I don't own Skyrim. If I did, I would be far less concerned about keeping up my rental payments :P
The Dragonborn's War
Extract I
Penned With Ebony, Inked in Blood
It was with a weary sigh that Ulfric ascended the steps up through the Palace of the Kings to his chambers. It had been a long day of work, quelling Galmar's lust for battle until the Stormcloaks had the troops to meet the Legions on an open field, while at the same time fending off Laila Law-Giver and her vengeful retinue. The former Jarl had been displeased at her removal from office in exchange for Markarth, and while the truce was officially over, both Stormcloaks and Imperials were waiting - with bated breath and bared blades - but waiting all the same, for the other side to make the first move.
Giving up Riften had been a heavy price to pay, especially given that Tullius could reinforce the hold through Falkreath, whereas Markarth was completely cut off from any Stormcloak aid. Morale had suffered some from that exchange, but what had really hit the men - and himself, Ulfric noted with tired resignation, now that no one was around to see the fatigue or hear his sigh - was the rumors out of Markarth. Word had it that every soldier acting as a guard within the city had been slaughtered within a single night, their helmets piled before the Mournful Throne for the Silver-Blood Jarl to find in the morning, each with a jet-black hand inked into the visor.
What the Dark Brotherhood was thinking was anyone's guess, and speculations had started flying as soon as the rumors began circulating. Knowing the effect of distance on the exaggeration of stories, Ulfric had sent a hawk to contact Jarl Silver-Blood for a full report. Finally reaching the door to his bedchamber, Ulfric allowed himself a tired sigh as he started to push the door open. He froze, however, as a dark splash of color against the grey stone caught his eye, and the scent of iron reached through his fatigue. Eyes and ears wide, Ulfric drew his axe, then threw open the door to his chamber, diving inside and coming up in a roll, using one of the pillars near the corner for cover as he rose to his feet, Thu'um on his lips as he took stock of the situation.
Clap, clap, clap
"Well done Jarl Ulfric," came a melodic voice from the far corner of the room, "I really thought you wouldn't notice the blood - didn't have time to clean it all up, anyway." There was a brief pause, then the woman continued, "Oh, you can come out. I promise I won't shoot you. Or stab you. Or . . ." she sighed, "I know too many ways to kill people to list them all. I won't attack you - there is no contract on your life . . . tonight, at least."
Untrusting of any assassin, regardless how cordial they might be, Ulfric held his axe to eye level, sweeping the room in the blade's reflection. A blurry red and black figure leaned against the pillar opposite his, and waved a hand when they noticed the weapon, "You're being rather paranoid, don't you think?" They asked, "It isn't often that you get a promise of living through the encounter with a member of my family."
"It's not often that a member of your rat's nest has the gall to visit my palace." Ulfric growled, stepping out of the shelter of the pillar, satisfied that the assassin was not holding a weapon.
The body on his bed took him aback before he levelled a glare at the assassin, recognizing one of his guards. With a shrug, the woman tapped the black and silver bow slung across her back, a quiver of ebony arrows matching the one embedded in his guard's back, "He was in the way, and I wanted to keep this chat private." She said, "Besides, I find that emptying the city of its guards to be an effective method to make sure that the point is received. It isn't like you don't have an army to draw from to replenish the law keepers, ju-"
She was cut off as Ulfric's temper frayed, and he Spoke, "FUS RO DAH!"
A wave of power buffeted the assassin, but her position against the pillar kept her on her feet and irritatingly not blasted out a window. She raised an eyebrow as her hood fell back, blond hair drawn back to a bun by means of an intricate braid above glittering black eyes. Well, if that wasn't unnerving as Oblivion. As the Shout dissipated, she took a breath, exhaling slowly, "Well. That was . . . supposed to be more impressive, actually. I'd heard that your Voice ripped High King Torygg apart, but I guess that's just rumor. Now then," she finally stepped away from the pillar, to an unfamiliar goblet left next to an open window. The woman plucked it from the sill and tugged down her mask, taking a sip before turning back to the Jarl and holding the glass up, "Drink? Spiced Wine, from Solitude." A smirk crossed her features, "It isn't poisoned, in case you were worried."
"I'll pass." Ulfric grunted, a spark of concern flickering to life in his gut as he heard the gruff tone and felt the soreness of his vocal chords from his Shout. It always took him a minute or two to shake off the effects, and this Assassin seemed to know that, if her unconcerned demeanor said anything. The Jarl instead crossed to his bed, yanking the ebony arrow out of his dead guard and turning the man over, "I believe you mentioned a message." Ulfric said curtly, hiding a grimace at the Black Hand pressed against the man's helmet before he removed the piece of armor and closed the fallen man's eyes, "Get on with it, and I'll give you my response."
