I admit several... ah, wrongdoings on my part for this chapter.
This chapter is long, it is detailed, and it has a massive amount of description-almost too much. Now, this all has a reason; of course, they might all still be wrongdoings when my reasons are explained. But, I suppose that's a judgment for you, the reader, to make.
I did not intend for this chapter to be so long, but there was no other place to "cut" the plot without breaking the flow. Hopefully, it is interesting enough to grab your attention throughout the entire thing. Secondly, I meant for it both to be detailed and descriptive. Both will fade in time, as the plot moves on, but I wanted to be certain to give the reader a perfect vision of what Skyrim is like during the reign of Alduin. I wanted to message to be concise as possible. Perhaps I extended myself a bit, and if I did, I welcome critiques.
Without further ramblings, please, enjoy.
Chapter 1
Despite the emptiness that dwelled within the barren mountains of Eastmarch, the land was never silent. There always was a wind. A cold, deathly wind that brushed through the mountains, foul with the rank of decay and ash. It wrung the trees bare of their leaves and poisoned the air with its ill semblance. The thick, blackened sludge that formed the ground, made from the ashes of the plants and wildlife that burned from the fires of Alduin, always felt the breeze's cold touch on its rot. Ripples from the darkened rivers, marred with the carcasses of fish and greater, more terrible things, formed from the wind, disturbing what little peace could be cherished. Shrieking hollowly in the night, the wind was a reminder of bane and terror to all who listened. For it was always there, and as long as it remained, so would the state of Nirn.
Ulfric cared little for the wind. It tore at his back and stole away what little warmth clung to his form. It beckoned Falmer, draugr, and other fell things into the open with its rank odor, creatures all too appealed to such foulness. With its haunting voice, it sent him into fitful, sleepless nights, huddled deep in a cave on the hard, broken floor.
He cursed the wind often, and if it had a voice, he was certain it would curse him back.
Ulfric sat huddled at the edge of his cave, its mouth gaping out to the open mountains, stripped bare of its greenery and covered in a fine sheet of ice. The afternoon sun, its light still marred by the grey clouds swathing its form, embraced the ashen wasteland in a cold and joyless fashion. He watched the light lower ever so slowly, pack slung over his shoulders. The pitiful bag, thin and worn beyond its days, seemed it would break apart at the slightest tug. Its lacing was torn at some areas, their patches messily restrung in some feverish haste. The animal skin itself had lost most of its color, turning to a muted silver by its constant use. Yet, Ulfric considered it and its contents more valuable than all the jewels Tamriel could provide. His knife, if it could be called as such, was a sword rent of its length, shattered halfway down the blade to form a crude jagged point. It had been found at the ruins of some destitute town, and it was most prized - despite its mangled form - for the mere fact that it kept him alive. Without a sheathe, it hung at the side of his pack, swift to retrieve should any danger arrive; which was always. The dagger's whetstone resided inside the base of the pack, and above it laid a meager blanket. Threadbare and torn, it would not offer warmth to a mere child. Ulfric kept it all the same, for the comfort it provided. And lastly, above that, his waterskin. Regularly it was filled with snow, or whatever could be called the foul cold dust that rained from the sky. When it melted, most of it dried his tongue and made him choke. He imagined that he gambled his life every moment he packed it with more. But by the mercy - or curse - of Talos, he remained without ailment each morning he swallowed it down.
The afternoon waned. Ulfric shuffled closer to the entrance of the cave, peering through his mass of hair, its blonde sheen gone years ago.
The nights of Skyrim were riddled in horrors. Although Falmer had found the outside world more accommodating to their tastes than the rocks they had used to reside under, they still found the sun and what small light it gave ill to their blinded eyes. Nighttime was their abode, where the air was less thick yet just as dark as their caves. They crawled out at the last light of dusk, and there, they preyed on insects or rodents. Their sharp ears caught any breath out of place, and should an intruder reach their domain, death was given slowly. Draugr joined them at times, but they prefered their crypts and tombs over the living world. Other ghastly creatures came as well; spiders and trolls, though not as often as the Falmer.
The daytime was worse. Here, sabercats and packs of wolves roamed the mountain side, hungry and searching for flesh to feast upon. The trolls and spiders came, too - a plague at all times, their meals left in ditches or their webs wrapped about the branches of trees. But they were not the worst. They were not what kept Ulfric in his cave, wary-eyed and stiff.
For in the day, when the light peered through the mountainside and bled into the air, the dragons came awake.
