Protecting Home - Chapter Two: Mortal Disgrace

  •      The Dragonborn found himself ambling along the trail towards Riverwood.

         ‘Amble’ perhaps was a litotes unagreeable towards the situation. His gait was more of a heavy canter, one armor-clad boot tromping in front of the other, the snow groaning against the abusive behavior of one fiercely irate youth, ice billowing to his knees. His face was the color a Nord possessed after an ample night of drinking, his eyes hot, eyebrows crinkled, and a glower darker than the depths of the Dwemeri caves. He grumbled to himself, face ducked below his helmet to hide from the Divines themselves in fear that his humiliation would bleed through.

         A Nord’s pride took long to simper--perhaps the entire day’s march to Riverwood.

         Galmar was renowned for his mere title as housecarl--an epithet of honor itself--aside to his temperament and attitude. “Stone-Fist” the recruits named him; Erak had heard it whispered amongst the Stormcloaks, either grins or dark scowls touching their lips. Erak had failed to remember it at the time he spoke to Galmar.

         His fingers caressed the swollen lump at the front of his jaw, ire growing hot. Toppling from Galmar’s blow alone had been demeaning--the guards’ guffaws still hackled at his ears--but to fall in front of Ulfric Stormcloak!

         His face grew a darker shade of red. Erak contemplated screaming. But a warrior was he, and Dragonborn at that--Dragonborns kept their composure, of course; he settled on biting on his clenched fist instead and hissing in fury.

         He discovered a hatred for Galmar that he never thought he harbored before. It was small--more of a ‘severe dislike’, really--and meager, but Erak housed it all-the-same. Careering onwards toward Riverwood, he grumbled oaths. Windhelm shrunk behind the snow-clad mountains, the harsh Skyrim wind beating at his back, and the dark curtain of clouds looming over him as if Kynareth herself mocked him.

         A howl flitted into his ears, echoing along the cobblestone road. Dark figures swam obscurely in the thundering wind, tossing up sheets of snow and billowing in the air. Their fangs glistened, eyes gleaming from their furry crowns as they bent over their paws to watch Erak. From their maw drooled blood, the half devoured goat lied discarded yards away, ice curling along its horns and glossed eyes. The wolves seemed thin, and they gazed at Erak in a familiar way.

         Mayhap it was sheer coincidence or a blessing from Talos himself. Erak cared little. He discerned something to stab, and he found ill reason to refuse the opportunity.

         Erak’s fingers curled themselves around the leather-bound shaft of his axe. He tasted the Thu’um in his throat, his neck prickling, gait changing to a hot career.

         The pack faced him. Their chest bulged and they snapped their heads savagely as their jaws released their bays. Hunger gleemed in their eyes.

         They gave no warning. At one moment they stood. At the next they charged.

         Erak was all too happy to introduce them to his blade.


         “They have it!”

         The door whined open, shuddering on its hinges and clattering against the stone wall as it clashed with it. Guards jolted in alarm, seizing their swords, drawn halfway from their scabbard. Legate Rikke tore in, armor rattling against each plate as her chest heaved with exertion. Nearly stumbling into the war table, the woman skid to a halt, breath coming in unsteady heaves. The guards sheathed their weapons at mention of no imminent threat, returning to their posts and vainly masking their interest. Tullius stood at the edge of the war table, fingers still clasped around its edges. Rikke met his gaze.

         “The Stormcloaks have the Jagged Crown, sir.” Her voice quivered in nigh rage. Behind her, the sound of the guards shuffling flittered at her ears.

         The aged general straightened slowly, as if Solitude itself would rain down in fire toward any hasteful movements. His face was stoic.

         “I had hoped not but...” he spoke, a mere whisper on his tongue. He remained where he stood, eyes scanning nothing. “The Dragonborn was there.” It was not a question.

         Regardless, Rikke felt her head bob in affirmation, inclined to answer.

         “Then of course they have the Jagged Crown.”

         The harsh quip bit at her pride. The General undoubtedly meant not to carp her--he was a reasonable and forgiving man who found little wisdom in chastising sullen soldiers--but Rikke’s imagination addled with her officer’s reaction. He sounded accusatory, disappointed. The Dragonborn was a legend amongst them all and, petty insults or not, the Imperial soldiers’ confidence had dulled at the sound of his Thu’um. Never had the Dragonborn exposed his allegiance to any party, fellow Nord as he was. Then he was found in the battle, axe cleaving their friends, their allies. They balked at the man, whose face was shrouded in the shadows, the horns of his helm glistening in the torches’ glow, a sight worse than the daedra themselves. Their fear had caused the Dragonborn to obtain the Jagged Crown. And Rikke, their commanding officer, had allowed it.

         She stared at her general, miming his stoic composure. Secretly, she prayed to Talos that her face did not color in shame.

         General Tullius exhaled, pinching his fingers into his eyes and rubbing them gently. “It is done,” said he. “Ulfric has his item of rally. The Moot… ah, he’ll have the Moot by Sun’s Height.” Tullius faced her.

         “And the Dragonborn is now the Stormcloaks’.”

