A/N: Well, hi there. It's been a while hasn't it? I'm still alive, so sorry for not updating more of this story! I've still got lots of it planned, don't worry! Apologies for disappointing anyone, lots was going on and had other focuses for a while, didn't get around to coming back to Songs of Skyrim here. But, one lovely TheRealityBreaker gave me a kick in the butt to get writing again. :D
One of the aforementioned focuses is a Twitch channel! Should anybody watching want to tune in for a stream or two, feel free! I'll leave the links to my media on my profile page!
Again, so sorry for taking so long to update this! :c Will strive to be better going forward! You're all awesome~!
Sorry if it feels like a short one. :3
4E 201, 7th of Rain's Hand, the darkest hour of night.
The Battle for Whiterun
Harrowing roars of blood-thirst and hunger for carnage drown out all senses as the Stormcloak reinforcements lay siege to the battered defences of the Imperial Garrison. Horses charge through the worn palisades, steel axes and blades carve through the remnants of Whiterun's exterior defenders without mercy. Wounded soldiers attempting to flee from the aggressors meet their swift ends with axes, swords, hammers and arrows breaking bones and puncturing flesh, letting their already damaged and broken bodies slump to the mud below. Ulfric's rebels pass through to the raised drawbridge – the final line before the Stormcloaks take to the streets to do battle with their sworn enemies. Commander Caius looks on in horror at the onslaught before Whiterun's gates, the curved road that once allowed travelers, traders and honourable citizens wander through their humble city is now painted crimson with the blood of his comrades: Imperial and Stormcloak corpses stretching far and wide along the stony roads. Smoke rises from what damage the catapults had launched into the city before they conveniently ceased their aerial rampage. Caius furrows his brow with spite and anger, looking to the capable men at his side protecting the drawbridge mechanism. "They've got only one way up here, the stairs at the guard tower. We will NOT let them lower this bridge! If we die here we die protecting our home, our families!" Commander Caius bashes his chest with a firm fist, receiving a uniformed salute from his squadron of Whiterun's finest.
Time was of the essence, the rebels had an objective to win in the name of their High King, the soldiers of Whiterun were ready to cleave flesh from bone to avenge their fallen and protect their homes. Moments of haunting silence filled the battlement before a sudden crescendo of battle-cries rung out from tempered lungs, as Stormcloaks flooded the staircase to reach the drawbridge mechanism Caius and his squad guarded. Heavy thuds and bangs rang out in parallel with squelches of swords piercing skin and releasing blood onto the steel. A line of Stormcloaks barraging the Whiterun defenders stood out at the battlements as Gjalder watched from behind hesitating. His eyes drifted between the men before him, risking their lives in the name of duty and the Stormcloaks, who are willing to shed blood to ensure that their true High King, Ulfric Stormcloak, stands above Skyrim as her leader and protector. A conflict arises within him, one that will shake the foundations of what he believed in and the future that awaited him. He wasted little time, as Gjalder found his axe being raised and come crashing down to sever the ropes that bound the drawbridge mechanism, allowing the Stormcloaks to charge through to the city gates. Caius turns around and glares at Gjalder with contempt, hissing at him. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" He declares, only to receive a kick to the chest from Gjalder who looks at him with a neutral expression, neither remorse nor empathy in his eyes. "Whiterun -needs- the Stormcloaks, it needs to be free from the clutches of the Imperials!" Caius scowls at Gjalder as Stormcloaks surround him, seeking to execute the Commander but they look upon Gjalder who spares them the task, though he fails to murder the Commander he ensures that he cannot pursue them. Gjalder brings his axe to the downed man's knee, a strike that makes Caius howl in pain and clutch his wound, breathing deeply with sweat dripping down his aged face, venom then escapes his tongue. "You traitorous bastard...!" He spits out, as Gjalder and the Stormcloaks beside him descend the tower stairs to join the rest of the forces: A city awaits the banner of Eastmarch's azure bear. "Get the battering ram ready!" A rebel officer exclaims, commanding the Stormcloaks to prepare themselves for a siege into the city itself, soon to be flying a new banner under Ulfric's name.
