Nariilu woke with a start. Guttural Ancient Nordic echoed around the courtyard, bouncing into her alcove. She peered around the urn, the nearly-new moons giving little light to see by. Still, the glowing blue eyes of Draugr were hard to miss in the darkness.
A group of them stood in the middle of the courtyard, a Deathlord's horned helm distinguishable above the others. At least five, maybe more with their backs turned to her. One stalked away to the grand barrow doors.
She leaned back into the alcove. There was no way they hadn't noticed the complete lack of the courtyard patrols. They'd ramp up security, maybe even inform the dragons, put everything on high alert. Move the Dragon Priest down to the most secure burial chamber, station Deathlords every few feet-
Well, not much more use in being secretive. Stealth operations were never much her strong suit, anyways.
The Draugr returned to the courtyard, trailed by a long group of at least a century's worth of Draugr before the doors finally closed again. Another group emerged from a far door, and another and another until the courtyard looked full of unmoving blue glowbugs.
The Deathlord turned to face the assemblage. Nariilu stretched her wrists out briefly and pulled a magicka potion from her sack, ignoring the sour flavor. She took care to place the empty bottle down silently, though the echoing orders from the Deathlord and the wind whistling through the valley would've likely drowned out any clink of glass on stone.
She stood up, stepping beside the urn and bracing her footing, raising both hands to the sky and pulling them down like she was pulling down the clouds themselves. The wind picked up, growing louder and colder, cutting off anything the Deathlord was saying. Her vision blurred to an off-white, but from the strain of casting Blizzard or from the blinding snow, she wasn't sure. Regardless, she took off from the alcove, keeping to the ancient walls, ignoring the sharp hail that battered through her armor.
She passed the first, second doors she came to, remembering just how many Draugr emerged in seconds. Nariilu kept running, stumbling on growing snowdrifts too often.
She tripped down a set of stairs she hadn't expected, tumbling head over heels until she landed at the bottom. A barrel disintegrated around her, the protected alley not seeing half the effects of the Blizzard. Three Draugr looked rather surprised to see her. Nariilu sat up, dodging a clumsy axe-swing from the nearest Draugr. She fired a quick ice spear through its abdomen.
Nariilu rolled to avoid a Scourge's own spear, drawing a sword and decapitating the two less magically-inclined Draugr in one smooth motion. She kicked a corpse at the Scourge, using the distraction to freeze it to the ground. She fled down the alley, noticing the wind dying down and the roars of dragons and Draugr rising up and bouncing off the ancient stones to sound right behind her.
She slipped taking a turn, taking precious seconds to recover herself and regain her momentum. The few potions in her sack clinked too loud against her rations of hard bread and dried meats as the narrow alley opened into a much smaller courtyard of Skuldafn, lined with buildings of crumbling stone and rotted wood doors built into the mountains.
She jumped through the long-broken window of one of the houses, carefully ignoring the snowdrifts along it's edge. Footprints would give her away even more than she already had. Nariilu sunk to the floor and took quiet, shaky breaths, listening for any uneven footsteps of Draugr or beating wings of dragons.
A long, still silence met her ears; she was too deep in Skuldafn for even the wind to reach. She swallowed hard, and focused on calming down her breathing. Nariilu looked around the building, an old home, by the looks of it, covered in a thick layer of dust and smelling of moss. She crawled deeper into the home, just in case an impossibly silent passing Draugr happened to be passing by the window.
She crept past a carved cabinet with it's doors long fallen away, past a bed still piled with frozen hay and resting upon a snowdrift. Nariilu finally moved through a tall doorway, looking each way down the hall twice before crawling agonizingly slowly, silently, away from the front of the house.
Similar rooms were found along each wall at regular intervals, each in better condition than the last. Peering through collapsed doors, Nariilu noticed that they were windowless this far back, but protected from any storms that would knock the delicate needlework from the walls. She felt comfortable enough to cast a small candlelight, keeping it just in her palm where it could be squeezed and extinguished quickly, as she reached up to open the surprisingly in-tact door near the far wall.
Nariilu choked back a cough as her movements sent clouds of ancient dust into her face and she stood. It was a simple apartment, not unlike the first, but much smaller and better preserved. An Imperial Historian would fling himself from the White-Gold Tower to get a minute in a room like this. The walls were carved and inlaid with silver and ebony, depicting abstract dragons lording over…mountains?
