Ulfric hurried his pace and spent, in his opinion, too long calming down the horses. He rummaged through the saddle bags and pulling out a few of the more promising looking potions. Of course none of them were labeled; Ulfric frowned as he clutched the well worn bottles, some of them had long thin cracks running up and down the glass.
He hesitated before turning back to the Dragonborn, who was cursing under her breath and clutching her stomach to keep from expanding a small pool of blood beneath her. Ulfric wondered if saving her life was worth it; he was in servitude to her, and if the Dragonborn died, he could easily dispose of the body without anyone ever knowing. Dragons were dangerous, everyone with half a mind in Skyrim, hell, probably everyone across Tamriel by now, knew that much. And someone who dares to seek them out would surely run out on luck eventually. With her death, Ulfric would be free.
Free to do what? Ulfric had lost a war, and the way General Tullius glared at him during the surrender made him worry about fates worse than death. The Empire was practically owned by the Thalmor, and despite years since his escape, Ulfric still had nightmares about the things those elves did to get him to talk. If he was lucky, they'd give him a quick death on the executioner's block. If he wasn't– Ulfric shuddered to think about it.
Skyrim was too small a province to successfully disappear into the wilderness. Ulfric supposed he could join a bandit troop or try and escape to another province. Both sounded equally repulsive. Ulfric scowled. As much as he hated it and her, the Dragonborn was his best bet. He clenched his fists around the bottles and bit his tongue as he made his way to the Dragonborn.
He helped her sit up and held out the potions to her. She briefly eyed the bottles, and then grabbed one that was so covered in residue it was nearly opaque, ripping the cork off and chugging it in seconds. The Dragonborn tossed the bottle aside and grabbed another, downing it the same as the first.
She shuddered and pushed Ulfric away, lying back on the road. Nariilu squeezed the opening in her stomach together as the potion sped up her healing process and scar tissue formed between the skin, leaving a thick pink line. Her hands lit up yellow as she activated what Ulfric recognized as a weak healing spell, and some of the scar tissue faded to blend in with her dark grey skin.
"Thanks," Nariilu muttered, lying still on the ground, half because of the paralysis effect one of the potions carried, and half because she couldn't believe she let herself almost die. Nariilu had been too busy concentrating on her Blizzard spell, something she had only successfully cast twice before, and never in a combat situation, to notice the dragon's clawed wing making a pass for her. Even better, that one spell used up all her magicka, and so she had to rely on Stormcloak to save her life.
No doubt she could've taken that dragon by herself. Stormcloak's dragon riding stunt had cost ample opportunity to take down the dragon with more practiced spells. Who in their right mind would ever try and ride a dragon? No wonder he'd attempted to fight the Empire; Stormcloak completely lacked common sense. "We need to keep moving," Nariilu said once she felt the paralysis begin to lessen.
Ulfric considered offering her a hand while watching her struggle to push herself up. He decided against it; no reason to get friendly with her just because they were traveling together. The Dragonborn made it to her feet and stumbled to the horses, gently patting their necks before bringing them around. She jumped onto her horse and managed to sit up without falling off, a feat Ulfric would've thought impossible a few seconds prior. Ulfric mounted his horse, which he noticed was still tied to the Dragonborn's.
The next hour was deficient of talk, except quiet grumbling from Nariilu as she dug through her saddlebags. Ulfric was impressed both with how she managed to turn herself around backwards mid trot, and how much junk she had managed to shove in the bags. The Dragonborn inspected a rusted plate she pulled out, and promptly threw it into the bushes off the road. Ulfric watched as she threw out other items in a similar manner.
"Strange how many things you just seem to end up with," the Dragonborn finally spoke, holding a sprouting potato in her hand. "I believe I got this from a man in the Reach, after bringing him a Dwarven dagger."
"Interesting," Ulfric replied, not the least bit interested.
"Of course, no telling why he was so desperate for a Dwarven dagger. Do you want this?" She held out the potato to Ulfric, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. Nariilu chucked the potato off the cliffs they were rounding, trying in vain to reach the ocean. She went back to reviewing the contents of her bags. "You can't take three steps in the Reach without coming across something Dwarven. Or Forsworn."
Their progress on the road had slowed considerably. Deep snow covered the road, and more was gently falling. Nariilu pulled out a worn-looking cloak and pulled it about herself. Her chest plate had been enchanted against the cold, but with half of it on the ground miles back, the enchantment had gone null. She looked around for any landmarks, but found few save for the cliffs they were traversing.
Stormcloak new exactly where they were, she was sure of it. She could practically feel his contemptuousness radiating in waves from his person. It was justified, of course, given that Nariilu was his captor, but it was still unwelcome. All of her previous traveling companions had enjoyed banter on the road, even the ones that seemed to hate her very being, like Stormcloak did. She was going to die of boredom if they didn't make it to Winterhold soon.
Perhaps J'zargo would accompany them on future travels. He could reverse the depressing effects of Stormcloak's mood a thousand times. Wouldn't hurt to have such a powerful mage at their side, even if he was inexperienced and prone to collateral damage. Nariilu scoffed at the mental image of Stormcloak having his beard singed off by the Khajiit mage.
"Do you know any songs?" Nariilu asked, doing her best not to sound desperate for something to do. With her packs cleared fully out save for necessities, there wasn't much more to keep her busy.
"I'm not singing," Ulfric stated flatly.
"Why not? Aren't Bard tales the cornerstone of Nordic culture?" The Dragonborn idly fiddled with the fraying edges of her cloak.
"Do I look like a Bard to you?"
"Well, the Bard's College in Solitude does try to recruit everyone withing shouting distance..."
Ulfric tried to focus on anything but the Dragonborn as she rambled on about how she accidentally joined the Bard's College trying to stop a Necromancer. He was certain the tale was exaggerated beyond belief. Ulfric could not get to wherever they were going soon enough. Sure, the Dragonborn had said Winterhold and they were close enough to the city, but he wouldn't be surprised if they suddenly turned around and headed for Black Marsh on a whim.
Anything to stop her incessant lecturing, really. Ulfric gauged they had less than an hour until they passed the first buildings into Winterhold. Well, the only buildings. Ulfric kept urging Korir to rebuild the city, to strengthen its garrison, but he was always too busy condemning the mages up at the College for anything that dared go wrong in the hold, which was usually quite a lot. Lot of good the mages were for the city during the war. Korir arrived in Windhelm with his arm half cut off and nothing but the clothes on his back, and the first thing he said was to denounce the mages.
No telling what had happened to the old man. Ulfric hadn't seen him at negotiations, or in what little he got to see of Windhelm after the fighting had ended. It felt like a lifetime ago the Stormcloaks lost the war, even though it had been less than a day.
"Finally!" The Dragonborn exclaimed. She pointed off near the horizon to small buildings barely distinguishable from boulders in the moderate snow and early twilight. The buildings were dwarfed next to the massive stone castle of Winterhold College. Its magical beacons reached high into the clouds, looking just as fragile as the broken stone bridge connecting the city to the College.
The pair turned the corner on the last cliff and the road began to descend to sea level, spreading out towards Winterhold.