Manny-Mun: [[Standard Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the Elder Scrolls, and it is the intellectual property of Bethesda. Manarion is a character of my own creation modeled to fit into the universe of Tamriel. I sincerely hope you guys enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcomed, as are kitties and offerings of food. If you like, please feel free to favorite/like, review, and follow. That's all for now, see you in the next chapter. Bye-bye~!
Dragon Scales and Eagle Feathers:
Chapter One: Black Wings in the Cold:
The Imperial held city of Helgen was only moderately impressive, as far Nordic settlements went. It's thick stone walls were manned by Legion troops, clad in clean leather and shining steel armor, and the black and crimson standards bearing the dragon of the Cyrodiilic Empire fluttered from the turrets and towers, flapping in the cold, clear morning breeze. Thick white clouds crawled lazily across the pale blue sky; it was the perfect day for a public execution of murdered and traitors.
At least in Thalmor General Manarion Elahriel's not-so-humble opinion.
The Thalmor entourage accompanying Ambassador Elenwen had arrived in Helgen late in the night before, upon hearing the news that the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak and leader of the rebellion had been captured in an Imperial ambush near Dark Water Crossing three days before. And thus, Ambassador Elenwen, her loyal General, and several of the Thalmor's best Justiciars and the Dominion's most skilled soldiers now sat just inside the main gates of Helgen, as Elenwen spoke to General Tullius, who was the leader of the Legion troops stationed in Skyrim at behest of the Emperor.
Weak willed fool though he was.
Manarion sat at rapt attention upon the armored back of Hurricane, a golden stallion clad in the trappings of the Thalmor, his golden eyes moving from between Tullius and Elenwen when they spoke, while his hands, clad in neat leather gloves and elven gauntlets toyed with Hurricane's reins, or he traced his covered fingers over the feather details of the stallion's armored crinet. The large mer listened to the converstation between his Ambassador and the Imperial General, occassionally twitching an ear at certain words, and letting out faint snorts as Tullius said something obnoxiously Imperialistic and Elenwen humored him with some half-complimentary, half-sarcastic comment that made Manarion have to bite back a smile and a snide chortle.
While Manarion could respect his fellow General when the man talked battlefield tactics and troop movements, or as a warrior and horseman, Manarion was not really a mer for Tullius' favorite conversation topic, the glorious and illustrious Empire. Or whatever propaganda garbage they were spouting this decade. If there was a downside to being one of High Elven blood and longevity, it was being forced to deal with people that were not so equally blessed every fifty years or so. It was certainly something that grew tiring, rather quickly, repeating oneself so many times for so many people for so many years.
The huge armored mer turned, glancing over towards his Ambassador, taking a quick moment to swiftly study her body language and the way she spoke to gauge how worried she was about the situation. He knew his First Emissary well, and Manarion could tell when the womer needed something from him; whether to kill a problematic subject, or to provide helpful advice when the womer was very carefully plotting out Dominion troop movements and sending Thalmor Justiciars on heretic hunts. Manarion was the first mer she asked when dealing with the difficult terrain of Skyrim and how to go about carrying out the Thalmor's will throughout Tamriel. And Manarion was more then happy to comply with his Ambassador's wishes, no matter how difficult; anything she asked of him, and he would obey without question.
Elenwen met her General's gaze steadily, offering to him a faint smile as she noticed Manarion's intent gaze and the older mer returned it, a bit of red tinging the skin of his cheeks. He hoped she did not notice it, and if the Ambassador did, he would claim it as a side affect of the cold air biting at his exposed cheeks and ears. Manarion forced a cough, clearing his throat, before he inclined his head towards the gates, where one of the Imperial soldiers stood as lookout on top of the surround.
"General Tullius, the wagons of prisoners have arrived."
"Good." The Imperial General sighed, moving to dismount from his warhorse with a groan and a creak of leather against leather and a clink of steel against steel. "Let's get this over with." A younger legionnaire stepped forwards to take the charger's reins, holding the animal steady as the older man climbed off, the horse giving a slight snort as the soldier led it away, plodding slowly alongside the gangly young human. He was little more then a boy, Manarion thought, before turning his attention back to General Tullius for a few seconds until he directed his gaze back to Elenwen.