There was no fireplace, but the room was warm and featured a rug that was too vibrant for its age. There was no bed present, but instead had ornate bookshelves lining one wall, some collapsed in on themselves in piles of cracked parchment and books, others standing tall where they'd been untouched for centuries. She moved closer, trying to read the runes on the spines but gave up presently. No embalming tools or soul gems were around.
So, the Draugr kept to their crypts and out of the city itself. Nariilu wondered if they'd ever walked amongst the living when Skuldafn was populated, collecting offerings to deceased warlords and gauze and preservatives from living priests.
But would they search the entirety of Skuldafn, even whatever residential area she'd fled to, looking for her? At the very least, no dragons could fit down the narrow alleys and halls. She pushed some of the ruined bookshelf to precariously lean against the door; if it opened she would know about it. Nariilu was safe enough to lay down along the wall, where she would be able to jump into action the second the wood collapsed and woke her.
Unless there was a passage to the crypts in the room. Not outside of the realm of possibility; she'd gotten lost in winding barrow corridors even when she traced out a map of her path. She could swear that some of the walls opened and closed randomly.
Nariilu brightened her candlelight spell, letting it linger just above her shoulder, and looked around for any sort of false wall, finding none. Except for deep holes on the dragon carving, right where eyes should be. Great, if that wasn't some sort of puzzle-keyhole, she would eat her boots. She stuck a finger in each of the eye sockets and felt around for any sort of mechanism inside. Nothing. She looked inside, angling her light. Nothing either, but she couldn't see through to the other side of the wall. It didn't go all the way through.
There had to be a key somewhere, but nothing that could be found with a quick search. She sank down to the floor with her back against the wall. She'd feel if it opened while she rested.
Emperor Titus Mede III read over the boring, predictable report from General Tullius in his personal chambers one last time before gently dousing the paper in a special orange potion of his court mage's own design. He'd already had a scribe copy the original letter down for him. The ink on the page morphed slowly, Tullius' firm standard handwriting snaking to a more irregular hand.
Emissary Elenwen has taken Stormcloak's first in command, Galmar Stonefist, prisoner. Unknown whereabouts. Dominion firmly established in Dawnstar, Windhelm, Riften, College of Winterhold. Whiterun Justiciar found dead, reports of multiple replacements being sent. Will report on situation in Solitude upon return.
Recommended to enter talks with the Dominion to limit number of Justiciars per Hold/capita. Unknown number of Thalmor in Embassy. Natives in former Stormcloak territory unwilling to assist Legion garrison. Current level of occupation is unsustainable long-term.
Ulfric Stormcloak taken prisoner by Battlemage Legate Nariilu Therel, Dragonborn. Unknown motive, unknown whereabouts. Confirmed sightings in Winterhold, Riften, reported sighting in Whiterun. Strongly suspect imminent betrayal and high treason of unknown method. Taking relevant steps to limit Therel's growing influence, low success. Requesting access to classified documents on Ulfric Stormcloak to substantiate smear campaign, including summary of time spent as Thalmor prisoner. Requesting uncensored report on arrests of Nariilu Therel, namely confessions to desertion and draft-dodging as well as any other unmentioned infractions of the law or relevant documents.
Titus tore the paper to shreds and threw each piece into the fireplace one by one. No peace, no peace at all, it would seem. Tullius had made a mess of Skyrim, though not by his own fault, he claimed over and over. According to him, it was the disinterest of one Jarl of Whiterun that left the war to short skirmishes for months.
Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had never been so much as cold to the Legion. Titus kept close tabs on the man, his trade hub of a city kept the other Jarls in line beneath him, and he was paid well enough to garrison any soldiers they sent his way.
The Dominion's reach was concerning, but no more than it had been. The few agents they'd sent across the Empire were a legal requirement of the Concordat, and it seemed that they were keeping the bare minimum of occupation to retain some semblance of foothold. It wasn't as if they were outstandingly popular with his citizens. They wouldn't be gaining many supporters, especially in Skyrim.