The heavy, unmistakable sound of a drawbridge swiftly crashing into the ground spelled out one thing for the soldiers behind the city gates: The Stormcloaks have braved the first line of defence. Now the war came to the streets, the men behind Whiterun's ancient walls could only hope that the rebels were honourable enough to spare the citizens such carnage as they pillage the streets of this fair city. Deep, resounding thuds and creaks of the city's wooden doors rumble with rage as the Stormcloaks prepare to breach the barricaded entrance and take over the city in the name of their rebellion. Jarl Balgruuf snarls at the sight of the heavy doors croaking and losing their strength to the might of the rebel's siege. He turns to the men and women at his back, drawing his steel longsword and the axe he offered to Ulfric, only to have it return back to his hand. "You are soldiers of Whiterun! No matter who or what comes through that gate, you will stand your ground!" Throughout the Jarl's speech, the gates continue to crumble and wither, unable to withstand such unrelenting temper that barrages them. "These -Stormcloaks- want to pillage our home, hurt our loved ones! Nay! Not while I am the Jarl of Whiterun! So long as there is breath in my body, this city will belong to US!" The gates loudly twist and contort with fracturing splinters of wood sent flying through the air as one more crushing blow will sunder the once sturdy blockade, allowing the Stormcloaks to freely pour into the streets. "Let's show Ulfric what happens when he threatens our home!" The Jarl and his soldiers roar with camaraderie as they band together to protect those they call family from the skirmish of rebellion. Celina smirks before looking to her contingency of Legionnaires, barking an order to them. "Line Defence, shields up! Break their advance!" As her voice rings in the ears of the soldiers, their shields raise and join together to form a barrier of Imperial grace, silver shields with crimson decorations and the Akaviri Dragon symbol adorned at the centre of it make for a formation worthy of the Emperor's gaze and smile. The gates suffer one final assault from the battering ram before they splinter completely, showing the defenders the reinforced Stormcloak units charging into the city and over the entrance bridge to slaughter the opposition.
The rebels find themselves at a disadvantage immediately, the city's natural bridge adjacent to the gates means they have to tunnel their forces or risk jumping into the drains below, which then forces them to climb and be vulnerable to death from above. With little choice, the Stormcloaks rush over the bridge to charge at the line of shields that protects the defenders. As their blades scratch the surface of the Imperial bulwark, the Legionnaires surprise the rebels with an advancing shield bash, to push them back and make way for an impending slaughter. "FOR WHITERUN!" Jarl Balgruuf roars with fury as do his men, all of them taking advantage of the stunted Stormcloaks to unleash a flurry of swords and axes upon their hides. Balgruuf''s sword locks against a rebel's only for him to swing his axe into the man's throat, causing the foe to choke on his own blood and drop to the ground as the first to fall to Balgruuf's axe, he certainly won't be the last as the Jarl unleashes his fury onto the Stormcloaks who dared to defile his home, carving warriors to pieces with a fervour often heard in the man's voice but never truly witnessed until the call to arms beckoned him in the field.
"We have to do something... We can't just stay here!" Young Alain proclaims to his family as they together sit beside the fireplace in their home. Anya looks to him worriedly but her father Ambroise is the first to respond to the glory-desperate lad. "This is not our fight son. The Empire is more than a match for these Stormcloak rebels, they are the Emperor's Legion." Ambroise explains, tenderly grasping his wife Belene's hand to comfort her in the dark hour. "But I want to serve the Legion! I want to fight!" Alain laments, crossing his arms in a fit of boyish pride. "There is no glory in this rebellion Alain, now enough!" Ambroise raises his voice, forcing his son to heed his authority as a father and as the patriarch of their family. Alain scoffs and walks to his quarters, slamming the stylish wooden door behind him. Anya sighs to herself, looking to the fireplace idly stroking the sleeve of her pearly white nightgown. Tensions arise in the Vanne household as they sit in silence, merely gazing into the flickering embers that illuminate their humble abode, unable to sleep to the sounds of warfare and conflict occurring in their very streets. Alain exits his bedroom with a steel longsword in his hand, much to the shock of his family. "ALAIN! Where did you get that?!" Belene screams in horror, watching her son armed with a blade. "I'm going to fight." Alain clarifies, removing the locks put up on their front door to exit into the streets. "ALAIN!" Ambroise beckons the young man several times to no avail, causing the boy's family great concern for his safety. Anya grasps her agape jaw and recoils in fear for her brother as Ambroise grunts and proceeds to his own quarters upstairs. "Mother, what are we going to do?!" Anya shouts to her parent worryingly, though heavy footsteps resound from above as Ambroise descends the stairs... Armed with a silver longsword, stylishly engraved in ceremonial markings and décor. It sends a shiver down Anya's spine as she inspects the blade, wondering why her father even -owns- such an exquisite and rare weapon. "Lock the doors behind me Belene, do not open them for ANYONE unless you hear my voice!" Belene looks on in mass confusion, possibly thinking the same as her daughter but before any questions can be asked, Ambroise closes the door behind him seeking to find his son before the war takes him away.