"General Elahriel." The womer said, presenting her General with another smile and inclining her head, a silent go ahead from the First Emissary of the Thalmor. She had found it a bit odd that he had not said much of anything this morning, but the day was still young, and her loyal companion was most likely doing his best to keep her safe, seeing as how she was far, far, far from the Thalmor Embassy and the safety it offered. More likely then not, Manarion had other things on his mind. "I presume everything is in order?" Such subtlety those few simple words held, and the womer kept her facial expressions carefully controlled as Manarion gave her a nod, before he moved to dismount his horse as well.
"Of course, my lady Ambassador." Manarion said. Hurricane snorted softly as his master landed heavily beside him, bracing himself against the charger's side as his bad hip gave a harsh twinge of pain. "The White-Gold Concordat gives us the authority to take Ulfric Stormcloak into custody, and as a Diplomat for the Dominion, you outrank him." It took a few seconds for the discomfort to fade away, and Manarion lifted a hand to order a soldier, Corporal Sanyail Molleenen, closer. The younger mer took the horse's reins, his scarred and battered face set into a hardened glower; no Imperial legionnaire could look the Altmeri Corporal in the eyes for longer then a couple of scant seconds before glancing quickly away to go about their business.
Manarion, now recovered, swiftly moved over to help his Ambassador dismount from her own horse. He lifted one hand up towards her, palm upwards to aid her. His heartbeat pounded a little harder in his ears, and he forced an expression of calm as Elenwen moved to place her hand in his, smiling gratefully as the aged elf politely assisted her. It was one of the many reasons she had been more then pleased at having the older soldier accept her offer of a General's ranking in Skyrim, one many had turned down in favor of easier and more glorious positions. Manarion was known for being as polite and cordial as he was intelligent and wise with those both above and below his command. It was something that was quite useful when dealing with those that thought of the Aldmeri Dominion as nothing more then brutish conquerors.
"Thank you, General. " The Thalmor Ambassador replied, squeezing the mer's hand and giving a brief bow of the head towards him gratefully as she dismounted from her horse, another soldier, female this time, taking the reins of her chestnut mare. Manarion gave a small smile, nodding to her in return before releasing her hand once the womer had steadied herself on solid ground. However, he kept an eye out in case the First Emissary should need him to help steady her; she did not often find a need to ride horses, being more used to being transported in carriages, but Skyrim's mountainous terrain coupled with its inclement weather made carriages rather unreliable, even at the best of times. Thus, the female High Elf had been forced to ride rather then sit. No doubt, she was feeling strained and sore, her muscles unused to the task of siting in the saddle for hours and hours.
Elenwen fastidiously brushed her robes off, even though there was not a speck of dust to be seen on the flawless black leather trimmed with gleaming gold. Once done, she lowered her arms by her sides and issued some orders to the nearby Dominion soldiers to take the horses over by the gate, so that the Thalmor could depart as soon as Jarl Ulfric was acquired. Manarion stared at her, even though he did not really mean to, studying her movements as she trailed slender gloved fingers over her shoulders. Since meeting the Thalmor Ambassador, the mer had likened seeing Elenwen as seeing the sun for the first time after being imprisoned for ages and ages. And seeing as how he had actually experienced a decade long detainment by the Imperials during the Second Era, where he had been a prisoner of war for ten years, tortured and interrogated for information the entire time. Seeing Elenwen was like seeing the sun again after years of darkness, scarcely lit; she blinded and stunned him, left him weak and dazed, but he yearned for her more and more.
It had been the reason he had accepted the post as Thalmor General, beside his mounting bar tab and the landlord nearly knocking his door down for rent. After the Great War, he had been determined to drink himself to death, to rid himself of his nightmares; a foolish attempt to ignore the invisible blood staining his hands, and the dark blotches staining his soul. A chance of redemption was what Elenwen offered to him, to be something proud and fierce once more, not a washed up soldier with notches in his ears from knives, and scars that made nobleborn Altmer look at him with a mix of pity and disgust. His shortly cropped hair, short, but full beard, and crooked nose made Manarion look as ugly and fierce as war itself, although he had once been a handsome fellow. Even with his scars, he had possessed some moderate good looks; amber eyes like molten gold, and hair that was once coal black now lightened to a distinguished silver.
