Chapter 19

Footsteps echoed throughout the large, empty hallway, the nervous, hurried pace echoed the thoughts of its creator. He brushed his blonde hair to the side behind his pointed ear, and sighed in frustration and fear as he stopped in front of a large, thick wooden door, the wood darkened with age. He pushed the door open, revealing a wide room occupied by a small gathering of figures, garbed in a mixture of robes and plate armor surrounding a table covered by a map; hushed but harried whispers wafting into his ears. These men, surrounding the table, arguing over the position of certain flags and stacks of reports, were the advisors to the elite of the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor; great power and responsibility were bestowed upon their shoulders, and with that comes a great price for failure. That is why they were the most efficient, ruthless, and cunning of their kin, even moreso than those they served. Advisors to diplomats, generals, nobles, govenors, and high ranking lords, their attire matched to whom they served, and their personalities and habitual mannerisms, be they altered or natural, coincided with this as well.

As the elf moved into the room and towards the table, the whispers slowly quieted as he drew closer, silence greeting him when he reached the table. The guarded stares of those around the table set his nerves on edge, as if he were being studied for potential defects and weaknesses to be taken advantage of. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. At its head stood three individuals, each whom reported to the highest levels of leadership of the Aldmeri Dominion, the unofficial leaders of this small council. The middle individual was named Sannian Kaeus, advisor to the leader of the Thalmor, garbed in thick robes that covered his lithe frame. He radiated confidence and arrogance in tandem, it was difficult at times to discern the two from one another. To the right was Angaron Thromorin, advisor to the High General of the Aldmeri Dominion Military. He was tall and broad, well defined muscles hidden underneath scale and thick plate armor in the elvish style, a crested helm with an eagle near the brow sat atop his head. A blank countenance greeted all who gazed in his direction, cold calculating eyes hide an inner ruthlessness and callousness seen only by the enemies of the Dominion. His reputation as a competent commander and a deadly adversary on the battlefield was well known in many social circles of the Aldmeri Dominion, his suggestions and observations were accepted with utmost attention and seriousness. Rarely were his words disregarded or scoffed at; those that do ususally suffered greatly before reluctantly adhering to its lessons and wisdom.

And finally, there was the third, known only as the High Justicar. Every time he was in this room, he never spoke, a piercing, unnerving gaze tracking everyone in the room, an air of fanaticism carried with him wherever he goes. No one knew of his background or his role in the triad, but no one dared to ask. He slinks around the room, silent as a corpse, his movements a mere whisper amongst the discussions and conversations. A few jump in mild surprise at his presence, of which wasn't there a few moments ago, only to look around in confusion as he dissapears into the small throngs of mer, repeating the moment with a few others before returning to the left-hand side of the triad. That was his place. He never deviated from it. No one ever saw him in any other spot when matters concerning the three were at the fore. A combination of mail and dark leather with a gold trim greeted those who dared to look his way; some say its hand crafted, that he skinned the animals and linked each individual ring. Others say he paid exaggerated prices to highly skilled merchants and craftsman. Rumors circulated him like a twister, all in hushed tones, never in hearing range.

He bowed his head in deferrence and respect, nothing less or more expected of him. An elf of his station was of importance, but could be easily discarded, so he always treaded with great caution when dealing with the triad. "I bring news of great import, High Councilors."

Angaron was the first to speak. "Then let us hear it. Don't waste time on pleasantries," he ordered.

A small chuckle followed. "Come now Angaron, have pleasantries ever hurt us before? Besides, it pleases me when a lesser knows their place," a voice said, haughty and proper.

"When dealing with news of great importance, especially when I am expecting a report from my sources regarding military matters, I do not like to dally with meaningless gestures and plattitudes. You know this Kaeus."

A sigh of exsasperation. "Oh alright. Deliver your report. You never were one for proper manners or customs," Kaeus huffed as he crossed his arms in annoyance.

Angaron turned from the Thalmor advisor and gestured for him to continue.

"Yes High Councilor. Reports from the spies we have in the Cyrodillic Empire whisper of rebellion in the province of Skyrim. The Emperor is still under our control, even though he doesn't know it, the whores we sent are keeping him more than distracted enough for us to work without fear of discovery by anyone deemed a threat to our operations. There is also reports of rebellion in High Rock, a pretender to the throne has amassed a large following and a sizable force of soldiers to his cause, the reinforcements intended for Skyrim have been diverted to the province to quell the rebellion."

