Location: Windhelm
25
th of Morning Star

"You come here where you're not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!"

"But we haven't taken a side because it's not our fight!"

That was the first thing Miravelle Rolain heard when she and her father entered Windhelm. She would roll her eyes at the words she was listening to, but it rather exhausting, having heard such things a hundred times before.

The sun was setting in a pool of gold and red when Miravelle and Arvus arrived at the snowy city. Her Nord blood allowed for her to handle the cold, but sadly the same could not be said for her Dark Elf father, who was bundled up in his mage's robes to protect him from the small blizzard that encompassed Windhelm.

"Hey, maybe the reason these gray-skins don't help in the war is because they're Imperial spies!"

The first voice she heard belonged to the Nord in the brown belted tunic. This second one belonged to his friend, who may very well be a beggar, given his roughspun tunic and footwraps. It did not matter to Miravelle, who was determined to put an end to the two male Nords bullying the female Dark Elf.

"Imperial spies? You can't be serious!" The female Dark Elf spat, offended and quite obviously, tired of this treatment that without a doubt was happening for a long time.

"Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy. We got ways of finding out what you really are..."

Upon hearing that from the Nord with the belted tunic, Miravelle knew it was time to shut this down. "HEY," Her typically mellowed voice, one that was pleasant as good wine, hollered and hit the Nords with surprise. "You want to pick on somebody, how about you start with me, Nord?"

Rolff Stone-Fist scanned the woman before him from head to toe. Her mid-back hair, black as night, was in a single braid, with loose strands of hanging over her face. She had exquisite green eyes, bright like emeralds. Her skin was a light shade of grey and her ears and chin were slightly pointed – signs pointing to her Dunmer blood. She wore a Studded Armor set without the helmet and had a Daedric Sword attached to her hip.

Yet all in all, she did not intimidate him. "Who do we have here? A half-breed to side with the Dark Elf?"

"I'll come to the aid of anyone who's getting harassed by an imbecile like you. So how about you back away, Nord?" She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.

"You think I would fall to the command of an elf? You damn gray-skin. Go back to Morrowind!" He yelled.

Miravelle was, of course, not going to have any of this. "Go ahead: anger the Dragonborn and summon the ancient power of the Thu'um. It will not end well for you…" She delivered in a low, threatening manner, taking steps towards him.

"Wait… so it's true!" Realization and shock was all over Rolff's face. "A half-breed really is the Dragonborn!"

She raised one eyebrow at him, her blood slowly beginning to boil. "Your displeasure tells me that you expected a Nord. I'm every bit Nord as my mother was."

"In fact, my daughter is more Nord than you." Her father voiced from behind her, equally angered at what was transpiring.

Rolff scowled at him like he was pure poison. "No one is talking to you, you filthy piece of trash!"

For that, Rolff received a hard slap that he never saw coming, what with that swift speed. It took him off his feet and onto his knees, with that female Dark Elf skipping behind to avoid him, and his Nord friend coming to his aid.

"Speak to my father in that manner again and I will cut out your tongue," Her voice dripped with venom. "You have a real attitude problem. What did the elves ever do to you?"

"They're parasites! They're living in our city, under our protection, but what do they do for us? Nothing!" He answered, holding his swollen cheek. "I know the High King invited them here, but he didn't ask me or anyone else first! Maybe he should have!" He finally got to his feet, and the removal of his hand from his cheek revealed a tiny bleeding cut. No doubt it was the silver ruby ring she wore caused that.

Miravelle's face reflected how baffled she was to hear the nonsense coming from the male Nord. "'He should have'? What, are you the High King's relative, that he has to ask you for your permission?"

"You talk too much, you half-bred bitch!" He growled and proceeded to take a swing at Miravelle.

She threw her head back and punched him as hard as she could in the face, which resulted in Rolff falling into the arms of his Nord friend, Angrenor Once-Honored. They both hit the ground like a pile of bricks.

Miravelle massaged her fist, keeping her cold stare. "Get out of here, before I end up in jail for murder."

The two Nords stumbled away, with Rolff holding onto his bleeding nose.

Miravelle let go of a much-needed sigh, prompting her father to set a hand on her shoulder to calm her. The female Dark Elf walked up to Miravelle, gratitude written all over her face. "Azura bless you! Thank you for your help."

Miravelle returned the smile. "It's not a problem, my lady. Are you alright? Is there anybody I can get for you?"

She shook her head, simply relieved to have been rescued. "No, my lady. I'm alright."

"Miravelle Rolain," She held out her hand for shake. "My father, Arvus."

"Suvaris Atheron. A pleasure." She said with an individual nod both father and daughter.

"I take it this isn't the first time that Nord's been a bother?"

Suvaris scoffed. "Most of the Nords living in Windhelm don't care much for us, but Rolff Stone-Fist is the worst by far. He's the brother to the Jarl's second-in-command. He likes to get drunk and walk around the Gray Quarter yelling insults at us in the small hours of the morning. A real charmer, that one. Some of these Nords will come up with any excuse to despise us. And it isn't just the dark elves they hate - they make a target of the Argonians as well. In fact, just about anyone who isn't a Nord is fair game for their bullying!"

Miravelle listened intently, deeply disturbed by what she was hearing. "I'm sorry that this is happening. I had hoped things would improve. I haven't visited Windhelm in a few years, you see."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry to say that things remained the same."

