Kvatch when the daedra appeared. I watched the city burn to nothing! I watched them kill my family!" he screamed into his face, tears running down his cheeks. The atmosphere was no longer merry. The room had gone completely silent as all watched on in awe at the scene taking place.
"Get your hands off me," the elf said quietly but sternly. "I won't ask again"
The colovian breathed heavily as the tears ran off his face. He stared into the elf's eyes for a few moments as his expression went from desperation to pure rage. He screamed and threw the elf's tiny body onto the table with such force that it broke in half. The shorter bosmer reacted instantly, conjuring a ball of fire in his hands and firing it into the colovian's rugged face. He screamed in pain, his entire head engulfed in flames, as the shorter bosmer quietly collected his friend and the two left the tavern with haste. The serving girl had fetched a pale of water and dunked it over the burning head, but it was too late. The screaming had stopped, and the charred remains of the colovian's face were forever frozen in an expression of unimaginable pain and terror.