Alain rushes to the scene of the conflict, looking in shock at the carnage unfolding in the Plains District: Stormcloak warriors unleashing a wild fury upon the defending soldiers, Imperial legionnaires delivering precise impales and slashes to the aggressors that attack them, blood and bodies everywhere at the gates of the city. At the centre of the fray lay Jarl Balgruuf who gleefully cuts down Stormcloak rebels with Irileth standing at his back, together slaughtering the foes as a team bound by blood and honour until the very end. The sight of the actual carnage made Alain's stomach quiver in fear as he felt sick to behold such gruesome sights, the sounds of dying men and women made him frightened to even hold his sword and the stench of the fallen began to make his head spin. Celina executes a Stormcloak she engages in battle with, disarming him with a furious shield bash before twirling her body to deliver a fatal spinning slash to the stomach of the rebel, who falls backwards to the ground bleeding out. She notices the young auburn-haired Alain approaching from the Cloud District's northern steps and gasps, rushing to approach him and challenge his stupidity. "Alain! What in Stendarr's name are you doing out here?! Get back to your home right now!" She hisses, turning around to see if any Stormcloaks sought to stab her in the back. Alain stutters and looks to Celina, mumbling. "I... I... I did-... I wanted to..."
"Gods above Alain! This is no place for you! Get back to your home at once! That's an order citizen!"
"I just... I- Celina!" Alain tried to sheepishly respond, but his eyes caught two Stormcloaks trying to rush Celina whose attention alternated between the boy and the war. Celina swiftly turned to the approaching enemies and narrowly avoids a blade reaching her spine with a brutal shield bash to disorient the aggressor. Her longsword is then raised to clash against the second rebel's, a flurry of steel awaits the man as Celina's techniques of unbridled sword torrents come into action: A swift horizontal slash to deter the enemy's strike and a blow sped with Kyne's fury returns in the opposite direction to carve open a deep crevice into the Stormcloak's chest, splitting apart his leather armour and causing blood to pour from the open wound. The second Stormcloak tries to pummel Celina's shield blockage to no avail, perhaps underestimating the crimson vixen's strength as she easily holds her own against the man. Celina quickly grows tired of the fray and delivers a vicious shield strike to allow her an opening to drive her longsword into the enemy's throat, making him croak in agony before the fatal blow ended his existence.
Celia retracts her longsword from the enemy's throat, causing his bloodied cadaver to heavily slump to the ground with a loud thud, metallic rustles from the man's equipment becoming the final sound he makes before the silence of the grave overwhelms his remains. She looks to Alain with heavy breaths, pacing herself to speak plainly and as direct as she can so the youngster can comprehend the brevity of the situation. "Alain... Don't make me repeat myself. Go home. Protect your loved ones." The Breton stutters a respond with his hand trembling, barely able to keep a firm grip upon the hilt of his blade. "But... I- I'm not a coward... I can fight...!" He protests, much to the chagrin of Celina. "Prove to me you can fight: Protect your sister, your parents. Go home. When the battle is over, we can train. I'll test your mettle, but don't risk your life in this war!" Her booming voice bestows an aura of command to Alain, who slowly begins to step backwards and return to his home district. Celina sighs with relief, glad that she managed to talk some sense into the eager boy, her attention then diverts to the ongoing battle in the centre of the Plains District to which she readies her blade and charges forward into the fray. Alain looks back to the sight of men and women battling in his home, shaking and wondering if he can prove his worth to his peers: That he isn't some glory-seeking child wanting to show his talents, that his desire to fight for the Empire is as true as each morning's sunrise. His eyes scan the soldiers defending his home, risking their lives for a country that does not belong to them, fighting those who feel the exact opposite notion. Alain nods to himself, reaffirming his conviction to serve the Emperor by rushing back to the battlefield. Ambroise appears at the top of the Cloud District's stairs, looking down on the skirmishes below. "ALAIN!" He shouts, hoping his son is nearby to hear his father's worried voice to no avail. Grunting, he draws closer to the battle hoping to find his son nearby.