Their cries hissed and echoed above them all, more terrible than the wind, causing even the wolves and the trolls to cower and linger close to their homes. Their flapping wings were louder than a mammoth's trumpet, to be heard like the heavy beating of a drum even leagues away. Many did not see them, so far in the sky and hidden in the clouds. But all could hear them, and all were afraid.
Falmer by night, dragons by day; one could despair and simply remain in their hole, for how else could one travel about? Yet remaining in one place was folly. Trolls and Falmer always searched for new caves, or old ones that they have not returned to in an age. If they found a survivor, they either ate them, tortured them, or - with the more intelligent minds - offered them to the dragons.
But Ulfric knew a way. In the scant hours before dusk, and in the small light before dawn, both the dragons and Falmer were away, either still asleep or moving back to their holes. And in these pockets of freedom Ulfric moved with all the haste a Nord could conjure, from cave to cave, knowing their patterns and their abodes, where to sleep and where not to.
He did not know how long he lived in the Eastmarch to know these things, or how long it took to realize these patterns; perhaps because he did not remember. But he knew, and that was all that mattered.
The sun was setting; Ulfric could see its crude shape beneath the thick grey curtain in the sky. He peered about him, dagger at hand, rolling onto the balls of his feet. He could feel the sludge seep through his thin shoes, blackening his feet, as his eyes scanned for life about him. He took two steps forward, his breath a whisper in the air, and listened. Distant shuffling, a snarl or two, then silence. Ulfric hunched his shoulders, gripped his pack tightly with cold, skinny fingers, and exposed himself out into the open.
He did not sprint. He had not the energy for sprinting, having only on small mushrooms he scavenged from abandoned Falmer caves to eat and fuel his bones. Instead, it was a soft, steady canter, hunkered low and feet patting stealthy on the soft ground. His ice-blue eyes scanned the area carefully, adjusting his course behind groves of trees to block any creature's line of sight in case they spare a glance at the world about them. Ulfric's heart thundered in his chest as a familiar and constant anxiety gripped him every moment he revealed himself to the sky. He used that anxiety to broaden his senses, listening for noises and searching for movement, sweat forming around the hilt of his shattered sword.
He despised the moving of cave to cave. He perhaps despised it more than the wind. Every several days he did so, leaving tracks in the mud for all to see, leaving his scent in the air for all to follow. The creatures of the Eastmarch must have certainly known he was there. They simply were not quick enough to find him.
Often he laid false tracks, running in wide circles or backtracking from one point to another. It absorbed what precious time he had, yet it was a necessary precaution, and one he always took. He scooped sludge over his face and arms to hide his thin, pale form and rid himself of the heavy scent of sweat and humanly odors that only beasts could detect. Occasionally he paused to fill his waterskin with a patch of snow he found to be white enough to swallow. He was never lucky enough to find food on his travels. Thus, he nibbled on what few mushrooms he had left and continued on with the sunlight at his back.
He traveled for miles, passing several caves entirely as he climbed up rocks and rolled over pits. He could smell the thick rot of whatever creature lived there and see the slight light that was given away by the fires formed from within. His grip on the sword constantly readjusted itself, the foul mixture of sweat and ash forming at the hilt. At times he readjusted his pack to a more secure position as he clamored up a particularly difficult cliff.
Chest heaving with extersion, Ulfric paused and glanced through his matted hair to the sky. Light was fading. Soon the Falmer would come out. The Nord clasped his jaw in a tightened knot and hastened his movements. The stones loosened beneath his feet, and his fingers latched tightly to the stone. He swung his weight to a more accommodating position and inched upward. His next cave was only a mile away. His anxiety grew all the more, causing his arms to shake in anticipation, and he wet his dry lips. He heaved himself over the cliff, taking a moment to breathe, before straightening.
The rock cracked beneath him, and more stones loosened. Ulfric lost his footing and fell to his back. He cursed as the stones rolled beneath him and caused him to slide too quickly. The ground was coming closer swifter than he wished, and then another rock struck him in the chest. He coughed and spun, and suddenly nothing was beneath him. His eyes flew wide and he threw his arms around, scrambling for purchase. A gust of wind tore through him. He gasped and cried out.
Then the ground slammed into him, and all the air left his lungs.
His limbs fell limp and his mouth gaped open as he struggled to suck in and out, but nothing would enter. They were like stone, unheading his commands, and the world spun around him. Some part of Ulfric allowed him a groan as he curled into a ball. He waited for it all to cease, beckoning his chest to move as it burned like coal in his throat.