Ah, but he knew he was an gruesome old bastard with a horrible temper to match. Only Elenwen seemed to see him as how he had once been in his prime. Luckily, his looks had nothing to do with tactics and strategies, something Manarion excelled at. He did not need to look pretty as a picture to think up how to take castles and keep, to wipe his enemies across the floor of the battlefield like refuse when he was outnumbered three to one. His Ambassador saw him as a master tactician and trainer of soldiers, and his uses were not limited to his appearance; and for that, he was grateful. Not many had the same faith in him as she did. And Manarion was never one to suffer others to be disappointed in him.
Shaking himself from himself from his thoughts, Manarion gave a short bow at the waist, before he offered his arm, as any gentlemer would, and Elenwen laid a hand on his gauntlet, near the crook of his elbow, and the two highly ranked Thalmor proceeded to where the Imperial executioneer and the priestess waited to oversee the deaths of the rebel Stormcloaks now stood on either side of General Tullius. The Stormcloak soldiers were already climbing off the carts that had trundled into past the gates and into Helgen's main courtyard, near the inn and a large watchtower right across the main Imperial keep. The priestess quickly relinquished her spot to the two elves, and soon Manarion and Elenwen found themselves standing to Tullius' left, the Thalmor General towering over everyone assembled, even the hulking, black clad executioner in his deathly hood.
Already, General Tullius was engaged in speaking, or rather shouting, to a bound and gagged man in heavy armor and fine robes; the only gagged man, to be exact. None of the other prisoners were in the same state of being bound as the blond Nord who could only be the infamous Ulfric Stormcloak himself.
Manarion had expected someone taller, to be quite honest, but he was not really foolish enough to doubt the leader of the rebellion in Skyrim. Ulfric had supposedly killed the previous High King, Torygg, by Shouting at him, by all things, and while the Thalmor General did not quite understand what that meant, he was more then willing to bet that Torygg did not merely decide to drop dead on his own accord. Elenwen smirked to herself as she observed the imprisoned Jarl, a satisfied glint showing in her amber eyes, and Manarion gave a low, rough cough of a chuckle, earning a dirty look from Ulfric. He faltered somewhat at seeing the two Thalmor, looking at Manarion first, taking in the intimidating, flawless black and gold armor, and then looking over to Elenwen, dressed to the Eight Divines in her Ambassadorial robes, with their high, decorated collar, and the heavy gold filigree on her shoulders. Four Altmer flanked them on either side, two Thalmor Justiciars, and two Dominion soldiers, their faces set into expressions of bland disinterest.
Ulfric cast a wrathful glare at all of the High Elves, before his attention was stolen by Tullius, who was still mid-tirade, and appearing to be restraining himself from strangling the taller man then and there. Manarion would have paid twenty Aldmeri Eagles to see the two men go at each other's throats, if only to kill two obnoxiously annoying birds with one stone. It was only good fortune that Ulfric was useful, and had the strength and good will of the Thalmor at his back. For now. His luck would not hold forever, but, for now, Ulfric would live to see another day. A cell back in the Solar Dungeons had the Nord's brutish name on it, and Manarion would see the warmongering dog put in his place.
"You started this war," Tuliius growled at his adversary, pointing an accusing finger at the glowering Nord, who growled and gruffled something lowly in his throat in response, grumbling out a muffled reply, most likely an insult, at the Imperial. "plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down. And restore the peace." Manarion was forced to repress a laugh as the Imperial General stepped away, signaling with a nod of his head for one of his nearby Captains to come forwards. He opened his mouth once more to speak, but the sound of Elenwen clearing her throat politely made the Imperial General fall silent, turning to look at the Thalmor Ambassador.