"Push forward boys! Get past their lines and the city is ours!" A Stormcloak Officer shouts to his men and women, seeking to give them that one last push to overcome the Imperial dogs and take Whiterun for the true High King. Gjalder joins a squad of rebels that rush through the broken gates, following through with his betrayal to aid the Stormcloaks over his own city. The capable Nord, having been spotted now by his former comrades marching with Stormcloak soldiers elects to target them first, almost as if demonstrating his commitment to the cause. His steel axe comes crashing into the shoulder of a Whiterun guardsman, crushing the bones beneath his flesh and incapacitating him, before Gjalder pulls out the axe with a wet squelch of bleeding skin and torn muscles to lodge the crescent blade into the guard's neck, ending his service and his life. Gjalder's azure blue eyes land upon the Jarl himself, in battle with his newfound comrades. A bout of determination, or perhaps brash recklessness fills his core and he finds himself heading straight for Jarl Balgruuf, who sees the oncoming traitor and aggressively snarls, raising his blade to block the axe strike Gjalder hoped to deliver. Balgruuf locks blades with the man and challenges him there and then as they enter a contest of strength, to see who can overwhelm the opponent first. "You?! A Stormcloak?! I thought better of you, traitorous bastard!" Gjalder grunts and pushes his weapon forward to try and gain a hand over the older Jarl, who despite the advances of age holds his own extremely well against the younger man in his prime, dangerously so. He tries to intimidate the Jarl with his freshly revealed loyalties, hoping to deter the man's resolve as to gain an advantage in psychic warfare. "Your rule is failing, Balgruuf! Skyrim belongs to High King Ulfric, he will not cower to the Elves who banned the worship of mighty Talos!" Gjalder's plan, ultimately, works against him as his words only infuriate the easily provoked Balgruuf, who gifts the younger man with a vicious headbutt that knocks him down to the ground with ease. "Foolish whoreson! You -dare- to challenge ME? I am Jarl Balgruuf! Come at me then Stormcloak bastard!" The Jarl proclaims, giving the younger man no time at all to recover as he raises his war-axe with the intent to slaughter Gjalder for his treasonous acts. The axe strike is narrowly dodged by Gjalder who rolls to the side, allowing it to hit the dirt floor where he once laid with a heavy thud, dividing the soil with a vicious scar. The Jarl quickly turns the fight from a battle into a chase, haunting Gjalder wherever he stumbles with axe blows or blade flourishes that he must swiftly avoid in a barrage of rage and anger, all the while taunting the cocky young man. "IS THIS THE MIGHT OF THE STORMCLOAKS?! FACE ME YOU COWARD!" Gjalder attempts to swing his axe yet Balgruuf is quick to block it with his longsword, leaving his axe free to swing and cleave Gjalder, however he is evaded by the younger Nord even if only narrowly: The axe's rounded blade is mere inches away from splitting his gullet in half, a fortunate stroke of luck for the younger Nord who thought he could challenge his Jarl and prevail with ease, a near fatal mistake on his end.
Alain firmly clasps the hilt of his blade, now teetering on the edge of the Imperial backline looking for an opening to wedge himself into to join the fray noisily unfurling before him. Up close and personal with the stench of death: the sickly scent of blood stains the air and invades Alain's nostrils which churn his stomach and shake his nerves, yet he takes a deep breath and holds his sword close to heart seeking his chance to prove his worth as a Legionnaire. His eyes spot a lone guardsman in conflict with a Stormcloak rebel, exchanging blows and putting steel and iron together with a rage rivalling gladiators from the both of them. With enough distance for him to feel secure enough, Alain charges on with the intent of dispatching the Stormcloak to help his home's soldier prevail, a feat that in his eyes would show he is capable of fending off rebels and protecting his home and enforcing his beliefs. As the young soldier-to-be marches on, the Stormcloak gains an upper hand against the Whiterun Guardsman and eliminates him with a stomach-piercing stab, plunging the entirety of his iron longsword inside of the man to the point that the cross-guard pushes into the guard's armour. Alain freezes on the spot, panicking as the Stormcloak looks at him. The assailant's face is shrouded by the face-guard of his helmet, yet he does not mercilessly cut the boy down but instead warns him. "Boy, go home before you die a child."