"That northern province isn't worth our time. Those backwater savages can freeze to death for all I care. Our efforts there are more than satisfactory for our plans. What has me most interested is this rebellion in High Rock," Kaeus mused.

"I concurr. The Skyrim province is of no concern to us at this present time. There has been rebellion in Skyrim for many years, in no small part due to our machinations. Things are proceeding as planned in the province. High Rock takes precendence. Tell us more of this rebellion," said Angaron.

The elf bowed. "Of cource, High Councilors."

They would come to regret this decision.

Throat of the World

The wind howled atop the high, frozen peak, snow glinted under the sunlight, casting a blinding wave of light at whomever gazed upon it. A snort disrupted the calm, smooth surface of the snow, flurries creating swirling patterns in the air. Scales, thicker than any plate armor conceived by mortal hands, gleamed in the rays of the ever present sun in the sky, divets and old battle scars a testament of its age. Paaurthurnax, for the first time in many millenia, was drawn from his constant meditation by an outside force that was not of his disciples. They were by far the closest thing to true adherents of The Way of the Voice, paragons of calm and pacivity. Never using their gift in anger or for gain. They would make pilgrimages to this mountain peak to gain wisdom and guidance on matters concerning The Way of the Voice and its applications to life itself, for who better to ask for answers to using Words of Power than one born with it?

His eyes, usually closed with his meditation, turned towards the mines of Markarth, his unnatural perception noting slight whisps of smoke usually seen around campfires in the hundreds. The disciples have brought him news, mostly snippets from those that made pilgrimages up the mountain to deliver supplies and offerings, and what he was able to piece together filled his mind with curiosity.

A rebellion against the Empire has gained a strong foothold in Skyrim, much more effective than the Stormcloak Rebellion, and have cemented themselves as a force to be reckoned with after the capture of Whiterun. Both sides of the civil war had their eyes trained on this upstart, a former imperial legate by the name of Imperius, and his accomplishments. What has him the most interested though, were the words of power being used every now and then.

It was not difficult to see that dragon blood flowed through the imperial's veins. He was dragonborn. No question. The Greybeards had not received any new disciples for training since the nord Ulfric Stormcloak, so the possibility of a rogue Greybeard or user of the Voice was out of the question. It wasn't a dragon either, despite him hearing more and more of his kin awakening and using words of power with each passing day. The way mortals speak the words of power was inherently different to that of a dov. Certain phrases sounded differently when spoken by either mortal or dov, and differences of pitch and tone contributed to the distinct pattern and sound each one made, and every mortal and dov had a distinct way of speaking words of power. To one such as him, it was easy to decipher the differences.

The most recent, and most vocal, shouts were unquestionably of mortal origin. The question then, was why didn't the Greybeards call to him the moment this Imperius began to make use of words of power. While the Greybeards visited every now and then, they were always short and concise, never wasting time better spent on meditation. He liked that about the Greybeards, and at times wished they disregarded it and stayed a bit longer. It gets lonely at the top of the world with no one but yourself to talk to. He mainly stayed silent and meditated. He decided right then to have the Greybeards call him towards the mountain, to better understand who this mortal was, and what his intentions were, and to simply satiate his curiosity. This Imperius must be an imposing figure to not only command so many men, but to have not one or two, but three of his kin stay by his side for as long as they have been. He couldn't wait for the mortal to arrive, and as a Greybeard made his way towards him, he relayed his command, the Greybeard moving with haste to fulfil his will.

Windhelm

"Damn that Imperial! He has ruined everything!" Ulfric raged, his face a fiery red, his fists clenched into a tight fist, small droplets of blood dripped onto the stone floor from his palms. Things were going horribly wrong for the nordic jarl. First, his one and only chance of breaking the stalemate was slain, and the invasion point of Whiterun was taken from him by the upstart imperial dog. Then, by the divines, his army was slaughtered like livestock. He had practically emptied his outposts in the Rift and Eastmarch to fill the ranks in what he thought would be overkill for what he set out to do. Imperials were weak, their commanders easy enough to bribe or assasinate, but this one earned his ire. He wouldn't rest until he had Imperius' head on a spike for all to see. To show what happens when you make a fool out of Ulfric Stormcloak.

