Battle born

Leaving home

"Good morning, Starshine!" Called out my every cheery brother. Excitement coursed through my veins as I realized, Areldur, my darling brother is home. I scan my brain, what ever is the occasion? Perhaps I've missed Astel's remembrance date? Nono, that is in Frost Fall, it's Mid Year now. We've several months to go.

My thinking seises as I smell Mother's cinnamon rolls. "Cmon small one, Mother says breakfast is ready" He smiles at me, reading my mind surely because he follows up with "I missed you, so I thought I'd drop by."

His tall form trails out, his finely tailored clothes odd on him. Normally at his home he wears a simple tunic and pants with his leather bracers. I hope he hasn't brought me yet another skeever corpse. I've grown tired on running my experiments on small game, even elk and bears have grown bland. I wish I could poke around the decayed inner-workings of a man or myr. Alas I'm sure not even my darling brother would go for it. To defile the corpse of a once conscious myr is simply too much even for them.

I dawn in my day dress, simple dark red with black lace. It reaches the floor, yet not enough to trip, and rests just along my shoulders edge. The warm tones compliment my yellow hues. Though it flushes the green of my eyes. It's simple, however, perfect for a day inside.

I trot down the hall and arrive in our dining room. Brother is sat down, his black hair covering his face as he reads a book. My book. From my room. I use my telekinesis spell to attempt to snatch it back. He grabs with both hands. I pull harder, determined to find out what he'd snatched. Hopefully not my copy of- or my- oh by the 8 nonono.

He is eventually pulled across the kitchen still holding my book. I peak at the contents- The Dragonborn Comes. I release the spell and shoot him lightly back to place. Mother comes in with her rolls and scolds, "Love, what was that about? Why must you bother your brother while he reads, he's much too old for childish play. You're beginning to be too old as well, you're nearly 43 aren't you?"

"I'm 45 mother. You know that," I chide and she responds only with a smirk as she sets down the treat and frees her strawberry hair from the rag keeping her hairline safe from flour. Mother runs a bakery out of our home, often the buyers are dear cousins like Elenwyn. She loves her parties and often requests hundreds of rolls and cakes and pies for her estate dinners. Father however, he makes jewelry, circlets and rings and the like. Both keep us afloat well, enough that I am allowed to spend my youth perfecting my craft. Later I suppose I'll become a mage and join a college.

Father follows Mother in and smiles brightly. He goes in to hug me, "How is your morning, Alena? Are you causing trouble perhaps?" he teases, a knowing glint in his red-gold eyes. Areldur runs a lemonade-colored hand through his charcoal hair and grunts, regathering himself from being shot back into place and he questions, "What was that for Len?"

I respond simply, "You took my book, I thought it might've been my diary, both have simple black covers."

"Well yes but you can see the dragon on the front cover!" He shot back while Mother made us all plates; a roll, some roast pig, and a few diced strawberries.

"But I couldn't, so you see how I may have panicked," I retorted and then father chimed in "Why, what've you got in your diary~? Perhaps you've fallen for that ashen man that works at the book store you frequent~ hmmmm" he teases me.

"Oh never! Our dear has odd interests but nothing as macabre as dunmer. She'd surely rather become a spinstress than marry a man of that background," Mother chimed in. I simply nodded in agreement, though I didn't understand why she seemed to hate him so much. He was brought up here, he's basically one of us, surely nurture is much more powerful the nature in this case. Our magic is so powerful surely he's even grown our superior anatomy! He can cast fire like any good altmer, and he's even about my height, though I am short for someone of my standing, 6'3 without my heels.