"General Tullius." Elenwen took a graceful step forwards, catching the attention of the Imperial General, his troops, and the group of captured Stormcloaks. "Stop." The womer folded her arms across her chest, fixing the shorter armored male with an icy golden glare; clearly, she wanted nothing more then to get their prize and leave as soon as possible. " By the authority of the Thalmor, I'm taking custody of these prisoners." Her gaze never flickered away from Tullius, but the Imperial General looked over his shoulder quickly to where Ulfric stood, watching him with a dour scowl as the Nord stepped back, glowering at Elenwen while he muffled protests and heated insults.
"I don't think so, Ambassador." Tullius replied, moving to mimic the First Emissary and crossing his arms as well. Manarion growled softly, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. The Imperial's gaze shifted to the towering Altmer General, and a bit of trepidation crossed his weathered features at seeing the large Thalmor glaring at him. "These lawless rebels have caused enough trouble for the Empire and its citizens. I think the Dominion would agree that they need to be put down like the rabid dogs they are." Elenwen did not shift, did not balk, instead, she drew herself to her full height and stared down Tullius with all the wrath of an angered serpent. A few thin wisps of smoke curled around the Ambassador's slender fingers, and Manarion took a looming step closer, ready to follow through with his Emissary's command. She need only say the word, and her will would be done.
"Your Emperor will hear of this." Elenwen hissed, as Manarion drew up beside her, adding a good deal of promise to her already weighted words. It was difficult for anyone to remain strong when the feared Ambassador of the Thalmor stood before them, and even more so when coupled with her equally feared General. Being glared down by two of the three highest ranked Thalmor officials in all of Skyrim tended to make most people crack. Easily. "By the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, I operate with full Imperial authority."
"As do I, Ambassador." Tullius growled back, apparently struggling to keep his voice level, but he seemed more angry then intimidated. Manarion would have applauded his courage, if it was not he and his Emissary that the Imperial stood against. "I am the Imperial Authority in Skyrim." The man continued, lifting his chin to gaze Elenwen straight in the eyes, even if he had to look a good deal up to make up for a signifigant difference in height. "And these prisoners are due to be executed. We shouldn't disappoint them." And with that, he turned away and signaled to his Captain with a wave of his hand once more.
"You're making a terrible mistake." Elenwen snarled, fingers digging into the flesh of either of her elbows in an attempt to smother the sparks of electricity that danced at her fingertips. Manarion stood, as per usual, by her side, looming over both her and General Tullius, eyes practically blazing with wrath. His gritted teeth were bared in a savage snarl, a low rumble of a growl grating out of the huge mer's chest. "High Elves have long memories, Tullius." The Thalmor Ambassador growled, in a soft, but forboding tone of voice. For his part, Tulllius held his ground without flinching or stepping back; something not many could claim, meeting the two elves' fearsome gazes with a steadiness that very, very few ever possessed. He knew he was facing down the wrath of the Dominion, arguably one of the most powerful forces on the face of Tamriel, and that was something that would, and never should, be taken lightly. "We will not forget this."
As if to punctuate her sentence, that thunderous cacphony of a roar came once more, ripping through the sky like lightning and fury. Tullius jerked away, looking up the sky, whilst Elenwen's ears twitched, her gaze flickering up to the cloud-spotted blue sky, searching for the source of the noise, before she dropped her gaze back to the startled Imperial standing before her.
All of Helgen fell stonily silent.
Manarion twitched. His head, crowned in crested helm befitting his high ranking, jerked up so that he could look at the sky. His large elven ears flicked, senses alert. Something deep, deep down inside of him seemed to shift and change, like a spark of fire flickering to life inside the heart of a coal. Like an ancient and powerful beast raising its head upon being called by some unseen force. That unfamiliar sound was so foreign, and not at the same time, and yet, he could not quite put his finger on it. The Thalmor General's honey-hued gaze trailed slowly across the pale blue sky, searching for some form of explanation, but the clouds bore no signs of storm or squall. There was no lightning. No thunder. No avalanche bearing down from the mountains. Manarion shifted his weight from one heavy booted foot to the other, still staring upwards with unease.