"Sensible of you," the woman smirked, "The message is quite simple - stop this stupid pissing contest of yours." She hopped upwards to sit on the windowsill, and Ulfric took note of her height - Breton, going by the lack of rounded ears and what he estimated to be a five-foot-nothing stature. A bit like the Dragonborn, actually, though the Hero had been considerably more diplomatic and fought with a staff, not to mention the difference in the eyes and lighter hair. He was reasonably sure that the Dovahkiin had a scar stretching from below her left eye to her jawline, as well, which was notably absent in the assassin. Not, of course, Ulfric thought with a shudder, that the Dragonborn would ever become an assassin.
A smirk tugged at the woman's lips, "Finished staring?" She mused, obviously taking delight in the way Ulfric jerked out of his memories before she continued, "You want the Thalmor gone. So does the Empire - quite frankly, so do I. You want Talos Worship restored. The Empire doesn't care whether people worship him or not - Markarth had a public shrine to the bloody divine even when the Legion was still in power there. What you want - publicly, anyway - can be achieved through peace with the legions, and then you'll have allies when you take on the Thalmor." She tilted her head, "Unless you want to continue playing into the Thalmor's hands by further weakening Skyrim." She jumped down from the windowsill, and pointedly stepped aside so that her back was leaning against stone instead of open air just as Ulfric started to inhale for another Shout, "So . . . just stop it. You want to be High King? Fine, be High King. But do it honestly, don't be a hypocritical fool and expect people to fall in line because you have the biggest, well," her eyes were orbs of solid black, which made it hard to tell, but Ulfric was fairly certain that her gaze had dropped below the belt before returning to his.
"You dare?" Ulfric growled, taking a step forward. Her hand dropped to a dagger on her waist, but Ulfric was not advancing further anyway, "You dare call me a hypocrite? A fool? For fighting for my country? For my people?"
The trace of amusement that had adorned the woman's features since the conversation had begun vanished, leaving only a stone-cold visage that sent a chill down Ulfric's spine. "Oh, I dare." The woman said quietly, stepping away from the wall, striding forward to stand just out of arm's reach from the Jarl, "You say that you fight for the people, but it's you, the man who threw Skyrim into this chaos, who has repeatedly flouted your own laws and customs, who will be taking the throne after the fires settle. You call the Jarls who support Elisif Nodding Milk-Drinkers who suckle on the udder of the Empire, and yet the moot you will call to 'choose' the High King will be stacked with only the men and women who you know will vote for you. You claim to fight for Skyrim, but do you want to know something interesting? Skyrim belongs to more than just the Nords."
Fire burned within the woman's eyes, and she continued, overriding Ulfric's immediate response, "In the average hold, forty percent of the population is composed of non-nordic peoples. Even Windhelm has an entire quarter of the city dedicated to the Dunmer, with the population to match. They work themselves to exhaustion in this city, doing whatever work they can, only to be told that they're second-class citizens who don't deserve the septims they've earned. Argonians are lucky to have a bed to sleep in, much less proper meals, and they work as hard as any Nord in this gods-forsaken city. So yes, Ulfric Stormcloak, you are a fool. A fool, and a liar, and a hypocrite."
Ulfric had been slowly drawing in breath throughout the woman's tirade, and he opened his mouth, prepared to shout the insolent assassin out the window. Before he could Speak, though, she simply . . . vanished. Melted out of sight even as she stood in plain view before him. Her voice, however, echoed around the room in her wake, "Remember this, Ulfric Stormcloak. Remember that tonight, your life was in our hands, and yet you were given a chance. One chance. I advise you not throw it away as you have so many lives already. I know, however, the durability of a Nord's ego, and that your pride will have you blind to what I say even now. So, Jarl Ulfric," he finally pinpointed the source of her voice, at the open window where the glass of wine had been placed earlier, "as we did with Thongvar Silver-Blood of Markarth, we're going to give you a reminder, to help it sink in." The window began to close, apparently of its own accord, and Ulfric gave an angry exhale as her final words drifted back to him from the night air, "Sleep well, oh Jarl."
The next morning, a pale Galmar found Ulfric seated at his desk with a tall mug of ale. The general didn't say a word, simply gestured for Ulfric to follow him, and even as they descended the Palace of the Kings, Ulfric had a feeling that he knew what he was about to see.
Outside the palace, a crowd had gathered, whispers flying and hands pointing, or covering the eyes of children clutching at their mother's' skirts. Ulfric looked over the scene and closed his eyes, falling back on decades of experience to repress the urge to shout - or worse, Shout - as he took in the view.
Over two dozen helmets - one for every member of the Windhelm City Guard - placed in neat rows. Some were spattered with blood, some were scorched, others were clean. But all of them had a Black Hand stamped onto the visor.
He could practically hear the assassin's words taunting him. One chance, Jarl. Don't screw it up.
So, it's been a while since I've posted anything, due to a combination of life and my muse going on an unexplained, unscheduled, and unsanctioned vacation. Apparently, Skyrim was the trick to dragging it back kicking and screaming, so here's an excerpt from a story I'm working on in my spare time to get the writing juices flowing again.