"I am too."


Location: Palace of the Kings

"We've been soldiers a long time. We know the price of freedom. The people are still weighing things in their hearts."

"What's left of Skyrim to wager?"

"They have families to think of..."

"How many of their sons and daughters follow your banner? We are their families!"

Miravelle and Arvus entered the Palace of the Kings, only to find the throne room empty, with the exception of a man standing next to the throne, whom Miravelle could only deduce was the Jarl's steward. As they made their way to the throne, they picked up two voices coming from the war room. The first voice was a deep one. Commanding even, yet calm as still waters. The second one was gruff, sounding as if he had smoked too much.

"Well put, friend. Tell me, Galmar, why do you fight for me?"

Miravelle soon discovered the man whom the gravelly voice belonged to; he was the first to exit the war room, followed by his second-in-command.

"I'd follow you into the depths of Oblivion! You know that!"

Miravelle hovered on the hint of a smirk, seeing as how Galmar Stone-Fist sounded shocked that his Jarl would question such a thing.

"Yes, but why do you fight? If not for me, what then?" Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak asked, stopping before his throne, one hand caressing the throne's arm.

"I'll die before elves dictate the fates of men! Are we not one in this?"

Miravelle watched the blonde Jarl tremble just a little, as if he had been holding back his next words for a long time, which was why his voice then echoed all around the throne room. "I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil! I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths! I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces! I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing! I fight... because I must…" As if his point had been made, Ulfric lowered his voice.

Nevertheless, Galmar was extremely pleased to have had a front-row seat to his Jarl's speech. "Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric. And that's why you will be High King! But the day words are enough, will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed."

Ulfric himself almost had a smile formed on his face. "I would gladly retire from the world were such a day to dawn."

"Aye," Galmar nodded. "But in the meantime, we have a war to plan."

Miravelle turned her head to her father, who nodded, telling her that it was alright to advance and speak to the Jarl.

Ulfric Stormcloak, of course, did not expect to see a Nord with Dark Elf features in his throne room. "Only the foolish or the courageous approach a Jarl without summons..." He said, eyeing her suspiciously as he took a seat on the throne. "Do I know you?"

"Your father did," An answer like that most certainly prompted a look of puzzlement from the Jarl. "Ah, but that was a lifetime ago. I used to hunt and bring him the best bear and wolf pelts. I knew you, but only the few times I ever saw you as a child. Before you were taken away to become a Greybeard," She kept a smirk, one that was only natural, having reminisced all those years. "But I digress. Miravelle Rolain. My father, Arvus. I am the Dragonborn."

"The ones the Greybeards called for," Ulfric said. "Reports did say you carried a Daedric Sword, and are of Nord and Dunmer blood."

"Yes, it seems that one or two Nords believe that the Dragonborn should be purely of Nord blood. To which I tell them, with my fists of course, that I am every bit Nord as my mother was."

"Looking at you, my lady, I wouldn't deny that. You are Dragonborn, a title bestowed upon you by Akatosh himself."

"Yes. You would forgive me for my harsh tone, Jarl Ulfric. The journey has been rather difficult."

"I can imagine," He sat up straighter in his throne to address the woman. "Now, what's your reason for being here?"

"I have something that will be of interest to you," She motioned at her father and he proceeded to fish a journal out of their travel sack. "A Thalmor dossier."

Ulfric and Galmar exchanged looks of confusion. "Speak like you make sense, Dragonborn,"

"No doubt you've heard of the mess the Thalmor Embassy is in? I had lots of fun," Miravelle said with some pride in her voice. "In the process of trying to uncover intel about the dragons, I had discovered this. I most certainly do not need it. Hence, the person whom the journal is about must have it."

Without a word, his green eyes scanned the journal, and then her. Then he signaled for her to hand him the dossier. He opened to find that the first page read, Thalmor Dossier: Ulfric Stormcloak.

"I'd read that in private, my Jarl. Its contents are… rather disturbing. Then again, we are speaking about the Thalmor."

"Indeed we are," Ulfric spoke after a two-second pause. He shut the dossier. "You have probably done me a great service, bringing this to me. I thank you for that, Dragonborn."

"Just attempting to do what is right," She said. "Oh and yes. We would like to extend our condolences. At Jarl Hoag's passing. He was a fine man."

She was about 30 years too late, but given her earlier statement and current tone of voice, she had indeed knew his father and greatly respected him. "Thank you, Dragonborn."

"We shall take our leave then."

"Safe travels, my lady. Sir."

Miravelle and her father turned to exit, but a sudden realization stopped the Dragonborn. "Oh!" She exclaimed with the snap of her fingers. "Galmar Stone-Fist. Your brother is Rolff, yes?"

Galmar squinted at her just before glancing at his jarl regarding such a question. "Yes."

"He's probably still picking up his teeth from the floor, but I'd appreciate it if you could tell him that if I ever see him bothering any of the Dunmer or Argonians or anyone else who isn't a Nord, I'll shout him off the nearest cliff."

While Galmar would not take lightly to anyone threatening a member of his family, he was aware of his brother's nature. So, he replied with a solid, "Noted."

Though she did not see it, the Jarl held a small smile at the Dragonborn's ferocity.


A/N: A story inspired by replaying Skyrim after so long and rewriting my old shit story, "Runaway With My Heart".

Hope you enjoy! :)