"I... I'll not let you take my city...!" Alain defiantly responds, shakily holding out his longsword to attempt a duel with the trained, hardened rebel. "There's no honour in killing a young pup. Leave. I won't warn you again lad." The Stormcloak insists but Alain hears none of it, swinging the longsword into the man's direction only for it to be countered with a blade flourish, pressing the edge of the sword against the incoming weapon followed by a horizontal thrust, allowing the cross-guard to come into contact with the opponent's weapon as his blade slides along it, disarming the Breton with ease. Alain gasps and finds himself unable to process how swiftly he lost his weapon, eyes dead-set upon the armed and dangerous Stormcloak infront of him. Afraid, trembling, the rebel steps forward but merely kicks the boy to the ground with a solid boot to the chest. He contemplates on what to do for a small moment, strike the boy down or walk away, leave him to his own devices? His time to decide is cut short however as Ambroise charges him from the side with a surprise attack, cleaving his engraved silver sword within the rebel's waist, forcing him down to the ground as blood pours out as if he were a spilled pitcher of wine. "ALAIN!"
"Father! What-"
"Get back home NOW you stupid boy!" Ambroise howls to his son, turning his back however as clankering footsteps approach, a fellow rebel who watched his comrade get taken down by this apparent civilian. Rushing in to avenge his fallen friend, the Stormcloak attempts an overhead vertical slash onto the Breton patriarch but finds within him a capable fighter, Ambroise side-steps to evade the strike and unleashes a responsive three-strike flurry, intending to skewer the assailant with at least one of them. The Stormcloak is prepared for combat however and deftly blocks the first two slashes, back-stepping on the third before lunging forward with an over-the-shoulder diagonal slice intended for Ambroise, who runs into the trajectory of the weapon only to lay his silver sword against the strike, defending himself from a killing blow with a master's level of combat awareness. The fight is no longer a mere battle, for Ambroise this feels more like a duel as he expertly weaves silver through the air and against the iron war hound before him. Alain runs up the stairs into the Wind District, finding a seat on a bench beneath the city's majestic Gildergreen tree, trying desperately to steady his breathing after his reckless endeavour, worrying that he's gotten his father in danger needlessly.
A bellowing horn rings out from beyond Whiterun's walls, with the echoing roars of men and women sounding the retreat. A fierce battle had been carried out in the city and before its gates, but the Stormcloaks appear outmatched against the Legion's superior military training, causing the rebel leaders to get away and accept the sting of defeat. Everyone pauses and looks around as the retreat begins, but many Stormcloaks are too surrounded by Legionnaires to get away so easily, dropping their blades, axes and raising their arms skyward to surrender. Ambroise looks into the mask of the Stormcloak who laid siege to him, pointing the silver blade to the rebel's throat. Without a word, the assailant nodded and threw his weapons to the ground, leaving himself to the mercy of his captors.
Gjalder took the opportunity to dart past his escaping Stormcloaks, evading the enraged Jarl who aggressively marched forward to try and take him out right there on the spot, only to lose him in the hordes of Stormcloaks who were allowed to leave the city. "YOU WILL NEVER SET FOOT IN MY HOLD AGAIN, TRAITOR! I'LL SET THE BIGGEST BOUNTY ON YOUR HEAD WHORESON!" Jarl Balgruuf relentlessly shouts to the traitor fleeing from his city, though its soon replaced by cheers of victory from the surviving soldiers and guardsmen standing within the city. Metallic rustles of fleeing Stormcloaks ring out loudly as horses breigh in the fading night, the hours of the night spend defending the city and cutting down rebellious men and women must take a toll on those who cut down such young lives unnecessarily. The misery of the dark is at an end however, with the first light of dawn beginning to pierce the midnight veil and illuminate the death and destruction within the city's stone walls. Burnt buildings, bodies of Imperials and rebels alike littering the Plains District, arrows protruding from the rooftops and walls of people's homes who wanted no part in this destructive war. Such is the tragedy of conflict, it is a field ripe for the reaper whom savours the seeds planted and enjoys a bountiful harvest of Tamriel's young killing one another over ideals.
4E 201, 8th of Rain's Hand, morning sunrise.
"We should be arriving at Markarth in a few minutes Nairume." The flowing Altmer said to her twin, who smiles with a nod thrown in her direction. "Do we have any idea who it is we're looking for?" Nairume asks, strange considering they have had plenty of time to discuss the finer details of their assignment even before departing. "Vandalion gave me the details regarding the target. Bosmer male, medium length brown hair, hazel coloured eyes, narrow facial structure. He's the one supposedly from the Embassy." Naylarie responds, squeezing the reins of her steed to steady the beast's movements. "That bastard never tells me anything..."