"My Jarl. Urgent news from the Whiteshore outposts regarding the force we sent to find the crown," a messenger reported.

The Jarl angrily gestured for him to continue.

"The force was slaughtered in its entirety. No one survived. They encountered Imperial forces as they arrived at the ruins. They were outnumbered and outmatched. We have lost the crown."

Ulfric raged, his fury that of a god of war. Tables were overturned, cups and plates smashed to shards in his anger. It seemed as if the entire keep would not be spared his wrath. His anger clouded his judgement. This, coupled with his defeats, could not be allowed to stand. His honor was stained with defeat. If he didn't address this, then his legitimacy would be called into question, and those under him may get the idea that Imperius may not be so bad, and betray him. He couldn't let that happen. He saw the looks his men gave him. They were not the looks of awe and adoration, but of contempt and scorn, for he looked weak. He scowled. He wasn't weak, he was Ulfric Stormcloak. They were weak, snivelling cowards too spineless to achieve victory in these changing times. They had betrayed him in not attaining victory. He will deal with this, in a manner not easily forgotten by any.

"Get the captain of the Honor Guard in here now! Do not waste time, lest I kill you myself!" he thundered, his voice more akin to a beast than a man.

The messenger hurried to complete the task, and soon the captain of the Honor Guard was standing before his jarl.

"My captain. Long have I entrusted my secrets, my fears, my doubts and hopes to you. You, my most trusted confidant, are one I hold above all others in esteem," he began.

"You honor me with your words, my jarl," the captain said, a fist raised over his heart in salute.

"I am entrusting you with a task of utmost importance. My personal safety is at risk, and I need you to aid me."

"Anything my jarl. What threat must I slay to keep safe your courageous personage?"

A moment's pause. "My generals."

This shocked the captain into silence. Killing assasins and keeping Jarl Ulfric was his mission. He had been practically raised from birth to do so, honoring a long lineage of honor guards protecting the Jarl of Windhelm. He was a protector, a defender of the just and noble. But to act as an executioner, a butcher of men gave his normally stalwart loyalty a pause. Indecision knawed at him like a starved rodent.

"Have...they done something, my jarl?"

"They have betrayed me!" shouted Ulfric, his anger returning in full. "I see the looks they give me. The looks of traitors! They doubt me! They conspire to betray me, turning traitor to that Imperius and his Imperium, leaving the noble sons and daughters of Skyrim for the wolves! Treacherous snakes stalk the very halls in which we dwell and call home, lying with their forked tongues and deceiving the rightful heirs of Skyrim with falsehoods of splendor and glory, leading them like sheppards with placid sheep to a slaughter even I shant try to comprehend!"

Suddenly the jarl was in his face, his breath short and shallow, the slivers of madness emenating from his person, envoking an aura of unease to those around him. He could see that insanity has begun to claim the man that was once his jarl, fear and paranoia had warped the once proud and noble nord to a parody of his former self. This was madness, he shouldn't obey, defying his jarl seemed to be the right course of action to try and divert the Stormcloaks from this dangerous path, a path that will only end in mass slaughter and countless deaths. Yet, his duty overshadowed all of this, and steely resolve began to build within his breast. He would obey and follow his jarl, even unto death. It was his purpose, and he desired nothing else.

"I entrust this to you, and expect you to have your guards ready to strike when the time is upon us to rid the Stormcloaks of its turncoats and mewling wretches. For far too long we have languished with the enemies of Skyrim in our very midst, drinking our wine, eating our bread, and enjoying the hospitality of those better than themselves. Do not heed the begging and pleading of those whom will abandon you without a second thought as you slay them, for they are words of apostates to corruption and lust for power; they shall try to turn you against your brethren in their darkest of times to sow the seeds of the Stormcloak's destruction. See to it that this is done."

And with that, the jarl strode away, looking for a messenger to deliver summons for his generals and marshalls. The ranks of the Stormcloaks shall be cleansed in blood, and victory shall be obtained, or they shall all die in defiance of the imperial tyrants. One way or another, this will end.

Another Chapter completed, by Terra's non-existant oceans, writer's block has me by the throat, what with college and work. Its been pretty one sided so far. I apologize for making y'all wait so long. I hope y'all forgive me for this transgression. It makes me happy beyond knowing that there's a bunch of people who actually like my work. Y'all are the best. Ciao