He was given a small breath. It was like honey to his body, and he relished it. He inhaled again, and more air entered. His fingers curled into a fist around the sludge as he hissed in another breath. Then another.
He felt the ground press against his cheek, and he slowly rolled to his knees. His arms were quivering. His chest still burned, and a sharp pain lashed through him. He pressed his hand to it and felt it throb beneath the touch. He prayed to Talos a rib was not broken.
Ulfric glanced behind him to see the small landslide he caused, and he cursed at its sight. Several rocks were severed and scattered onto the ground, a black indent where his filthy skin slid against the surface. It had made noise, and now it had made evidence of his passing. He shakily stood to his knees and cleaned away what signs of his movement he could, passing wary glances at the fading light. He readjusted his bag, and prepared to sprint to the cave.
But something was ill in the air. He froze and ran his hands about himself, feeling something was amiss. He brushed his hands over his pack, and felt nothing strapped to its side. His dagger. Where was his dagger?
Another foul curse left him, a whisper of anger and restlessness. He bore his gaze about the fall, scouring for the weapon. Ulfric riffed through the ground with quick and skittish movements, conscious of the waning time. Where was it? Where was it?
The wind came, the accursed thing, pelting at his back as he shoved aside the stones in search of any shean in the pile. Minutes passed, precious minutes that he could not spare, and he gnawed on the terrible thought of leaving the dagger behind. A sound echoed behind him, and he swiveled around. His breath ceased.
There, in the now growing darkness of the dusk, stood a wolf. No more than several hundred feet, its eyes gleamed in the still light, tongue lolling out from its maw and haggard fur clinging to its sides. Its gaze was trained on him, head bowed low in a near casual acceptance, but Ulfric knew hunger in a beast's eyes. Body still and silent, Ulfric reached for a sharp rock. He could not hear the wind over the rushing blood in his ears.
The wolf tensed. Ulfric's fingers brushed against something uncannily sharp, and he released a shaky breath from his lips. They both were still for a moment, and a moment more.
Then, the beast howled.
Ulfric snatched his knife with bloody fingers and ran.
Responding howls flittered in his ears, running cold his blood and his breath thin. He swiveled his head, scouring the area in which the cries came, and rushed beyond them, his legs pounding beneath him and the wind throwing his wild mane into the breeze. He felt more than heard the wolf gain on him. It snapped its teeth at him in savage hunger. Its paws raked through the earth. He lept over a fallen tree, the canopy of branches drinking the final day's light away and the stray limbs swatting at his cheek. The world blurred around him and he flew, the forms of mountains and ash mere whiffs of grey and brown beside him.
Motion ahead of him. He skittered to a halt at the sight of black fur and a heaving flank, a second wolf that leapt in front of him. A strangled sound escaped him and he spun around. The other wolf was nearing, head still bowed low and eyes gleaming. Ulfric tore to his left, away from them both. Another howl in the air. Another wolf there, sneering through its dripping maw. He ran to his right.
He might have howled himself if he had energy to release more than mere heaves of panicked air. A final wolf, white in coat and lean in form, slunk from the stony mountains in front of him, bellowing and snapping its maw.
Sweat beaded his forehead as he turned, the pack of wolves lowered to their haunches and circling. Ulfric gripped his dagger with shaking hands and flicked it warningly at them. They simply snarled and came closer. He froze.
They lept. Dirt flew.
Teeth were at him, snapping and snarling, and a burning stench swathing over his face as its hot misty coating slapped against his bare cheek. He cried out and threw a wild and vicious swing with his dagger. He felt resistance, a sudden tear, then warm liquid on his hand. A scream exploded beside him, and the wolf fell down. A weight flew onto his back and he felt his legs buckle and stumble, more hisses of breath and bays, and sharp daggers sank into his shoulder. He screamed and shoved against the weight, falling onto his back and crushing the form. The noise at his ear came as an explosive yelp, and Ulfric rolled off of the form to stab it. Teeth found his pack, tugging it sharply and throwing him to and fro. The man struggled fiercely, feeling the straps loosen then snap. The force propelled the wolf backward and him forward, into the waiting jaws of another beast. Crashing into it, he wrestled it off him and forced his fingers against the mouth, its tongue wiggling over his hand and smearing it in hot saliva as he forced it further and further apart, before it gave a terrified, pained shriek. Fire sunk into his ankle, swathing his leg in agony. Another pained howl escaped the lips of the man and he stabbed at the jaws in which clasped him down. It felt the metal's sting and shrank away with a cry of anguish, freeing Ulfric and sending him scrambling for a nearby tree. He clung to it and, in a moment of automatic instinct and panic, began to climb.