"What was that?" One of the Imperial troops whispered roughly, giving voice to many's thoughts. His voice was loud in the silence, echoing from where he stood near one of the wagons, a quil and parchment in either hand indicated that he had been one of the soldiers tasked with writing down the prisoner's names, ranks, and races, but Manarion did not care to recall the Imperial aligned Nord's moniker himself.
"It was nothing." Tullius said quickly. "Carry on."
Nothing, my fabulous golden arse. Manarion thought, his lips curling back into a small snarl as the heavy muscles in his shoulders beneath his armor went tense. Something was wrong. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. He could feel it in his gut. The aged veteran's stomach twisted as the Imperial Captain began to shout, urging a prisoner forwards with a glare and a harsh clamour of a voice. She ordered the priestess, clad in warm orange and yellow robes, to give the prisoners their last rites.
It was then, that Manarion felt a soft touch at his arm, and he startled somewhat, before noticing that the owner of the hand upon him was Elenwen's. The womer looked up at him with an expression of concern, her brows knit, and a frown playing across her features, tugging the corners of her lips downwards, but other then those minor notes of emotion, the Ambassador's face yielded nothing else of her eternal thoughts beneath her calm facade.
"Mani naa ta, mellon?"
"... Amin sinta dela..." Manarion murmured in response, his body tense and trembling. A cold sweat had broken out upon his back, the sensation of icy fingers trailing up the length of his spine as one of the imprisoned Stormcloaks shouted something about getting the executions over with. Manarion did not even bother snort at the mention of Talos, his attention was too focused on the feeling of dread and heady fear battling with some inexplicable anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Elenwen's hand dropped from his arm, and she straightened up to stand at her full height, casting a cold golden-eyed glare at the proceedings, as though nothing in this torrid affair even remotely bothered her.
The prisoner was forced to his knees in the middle of a bluster, his head resting on the chopping block as the executioner stepped forwards, hefting up his great axe in huge hands. The Imperial Captain kept her foot on his back as the weapon came down, cleaving head from body in one swift movement. Blood sprayed forth, but Manarion paid it no mind as the Imperial Captain slowly nudged the body over with the end of her boot.
How utterly barbaric.
"You Imperial bastards!" An angry feminine voice cried out in rage. Her cry was met with enraged shouts from the local townsfolk, and she fell silent, face flushed with fury, glaring down at her bound hands with a sort of helpless anger. One of her companions spoke about their fallen comrade's bravery, and Manarion released a harsh snort, rolling his eyes. There was no courage in charging towards death like a brainless lout. But, then again, there was no way in Oblivion the Stormcloaks could escape from their fates today, and Manarion gave a slight grind of his teeth in agitation. So much for getting Ulfric out of the grave he had dug for himself without the Dominion getting its hands dirty.
Soon, however, another prisoner was ordered forwards, and the thunderous cacophony of a roar came again. Manarion twitched, spine going rigid as he looked to the sky again. Beside him, Elenwen shifted as well, and in the distance, the Thalmor General thought he caught a glimpse of a huge shadow soaring across the palid blanket of blue sky. He blinked, and it was gone, but he was certain it was not his imagination.
Something was coming.
The roar came again. Sounding like a storm breaking over the horizon as a shadow fell over them all. A huge beast, black as night and with scales like obsidian landed heavily on the tower standing proudly behind them. The earth shook as the great beast landed, and Manarion swore he could hear the timbers and stones the structure was made of creak and groan in protest. All was dreadfully, horrifically silent as the dragon glowered down at them, like they were little more than ants to be squashed underfoot. It's eyes blazed like the burning pits of Oblivion, red and harsh like fire.
"... What in Oblivion is that...?" Tullius asked from beside Manarion, and the Thalmor General was completely at loss for a coherent reply. He could only stare, completely uncomprehending, at the massive beast as it perched upon the tower like a harbinger of death. The Dov rumbled, like thunder in the distance brought terrifyingly close; it drew back its great horned skull and concussive sound knocked nearly all to their knees. As it washed over him, Manarion stumbled, but he did not fall.
