A Tragicomedy in Scarlet by Sigmund Grief
Last Seed was the time of revelry for them.
As per tradition ordains did the Kinship of Aelyrné open the doors of her house, as they had done so for the last seven centuries. Wine aged in sweet-smelling caskets was brought out from the deepest of the whorling cellars, accompanied by a thousand different eclectic hors d'oeuvres, wrought from pinkish dough and magicks arcane by the maddening genius of the palace chefs. Draperies and tapestries of the highest quality of silk were lain bare, to display the opulence of the Kinhouse that comissioned them. And its glory too; each and every single one of the tapestries and cloths had upon them a stitched scene from the myriad exploits of the Kirin's Blood.
Van's Story by Evil Jack
The white Khajiit's almond-shaped eyes droop as the final shifting rays of sunlight scatter through the shoddy wood-craft of a small apartment building on the Wayrest waterfront. Quiet and unassuming, the building is nonetheless known as a flophouse; guards rarely patrol this section of the city, the drug dealers, prostitutes and pimps forming their own cabal of law and lawlessness. Sounds and smells move through the building's thin and uncared for walls, hushed as to maintain some kind of privacy in some of the resident's lowest moments.
The Muses Three: The Tale is Told by Ember Blue
Middle-aged, tired, and silver-haired, Simon’s torso was slumped forward with his head in his hands in the picture of a tormented, discomposed man. Fingers rubbed against both of his temples as the paltry light from wax-dripped candles painted patterns amidst the rain-dropped kissed window. Somewhere in High Rock, the humble shack the Breton man and his younger, Imperial wife lived in was torn with tragedy.