His fingernails drove into the bark and bloodied them as he scrambled upward, the wolves' breath hot at his legs. His trousers were snagged in their grip, and Ulfric kicked furiously at their faces. He felt their bones buckle beneath his feet at the blow. Howling and backing away, their momentary pause gave the Nord enough time to heave himself to the upper branches of the tree. He peered down.
Three wolves leaped at him, their claws raking through the bark and snapping at the branches. The tree beneath him vibrated beneath the force of their weight, but it did not sway. The fourth limped behind, a dark liquid coating its backside, watching its companions in reserved hunger. Ulfric simply gasped in breath, fingers wrapped around his bleeding ankle and willing away the throbbing pain as the tree shook.
Hours passed, or perhaps minutes. The wolves continued to search for ways to climb the tree, but to no avail. The branches remained high on its trunk, and the core was strong. No matter how long they ran their claws into its bark, it would not break. Soon, they stripped it bare and dulled their claws, allowing them no further purchase to cling to.
They watched Ulfric with hateful eyes and sat below the tree. He knew they would wait forever.
Ulfric, still atop the tree's branches, felt his heart continue its thundering rampage as his arms quivered like leaves in the wind. His hand was still clasped around the hilt of his knife, and when he tried to loosen the grip, the fingers would not yield. Laying his throbbing back against the tree's bare and blackened trunk, Ulfric continued to choke on his panicked breath, laying his free hand on his chest to try to still it.
It took ages to calm his breath. It took longer to cease his shivering. And once he did, all he could do was listen to the sounds of the waking creatures scurrying from their abodes and feel the cold sensation of despair sink into the root of his bones.
Night had come.
When he opened his eyes, he did not expect the world to be so bright. Years of living from cave to cave always welcomed him with a dulled, darkened room and a deep humming moan as the wind brushed across the cave and allowed its breath to echo through. He was not accustomed to the light and lack of hollow sounds about him, and he did not recognize the cold breeze that caressed his face with the softness of a lover's touch.
In another life, and in another world, Ulfric would have called it pleasant. But, when the sight of ash, broken trees, and a barren waste of a mountainside came to meet him, he did not enjoy the view it presented. Nor did he relish the newfound stench the wind gave him so early in the morn.
He blinked, squinting at the unfamiliar amount of sunlight, and eased his back upward as he rubbed his eyes, trying to bellay the heavy comfort of slumber from his form. Suddenly, the ground shifted beneath him, feeling round and empty on either side of him, and he made the dire mistake of swaying.
No further floor supported him as he moved and tilted dangerously off his branch, the tree cracking at its sudden weight, the noise shuttering down the trunk. An anticipated growl murmured below him, and Ulfric spared a glance down to find the pack of wolves still at the base of the tree, watching him with their unwavering gazes. Ulfric's heart lept to his throat as his balanced slipped away, and he tightened his legs around the branch, wrapping his fingers over adjacent branches to keep himself steady. The last of his slumber left him when the wolves ran their tongues over their chops hungrily, their weight shifting excitedly on either paw.
Ulfric straightened immediately, head snapping up and shoulders moving under each laborious breath. Under the muted tones of a waking mind, he riffed through his memory to understand the entirety of his situation. He glanced to his right and found his hands still gripped to his dagger. Both the hand and the metal were coated in a dark crimson liquid, already dry and glued to his skin. He looked below him to find the wolf he had stabbed awake and conscious; it too was coated in blood, and appeared far more weary than the others. Most unfortunately, it was still alive.
The ground showed obvious signs of the scuffle that occurred last night; it was swiped and tousled in mud, pools of blood here and there, with clumps of fur or human hair littered about the site. The wolves held their scars, the white with a long stripe of red bleeding from its face, and another grey wolf's mouth still bruised and slightly out of alignment. Their fur was matted in filthy clumps that clung to their thin skin, and only then did Ulfric notice the ribs prodding from their coats. He felt no pity for their hunger, and instead hoped they would rot in the cave of a troll.