         Legate Rikke had not the heart to answer him, his eyes cold stones to her stomach. Only her Nordic pride kept her eyes level with his.

         None had met the Dragonborn. A rumor whittled amongst the soldiers that he had been captured with the Stormcloaks before Helgen. None of the Imperials knew his personality, his name, his origins. He was Dragonborn, legend of old, and now he was to be their enemy. The Imperials and Bretons felt little fear, heathens of Skyrim fables. But for a Nordic hero to join their enemies was an ode of bane for the Imperial Nords, who were the majority of their army. Their confidence would be shirked. Rikke too, loathe as she was to admit it, felt a cold trickle of ice bury itself deep into her stomach at the thought of him. The news was ill.

         “And now we are pitted against two masters of the Voice.”

         The sentence left her tongue before she realized it was moving. Rikke blinked, alarmed at the notion. The guards noticeably reacted from behind her, nervously shuffling in their armor. They held their tongues, praise the Nine, balking the urge to whisper to each other.

         Tullius scoffed through his nose. “Nordic superstition is what I’d call it.”

         The comment cut deeper than usual, and Rikke’s temper flared. She admired her General, aye, and would fight with him until Sovngarde called to her, but his lack of acknowledgement for Nordic tradition sparked her ire. Her ceaseless patience toward him had finally come at an end, with a demoralizing defeat weighing heavily on her shoulders. She scowled at him.

         “Nordic superstition or not, Stormcloak and the Dragonborn harbor a massive advantage against us, sir. Stormcloak holds a tight grip on his men, and they do believe he is the High King of Skyrim. He has won many battles in the past. The people of Skyrim admire his heroics.

         “The Dragonborn,” she rose her voice, “has killed a dragon, and legends or not, your men are scared by him. Our men are tired. The Stormcloaks are at our front, the Thalmor at our heels, and the dragons attacking us at every corner. We are losing soldiers, losing supplies, and  losing allies.

         “We are losing this war, sir.”

         “Indeed you are.”

         Tullius, once frowning at Legate Rikke, stared above her shoulder, his knotted brow climbing high. Rikke swiveled where she stood, alarmed another had listened to their conversation. She paled and her mouth clamped shut. She didn’t quite glower, but neither did the visitor quite smile.

         The Thalmor nodded to them, a nigh-condescending tilt of his head, his stature towering over the Nord and Imperial. His arms were folded behind him, emerald eyes gleaming from his hood. They had never heard him enter.

         The silence was mercifully brief as Tullius acknowledged the Altmer officer with a nod of his head. “Your visit is unexpected, mer.”

         “How woeful,” the Thalmor commented, his expression not icy or warm. His smile was nonexistent and his eyes were cold--enough to challenge the tundra of Skyrim. He brushed passed Rikke without a glance, his grace unnatural to her. She glared at his back as he studied the War Map, noting the flags and pins thrusted inside the old wood.

         “Is there a reason for your visit?” Tullius voice was nearly as cool as the Altmer’s eyes. His own smile was professional, curt, a perfect greeting to a mer. The elf, still staring at the table, pursed his lips.

         “I would think so, with your struggle in this… ah, ‘war’. Evidently, you had some difficulties, young General.”

         Despite the address, the Altmer’s cool eyes rested on Rikke. His gaze was eerily blank as the legate’s face grew hot. He had eavesdropped on their conversation, no doubt. “Losing this war” chimed in her head. Aye, he must have heard that.

         Rikke trusted nary but her tongue to remain still.

         “We’ve had difficulties,” Tullius agreed levelly, his gaze flashing to Rikke. “But the Imperial Legion will surpass it.”

         “Indeed?” The Thalmor’s voice did not quite coo, but his tone prickled at Rikke’s throat. He fingered one of the flags on the table, face unreadable. “A shame it hasn’t been surpassed sooner.”

         Tullius’s face twitched, eyes flaring. Before he could respond, the Altmer faced him.

         “I have a proposition for you, General.”

         The general allowed a cold frown touch his lips. “I have no interest in allowing the Thalmor to interfere with local affairs.”

         Then, the Thalmor smiled. Altmeri expressions always escaped Rikke’s fathoming, how they seemed so artificial yet so genuine.

         “Then we share a common interest,” said he. “Do listen, my friend, before you reach a decision. I assure you this one is quite remarkable.”

     

    Again, I'm quite wary of how I presented the canon characters--if I exposed them in their right light, or completely failed. 'Tis up to my readers, of course. I hope you enjoy the chapter. There will be more to come, I assure you.

Comments

4 Comments
  • The Wing
    The Wing   ·  July 14, 2015
    This Thalmor agent is an intriguingly mysterious character... more so than stupid Ancano, anyway. That guy is probably the snidest in the whole game. At least this agent can pretend to tolerate humans and imbeciles. 
    I think Galmar is spot on - thou...  more
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  July 14, 2015
    And I can't even write properly.  You set up the characters rather well. Dying to know who the Thalmor are. 
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  July 13, 2015
    Grrr, Thalmor.  
    Enjoyed the chapter. You set up very well. 
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  July 13, 2015
    Plot thickens and poncy Thalmor are getting involved. Interesting....