And, somehow, Manarion found himself able to understand the words the dragon spoke.
The wind went still, the standards bearing an ebony dragon on a red field fluttering and then falling limp. Hellish crimson and black clouds gathered swiftly overhead, blotting out the sun and casting all in shadow. From the sky rained balls of fire and brimstone, which screamed to the ground before smoldering where they fell, hissing like angry snakes, and angry orange sparks leapt up to devour all in their path.
"DRAGON!"
"Don't just stand there!" Tullius bellowed to his troops, drawing his sword with a hissing ring of metal against leather. "Kill that thing!" Behind him, Ulfric picked himself off the ground, pushing himself to his feet with his bound hands, before scrambling for cover in a nearby tower, followed by several of his loyal Stormcloaks. Tullius continued shouting orders to his soldiers, before the dragon roared once more, a bloodcurdling sound that made Manarion's blood turn to ice. "Guards! Get the townspeople to safety!"
Manarion growled as he forced himself into movement, placing himself in front of Elenwen as the great black dragon swooped low overhead, bellowing out a huge plume of flames. Slightly behind him, the Thalmor Ambassador was climbing to her feet, looking quite dazed and disoriented by the dragon's roar. Manarion grabbed her arm in one hand, pushing the womer towards the gates. The two guards that had accompanied them to the execution block stumbled warily after, coughing in the thick smoke from the dragon's fire.
"Rima! Khila amin!"
The group of Altmer rushed towards where they had left their horses, Manarion ushering both Ambassador and soldiers first, so that they went before him. They found their way blocked by flaming wreckage, and the two guards skidded to an almost audible stop, faltering at the sight of the blazing fires. Manarion shoved them to the right as the dragon soared overhead, the shadow of death itself. Elenwen was shoved after the two armored Altmer, and Manarion leapt to follow them just as the black beast landed, flames licking at the Thalmor General's heels, nearly catching his cloak on fire.
Their horses had been left by the Imperials tasked with stabling them in the main courtyard right inside the family gates, practically mad with fear and panic. One was dead, struck down by one of the falling flaming stones. Manarion's other troops were attempting to get the animals calmed, lead by his daughter, Estira. She was yelling orders at the other Thalmor, trying to keep them from abandoning their posts before their General and Ambassador returned. Many would have stayed, Manarion knew as much, but not all. Only a few were that daringly loyal to him to remain when a dragon, of all things, bore down upon them.
"Get to the horses." Manarion shouted to his guards, forced to raise his voice over the screams of Helgen's townsfolk, the Imperial soldiers, and the Dragon's bone-rattling roars and bellows. "And get the Thalmor Ambasador back to the Embassy." He shoved one soldier after another, before turning to push Elenwen after them. Two of the mer made it across the courtyard and to the horses, and Manarion looked around quickly to ensure that no Dominion aligned troops were dawdling behind before he moved to follow, pulling Elenwen close to him so as to shield her with his body if need be.
Black wings in the cold beat over him, wind carrying dust, ash, and sparks from the now raging fires washing over him like waves from the sea as the black dov landed. Earth shook once more, and the huge beast glowered at Manarion from hate-filled crimson eyes. The Thalmor General froze in his tracks, staring down the huge beast even with his heart in his throat. Elenwen was still tucked underneath one of Manarion's arms, and the larger Altmer glanced down at the smaller, swiftly weighing his options.
It was a simple and coldly logical calculation; the Ambassador was worth much, much more then he was.
His sword sang as he drew it from its sheath, shrugging his elven shield from his shoulders and taking hold of its grip with his left hand. The dov hissed, nares flaring as fire welled up within its breast, crimson lighting the slits of its nostrils as the Altmer soldier stepped forward with a shouted challenge. He did not know what he said, but the depraved beast did not seem to appreciate the sentiment one bit.
"Manarion!" Elenwen called to him from behind, but the older elf did not shift his gaze from where the pitch black dragon hunkered before him, huge shoulders hunched and neck arched as the armored High Elf. "What are you doing?" He may have imagined it, being face to face with what could only be death in material flesh and bone, but he thought he heard fear in the First Emissary's voice.