"That's because he barely trusts us. He only tells me because you're more timid Nairume."
"Wha- Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Nairume asks, pouting at her twin. Naylarie simply smiles softly and steers her horse to the side in order to gallop side by side with her sister, reaching out towards her hair to stroke the silky mane tenderly, tucking some of the hair behind her ear. "It means out of the two of us, you're the better sister." Naylarie announces with gentle whispers, causing Nairume to frown at her disapprovingly. "Don't say things like that, you know I couldn't handle serving Vandalion without you."
"You and me both." Naylarie responds, smiling at her twin. Some small measure of time passes before the twins reel in the reins of their horses, for the mighty golden doors of Markarth lay beneath their elven eyes glistening beneath the sunlight, gleaming as a jewel embedded within the mountains. The twins disembark and leave their horses at the stables, approaching the large Dwemer gates to access the city's marketplace first and foremost which now rustles with activity and life, everyday folk visiting the humble stalls of meat, jewels, clothing, trinkets and other manners of miscellaneous stock to spend hard-earned coin on. The river that runs through Markarth flickers gently with an aquatic rush, reminiscent of peaceful waves riding a lake through the wilderness, it makes for a serene melody were it not for distant clanks of metal against metal, the smiths outside of Cidna Mine ever working hard and sullying the tranquility found within the stony capital.
"Now, where to look..." Naylarie speaks aloud, looking across the marketplace with her arms folded across her breastplate. "Where do you find a renegade in a city like this?" Nairume taps her chin in thought. "Markarth has a Thalmor Justiciar stationed in the Keep, right? We can talk to them for some help."
"Good idea, I've never been to Markarth, no idea where I'm going." Naylarie responds to her twin's proposal, the duo marching throughout the stony streets headed for Understone Keep. They take in their surroundings with a pleasant smile, despite the nature of their assignment under an arrogant and cruel master, their company lifts one another's spirits and the environment of the city is a pleasant atmosphere to behold with fresh mountain air filling the lungs, lest they find themselves at the smithy's where only smoke and coal enters the nostrils. "It's beautiful here." Nairume comments idly, watching the tall buildings cast shadows down onto the streets. "Yeah, it is. Lovely city. You can see the Dwemer architecture in the buildings." Naylarie responds, a casual smirk on her small, defined lips. "Definitely, it's most obvious in the metalworks. No other culture can so expertly weave these golden structures. A shame nobody knows what happened to the Dwemer." The softer twin laments, she and her sister appear to lack the superiority complex most Altmer seem to be born with, no delusions of being a better species than the rest of Nirn's inhabitants but rather they live their lives humbly and grounded in realism. "Maybe they got bored of Tamriel." Naylarie idly comments with a smirk, causing a playful scoff to resound from her more eager sister. "Bored? Please, life has never been so exciting around here: There's a civil war over religion, Dragons have returned, the supposed 'Dragonborn' is apparently roaming around Skyrim fighting the said Dragons. How interesting is -that- ?"
"Oh I hear so many reports from citizens claiming to have met the Dragonborn, helping them with their everyday troubles. I doubt if the Dragonborn was really here, they'd spend their time fetching lost friends or hunting books down for someone." The two sisters share a genuine, pleasant laughter on their journey to Understone Keep, finding ways to make their lives better without the Thalmor supremacists breathing down their necks constantly, nor the undesirable influence of Vandalion.
The duo finally reach Understone Keep, pushing the doors wide open to enter the building that aptly earned its name for the Jarl's Throne is embedded within the mountain, sending a chilling breeze to the girls as they enter the Keep. The ladies approach the Throne Room that stands amidst rocky crevices and rough, uneven flooring, perched onto stone steps leading to the carved out Throne heralded by burning metal braziers. It takes no time at all to spot the Thalmor Justiciar patrolling the Jarl's seat. Clad in the same black robes as Vandalion adorned in golden tassels and weaving, a handsome Altmer man with rich, defined lips greets the women with a flamboyant wave. "My ladies, welcome to this grotesque rubble of a city. My name is Ondolemar, I run the Thalmor operations within and throughout Markarth. Yes, you may adore my stature, it is to be expected."