The pain came then, a sharp fire from his ankle, and Ulfric rose it to find it caked in blood. Deep gashes marred the pink flesh, and he detected a foul odor emit from it. Ulfric's stomach roiled at the thought of an infection, and decidedly hid it from his mind by wrapping his free hand around it. His shoulder and back throbbed, and his chest was bruised from the fall from the cliff he had climbed. When he moved his tongue, it stuck to the roof of his mouth. Talos, he was thirsty. Ulfric reached behind himself to better access to his pack, but his expectation for relief faded when his hands closed around nothing. His stomach fell to his soles as his mind conjured images of what might have happened to his precious bag. He glanced downward fearfully.
The wolves again growled hungrily at his movement, and he scanned over the dirt they stood upon carefully. Swiveling his eyes around, he scoured for the dull black pack in the equally dull black sludge. He leaned over on his branch - making certain his grip was ever true on it - to eye further into the sludge. A despairing sigh left his lips when he found it.
The pack was torn to pieces and the various items cast out, strewn into the dirt and filth of the ground. His blanket was tattered and coated in ash, his whetstone lying feet away, and the mushrooms trampled under the uncaring wolves' paws. But the blanket and whetstone he could retrieve and continue to use, and the mushrooms he could resupply himself with at the next cave. It was the waterskin that upset him. Its form was torn open, the precious supply of cool water spilled into the dirt, and its skin was ruined beyond all repairs. Water was a treasured commodity, and without it, Ulfric would perish.
The Nord slumped over the branch, defeated and swallowing down the thick taste of ash on his tongue. The wolves pranced about the tree anxiously, their growls deep in their throats. Ulfric watched them with half-hearted fear and toyed with the thought of jumping down to meet them.
They all sat there for some time.
Then, in the nigh noon of the day, the wolves stood straight and paced about anxiously. Their movement startled Ulfric out from his reverie, and he relocated his dagger in case… well, in case of anything. They sniffed the air and muttered faintly to each other in their own language, glancing again at Ulfric and then about the area. Their twitches seemed hastened and the manner in which they growled brought Ulfric's hair to prickle at the back of his neck.
A thunderous beat flittered through the air. Like a drum. It was brief, hollow, but it ran across the Eastmarch like the flowing wind. Then, another beat came. And another. Cold. Deep. Strong.
The wolves did not pass a second glance to Ulfric when they ran. Whatever warmth resided in the Nord's blood ran cold when he watched them go.
A pack of wolves did not leave its prey. It never did.
Then, down came an echoing roar. Against his own admonition, his eyes flew upward, into the dark-ridden sky.
It was there. A mere blackened speck against the grey sky, but every beat of its wings could be felt vibrating through his chest, every sound could be echoed across the expanse of Skyrim. He did not need to see to know what it was.
His knees buckled on their own accord, feeling like sloshing water within his legs. A chill crept through him, seeping through his skin and into his very bones, spreading across his veins. He swallowed, his parched tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, and felt a shuddering breath leave him. When the dragon howled again, he was already gone from the tree.
Slamming into the ground with a painful thrum, Ulfric snatched his whetstone and blanket with such haste he left with several handfuls of sludge along with them. The ground sucked at his shoes, the blood bubbling beneath the soles of his feet. He slipped and nearly tumbled into the filth, his hands coating themselves in a grotesque mixture of crimson liquid and mud.
He ran, the wind tearing through his mane. By Talos, he ran.
Fire burned at his feet. It felt like dragonfire, and for a moment, he remembered stones raining down from above, shrieks bleeding into the air, and the insistent cries falling from his lips to urge the townspeople and soldiers out, away from the smoldering rubble. The shouts from above; arrows loosing from their strings. The song of metal, the hiss of breath, the slow intake of a building inferno within a scaly maw-
A branch snapped against his cheek, shattering from its tree and falling to the dirt. Thundering footsteps pounded into the ground, echoing through his feet. He swiveled his head to find shadows dancing through the trees, throwing clouds of ash into the foul air. They did not spare a glance at Ulfric with the scream of the winged creature pealing from above.
The chill began to gnaw at his face, cold daggers seeping into his skin. His eyes watered at the harsh breath of the wind. Like fire burning at his skin, his throat grew raw and chest unyieldingly thick, as if he were to lift boulders from his ribs after each breath. Blood and wind roared through his ears and at times he could not discern it from the dragon above. His legs began to move like lead, heavy and impossibly weak.
But the panic fueled him. It seared through his limbs, a wave of sharp ice clawing at his flesh and shrieking at him to run.
Run he did. For how long, he did not know. But he knew at one moment it had been morn, and by the next moment he looked toward the sky, the sun bled through the clouds to cast a sickly golden shadow over the mountains.
Afternoon had come and gone.
He was still running.