"Get to safety, Ambassador." He said in low tone, jerking his head in the direction of the horses and their troops, whilst he moved in the opposite direction, drawing the dragon's burning gaze. "I shall be just fine."
It was a lie, and he was well aware that she knew he was bluffing. Manarion took a single, long stride forwards, raising sword to strike. The dragon lashed out with jet-black jaws, teeth the size and sharpness of daggers gleaming in the lights of the fire and hellish light that filtered through the darkened clouds overhead. Manarion took a step sideways, dodging out of the way. However, he felt the rush of air breeze by him by the creature's strike, and he moved to strike as well.
His elven sword bit into the dragon's obsidian scales, the strong elvish material biting into the gleaming ebony armor; not deep enough to draw blood, but certainly enough to let the Divnes-Damned creature know he was not something lightly to be meddled with. The beast roared in anger and pain, swiveling its great horned skull to confront the mer that had dared strike it. Again, the dov struck, jaws of death parted, fire welling up in its gullet even as it did not intend to use its deadly breath in such close quarters. Metal squealed as the dragon's teeth dug into Manarion's shield, and the elf braced himself before pushing back against his opponent with all of his considerable strength.
He both felt and heard the low, rumbling growl that the dragon mustered, smoke streaming from its flared nostrils, accompanied by sparks and licks of red flame. He could feel the grind that rattled his shield, making it shake and quake in his grip as his scaly foe dug its teeth ever deeper. There was a sudden, frightening jolt of the beast's huge head and Manarion was sent flying.
The Thalmor General hit the ground hard, arm flaring in pain like he had been stabbed directly in the shoulder. He tasted the metallic tang of blood welling up in the back of his mouth as his teeth clicked together with enough force to make his brain rattle inside of his skull. The old elf had been tossed onto his side, his shield arm pulled from its socket; he had been lucky enough to not have it ripped clean off as the dragon tossed him, but intense physical pain and discomfort never made one feel grateful. Manarion's breath had been knocked clear from his lungs, and he immediately knew that one or two of his ribs had been cracked, at the very least, in his short flight.
He vaguely heard shouting and the dragon's enraged bellows as a volley of Imperial arrows hit the creature's side, tearing into its wings. The iron-hard scales that covered it and provided it with armor that could withstand the paltry might of the Legion's attempts to harm its owner. Manarion lay where he had fallen, listening to it all and unable to do much else besides swallow back a wave a nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He felt someone rest their hand on his back, and he blinked in a dazed manner, struggling to focus before their face swam into view.
It was his Ambassador. Manarion's eyelids fluttered, and his mouth parted as a weak whisper of an exhale escaped him. "... Mi-milady.." He gasped, dazed and dizzied head lolling upon his neck. He was about to say something more when the soft warmth of a restoration spell washed over him; it would knit his wounded bones back together somewhat, but they would remain a bit cracked without further aid and care.
"Come on, General." Elenwen said softly, gently, but hurriedly ushering the huge Altmer to his feet. Manarion stumbled and staggered, but rose, his chest and dislocated arm ablaze with agony. Elenwen helped push him towards where their horses awaited, still in a panicked frenzy, and just as eager to leave for home as their masters. Manarion checked to ensure his Ambassador had been helped onto her horse before he pulled himself up onto Hurricane's saddle, with one hand, groaning and grunting with the effort between gasps of pain.
The gates hung open for them as the group of Thalmor rode out, hell itself on their heels as the dragon circled above Helgen one final time before soaring over towards the North, following the river that flowed from Lake Ilinalta and in the direction of Whiterun and the cities and towns beyond. Manarion huffed and groaned with pain as he lay against Hurricane's neck as the stallion took the lead at the front of the group, only glancing up when the shadow of the great beast fell over them.
He looked over to see Elenwen riding alongside him, and the two exchanged knowing glances, even as Manarion's vision dimmed and dulled with pain, edged with black. This was about to get so much worse and no plan from the Dominion was going to save them. If that was a real dragon, and not some Daedric beast set loose by a Prince, then Divines help them.