Even worse, the war had been won in short order once that old Legate finally accepted her draft. Tullius reported she went against orders to make her own moves on the front lines, but Titus appreciated a soldier that got results. Tullius spent two years in a stalemate. This so-called 'dragon-born' spent two months winning his war for him. Titus recalled a short detail in an earlier report on the return of these Oblivion-blessed dragons mentioning her near execution, as well as the loss of all other Elven draft-dodgers.
Imagine how soon the war could've ended if Tullius hadn't fumbled his entrance to Skyrim. He was on thin ice at best. Titus almost regretted sending the veteran battle general instead of a more politically-minded senator general. Perhaps Intian Cevas would've been a better choice. Or if Tullius hadn't made the baffling decision to chase Stormcloak's small army at the cost of some of the most notable Elven soldiers in the Legion. Tullius blamed that Jarl for something he could've easily solved if he'd just kept his eye on the goal; quashing the rebellion before any high casualties befell the army.
And whatever Ulfric Stormcloak and Legate Therel were planning couldn't be much of note. A disgraced Jarl and a Dunmer mage would hold little sway against the honorable barbarians of the north. Not even their own High King had held much influence over them. Even Ulfric's own rebellion hadn't reached half the Province, his 'army' far short of the revolution he claimed it to be. Tullius was overreacting to save his own hide. Titus pulled out a single sheet of his official stationary to reply to the General.
Gen. Tullius,
It is excellent to hear that the end of the war has led to easy transition to Imperial control in rebel lands. Pass along my thanks to Jarl Freewinter, and inform him of my incoming letter establishing a formal rapport between us.
Stay in Skyrim as long as necessary to facilitate transfer of power to local government. When stability is reached, the majority of the garrisons may be removed from each Hold on a city-by-city basis. I expect occupation to last until after Jarl Elisif is crowned High Queen.
I optimistically await reports of a fully unified Skyrim and Empire.
By the Eight,
M.
He flipped the page over and dipped his quill in the orange potion, the ink disappearing seconds after it contacted the page.
Dominion occupation is of no concern. Focus on maintaining Imperial power and influence in opposition of any remaining rebel sympathizers. Gain approval of Jarls at all costs.
Diverting one intelligence officer to track Ulfric Stormcloak and Battlemage Legate Therel. They will report with uncensored debrief on Ulfric Stormcloak and no other documents. Expect arrival in Solitude by Rain's Hand.
Ulfric feasted with the Companions that night, as they said was tradition when they gained a new member. His muscles were a different kind of sore after the days events; half the Companions wanted to spar with him, even more so once his identity got around. Aela punched him in the arm and wondered why he hadn't told her. Thankfully, not many of them cared who he was. Even fewer cared after he placed his challengers square on their backs in the sandpits.
Save Vignar Graymane.
The man had shown up after Ulfric's first match, sitting under the porch and staring him down all day. Not for Ulfric's lack of communication, either. He tried to greet his elder and received no response but a narrowing of his eyes. Was he disappointed he hadn't been made Jarl, or angry with Ulfric for all his unfulfilled promises? Ulfric wasn't sure if he wanted to find out.
His letters had stopped after the Siege of Whiterun; Ulfric had sent a spy to see if Vignar was still alive, or if his clan had been hung for treason.
Sitting around the banquet table reminded Ulfric of his younger years, of carefree moments between wars, before he had any real responsibilities. The younger Companions-he supposed he was one of the younger Companions, now, despite being up there in age comparatively speaking-joked and hollered and arm-wrestled at their plates.
Tilma circled the table, cleaning any spills as they happened, sighing and shaking her head with the cheer of a tired mother. If things got too rowdy, it was she that gave a stern, goodhearted warning to calm down, always answered with a 'yes, Tilma,' from the offending Companions.
Kodlak watched over the table from his seat at the center with glee in between dazzling Ulfric with stories from his youth, and pressing Ulfric to tell his own tales. He didn't have many that were appropriate for the atmosphere in the room; instead, Ulfric gave a rundown of what had occurred on the Great Porch the day prior to the enthrall of all.
Except, once again, to Vignar. Ulfric felt his eyes on him, boring a hole until he was sure Vignar was reading his darkest thoughts.
