Prologue
17 Last Seed
"I thought they were only legends!"
"Legends don't burn down villages." There was ice in his voice. Cold, he had been called, and perhaps those who referred to him as such were right. Ulfric Stormcloak was the impenetrable glacier of calm in a raging maelstrom of chaos. And the particular variety of chaos he now faced was laying waste to Helgen while Ralof attempted to play hero to the woman who had escaped execution mere moments beforehand.
Ulfric looked down at the offending female and chuffed in frustration. Too dark to be a Nord, too fair to be Redguard. And beneath the gore, grime and bruises, too pretty to be a Breton. He grunted again. A damned Imperial.
"We need to keep moving," Ralof continued, his voice tinged with panic. It was the first logical suggestion the man had made since the dragon attacked. A quick look around the room gave them no other options. Up the stairs they went. The woman scarcely made it past the window on the second level when a burst of fire separated them and destroyed the stairwell.
"You'll have to jump," the soldier told her. She looked at him apprehensively, gesturing at the window with her still-bound wrists. "The adjoining roof should hold. We'll meet you at the guard tower."
Her gaze shifted, resting briefly on the Jarl of Windhelm, and he held it. Ulfric didn't want to care about the fate of this woman. He didn't have time for it. But there was something about the stubborn and defiant look in her eyes that clearly stated he hadn't seen the last of her.
Like a flash, she was gone.
"You're not really going to risk our necks for a piece of ass, are you?" he asked Ralof as they retreated down the stairs and back out to the courtyard. The corpse of a soldier sprawled across the threshold, and Ulfric took a sword from its charred death-grip.
"More of your troops are being held inside. If I can get them out, we'll resupply in Riverwood and join back up with the nearest camp."
"And the female?"
"A looker, aye, but she's no slouch." They dodged another bout of flame, and skirted along the edge of the wall. There was a breach up ahead, and Ulfric could see a few of his own soldiers on the other side. "Hands are calloused, from either labor or weapon training. Since the Empire saw fit to capture one of their own, maybe she'll be persuaded to join the cause."
"We'll see," was all Ulfric said in reply. He knew it was time for him to part ways with Ralof, and his men were waiting to take him back to Windhelm. "Get to the tower. Free our soldiers. Fight well or die well."
"If you do not see me on the field of battle, I will meet you in Sovngarde."
Ralof nodded in farewell before disappearing into the smoke and destruction. Ulfric didn't envy the man his task, but it would be better for his captive soldiers to die fighting than crushed and burned in a stone prison. And the woman...
Miri, his memory teased, bringing up those final moments of calm before the dragon cut her execution short. Scanning the courtyard, he caught the flash of sun on her golden brown hair as she made her own way to the tower. Miri paused briefly, crouching near a mauled body and dipping a finger into the blood that was pooling beneath it, no easy task for a person with bound hands. Lifting the finger to her face, she traced a pattern that Ulfric couldn't see clearly at first. And then she turned to face him.
House Ignis. A noble family from the Imperial City that had been exiled and hunted for their refusal to give up the worship of Talos following The Great War. And the last known distant relations of the diluted Septim bloodline.
**Disclaimer** "Skyrim" and familiar characters are property of Bethesda.
A/N: Just a quick tease for the opener. My Bioware ship crashed after hitting a patch of writer's block and I'm treading water in the unfamiliar ocean of Elder Scrolls. Future installments will be considerably longer, I promise. :)