"My name is Naylarie, my twin here is Nairume. We are here on behalf of Justiciar Vandelion, hunting a fugitive that is responsible for theft and murder of Thalmor property and personnel. Bosmer male, narrow features, medium length brown hair, hazel coloured eyes. Have you seen anyone fitting this description?" Ondolemar strokes his chin in thought for a few moments, looking between the beautiful twins. "Hmm. Nothing immediately comes to my mind. Perhaps there is something to be found in my patrol's reports. Allow me a moment to task someone this duty. Please, come into my office and share my exquisite wine. Imported from the Summerset Isles: You cannot expect me to drink the Dreugh piss that these Nords call 'wine'. Preposterious."
"That's a nice offer, but we -really- need to find this culprit..." Naylarie objected, but Ondolemar swiftly interjected once again. "Pish-posh, my reports are undeniable and they will produce results befitting your search. Stay, enjoy the wine from our homeland and then you will have your quarry." Ondolemar approaches one of his two guards standing before the Jarl's Throne, poking one on the breastplate as he addresses him. "You there, I want the reports of citizens coming and going from the city in the last fourty-eight hours and I want them on my desk yesterday. Now, get moving immediately!" Silently the Thalmor guard salutes Ondolemar and rushes towards the Altmer's makeshift office in the mountain Keep to gather the aforementioned reports. While they wait, the trio of Elves sit down on stony stools and each hold a glass of delicate crimson wine while a stone fireplace flickers with powerful flames to enrich the room with a very comfortable, homestead sensation, certainly providing warmth from the brisk temperatures of Markarth's mountainous weather.
"Theft and murder, you say?" Ondolemar inquires, sipping his red wine casually with a nonchalant demeanour. "Yes, that's what I said earlier."
"I would've imagined a being, Mer or otherwise, capable of stealing or even killing a member of the Thalmor would be on the highest of wanted lists. Why in Auriel's name have I not heard of this Mer? Care to indulge me ladies?" He looks between the twins expecting them to answer him immediately, though Nairume opens her lips to answer first. "It is a recent occurrence, word will likely reach all of the Thalmor operatives across Skyrim before the day is out." She states with a polite, quiet tone of voice. "I see... Whom has he killed? Anyone important to the Dominion?"
"I would argue that -everyone- is important to the Dominion..." Nairume remarks to the Justiciar, though he appears to deny that ideology. "Come now dear: Certain individuals are expendable, that is why their services are accepted with the end intention of disposing them when their services become invalid. Surely you are not naïve enough to believe otherwise? Regardless I take it an expendable asset has been eliminated. Still, we cannot let the common folk see this, it makes us look weak if our own can be so easily cut down." The twins raise a brow and awkwardly let silence fill the air, allowing Ondolemar to enjoy his wine and the girls their own company. "What is this Bosmer's name, anyway?" Ondolemar asks casually to the twins, Naylarie takes the plunge and responds. "Aradriel."
"Doesn't sound familiar to me, but we'll see if anybody has come through here with that name in the registry. I'll have some cells prepared."
"Grand... We've been riding for hours, all through the night. Is there anywhere we can sleep?"
"There are some quarters in the back, you'll both be rather comfortable. I've made sure my offices and the quarters surrounding them are befitting enough for an Altmer. As much as this peasant fortress can muster at least."
"Thanks... We'll get to it. Come on Nairume, I don't want to chase down this Bosmer half asleep." Naylarie laments, nudging her head to suggest her sister follows her. The twins arrive to the adjacent sleeping quarters but looking around, there are several guards stationed around the Thalmor's headquarters in Markarth, seemingly gaining the ire of Naylarie. Nairume shushes her and wraps her slender arms around her sister's shoulders to give her a soft, caring cuddle. "Hey, don't worry... I'll see you after we wake up, hm?" Naylarie is forced to smile and nod at her, returning the gentle hug with her own embrace coiling around her sister's frame. The twins enter their rooms and remove their stylish, eloquent armour that resembles the stained glass in temples devoted to the Divines, laying their heads onto a relatively soft bag used as a pillow with green linen bedrolls to cover over their lithe bodies, it may not be the grand silks at the Thalmor Embassy or perhaps even Solitude, but at least it's a solid bed, no campsites made in the wilderness or sleeping under the stars. After such a night of riding in the cold frost, a linen bedroll feels like a dream come true for the elegant sisters.