"But there would'nt've been a chance without the brave people of Whiterun defending their homes," Ulfric finished, raising his tankard of smooth beer up in a cheer.
"Would you have said the same in Evening Star?" Vignar called from his place at the end of the table, his seat befitting a novice, not a veteran. But he was only an honorary Companion now, Kodlak explained. Some Companions taunted an 'ooh', the more politically versed ones shut them up with hushes or slaps. Evening Star, beginning of the end of his rebellion. The Siege of Whiterun.
Ulfric met the man's burning eyes, keeping his body loose where Vignar's was tense, cross. "There is no greater honor than to defend one's home."
"And no greater disgrace than to abandon one's allies in their time of need."
Kodlak stood and faced Vignar. "There will be no discussion of such matters in my hall," he commanded. "We do not distract ourselves with politics."
"I'm discussing valor with a Companion," Vignar answered. "If you consider the details of a Nord's honor to be political, Harbinger, I'm afraid we have two very different definitions of the concept."
"I must agree with Elder Graymane," Ulfric said. "To hold the trust of your allies, be they friends, Clanmates, or Companions, is to hold honor. To lose that trust is far more shameful than to never hold it at all."
Vignar stood and smiled, looking like a slaughterfish in the flickering bonfire. "I'm glad we still agree on something, Ulfric. I hope you make peace with yourself before I do." He moved from the table and walked out of the hall in smooth, quick steps, despite his hunched back. His servant followed and gave a slight bow to the Companions before leaving behind his charge.
Kodlak slowly sat. "Forgive him," he said. The room effortlessly moved back to a jovial air, with stories and laughter rising in a crescendo from the silence.
"There's nothing to forgive him for," Ulfric replied. "A man who will not compromise his ideals is a rare one in this age of gold and lies."
Aela moved without making a sound. Every step she took was as quiet as the last. Even her quivered arrows were quiet, stuffed so tightly they couldn't move and rattle against themselves. It would take most of the day to walk to Valtheim, she said as they passed through the gates of Whiterun, and Ulfric wondered how long he could take being so hyperaware of his footsteps. He made conscious effort to land on the balls of his feet as softly as a sabre cat.
"Walk normally. Don't make me regret this."
Ulfric agreed with a nod and changed his gait. "I had a few fragments of Wuuthrad in Windhelm."
"Yeah. The new Jarl sent them to us," Aela replied. "Courier got held up at Valtheim. Damn thieves took some inheritance money, too. We'll be grabbing that too if they haven't spent it on cheap mead and Skooma. Thanks for letting us know about the fragments, by the way."
"I didn't know the Companions were interested."
"You didn't think the Companions of Ysgramor were interested in the fragments of the weapon of Ysgramor himself?"
You didn't think a good place to look was the Ysgramor's own palace? Ulfric bit back his reply. "What do you plan to do with them?"
"We're gonna reforge Wuuthrad," Aela answered. "Eorlund says it can only be done at the Skyforge. After that, your guess is as good as mine. Probably just hang it up on the wall."
It seemed like a waste to put such a legendary weapon on a wall for decoration. It should be used, it's status added to with modern blood and glory. Ulfric could think of no better way to use it than against the Dominion. Then again, he thought that of most weapons.
For Freewinter to just give away the fragments, by a standard courier, it left a sour taste in Ulfric's mouth, more than before. What was the man doing with his city? He would find out soon enough that resources only went so far, pockets only so deep. How could he preach equality when Windhelm was struggling to feed every mouth even before the war? One poor growing season, one blight on the fish would bring poor Brunwulf to his knees.
"Why no horses?" Ulfric broke the silence. Well, not quite silence. The White River rushed beneath the cliffside road.
"Too loud. And only good for roads. Have you ever seen a horse climb a mountain? If things go sour, I don't want to doom a poor horse," Aela answered. "And the traveling is good for meditation. Gets me in touch with nature. If you listen hard enough, you can understand the language of the Endless Great Hunt. Grass to deer to wolf to grass, it's all the same. It comforts me. You should try listening for yourself."
Ulfric strained his ears to hear anything but the roar of the river and the occasional hawk cry. "I don't hear anything."
"Keep listening." Oh. Ulfric realized she was telling him to shut up, but in a spiritual way. She'd make an excellent Graybeard.