(AN: Feels like it's been forever and a day since i last updated anything on here. Happy 2017, my readers!)
(Hopefully in between diarrhea and the fruitless search for a job, i can do a little bit more writing as i wait for my musical muse to return from the permanent vacation she seems to have taken from me.)
Stormborn
Sigrun awoke with a painful jolt against something cold and hard. Her eyes creaked open, and she saw that all was dark. It had been dark by the shed behind the longhouse in Winterhold. But she was not in Winterhold anymore, that she could as much as guess without light. She could hear voices hereabouts; strange voices, such that she had never heard. They spoke the Common Tongue, but it was drawling and uncouth. Suddenly it became apparent that at least one of those voices she had heard before: the voice of Arvyn Hlas. Without sight, Sigrun tried to pay attention to what was being said.
"Stupid fetcher!" Arvyn's voice was raised. "You know the rules: no stopping unless I say so!" There was a crack of a whip.
"But the light!" another voice cried. "It could have been the other one."
"Are you jumping at shadows now?" Arvyn shouted. Again the crack of the whip was heard. "There's plenty of strange things in Winterhold. But we don't stop until we're safely in Eastmarch, not for any lights you might be imagining. Stop without my orders again and I'll have your hide for a cloak and your cock for a trophy!" Another whip-crack. "Filthy Hlaalu n'wahs! Your kind should have all burned centuries ago! Now move it!"
Sigrun felt the ground shake and heard a creak of wood: she guessed that she was in a wagon. But as she tried to move, she found that her legs and hands were bound fast with iron bonds. The wagon gave a lurch and began jostling along the road. Snow and wind drifted through the cage's bars, and Sigrun was chilled. It suddenly dawned upon her that she must have fallen in with some rascal who had abducted her. Her first urge was to cry out and try to escape, then she remembered that she wasn't armed: Jonna had her sword, axe and old Havi's spell-sword. Even were she armed, she could not move her hands to reach as little as a knife.
For hours beyond count in the darkness, Sigrun jostled about inside the back of the wagon. No light was lit by her captors, nor were there any further words. Only the howling of the wind and the rumbling of the cart could be heard. How many hours that passed, Sigrun could not guess. But no matter how dark it was, Sigrun could not sleep: the danger was too great even for the weariness of her body. At last, however, the wagon came to a halt. There were more voices speaking in the Common Tongue: the voice of Arvyn, but new voices also. Not the drawling, uncouth voices of Dunmer, but the polished, preening drawl of the Imperials, the folk of Cyrodiil. Furthermore, Sigrun also noticed tiny specks of light. She tried to stir in her cage, when suddenly she was struck again and fell into darkness.
Sigrun awoke again, and noticed that it was daylight. The wagon was inside a courtyard, beneath a burlap roof. She also saw several other dark elves nearby: Arvyn was near the cart, and he seemed to be keeping watch on it. Beyond the little shelter, she could see the stone walls of some fort, and several red blurs walking hither and yon. A second glance and she saw a black flag blowing in the wind; upon that flag was a red device, the emblem which her father had hated for its use and betrayal of himself, of Skyrim, and of her people.
The emblem was the red diamond of the Imperial Legion.
Just then, Arvyn seemed to notice Sigrun was awake. He turned to her, a smile on his face.
"Awake already?" he asked with an air of smugness. "I'd have thought you'd spend more time sleeping. You didn't think nobody noticed you lying awake all night, did you? I'd get some sleep if I were you: you're going to need it."
"Where am I?" Sigrun asked.
"Fort Kastav," Arvyn replied. "We're here to pick up more stock from the fort's jailer. Oh, I wouldn't bother trying to escape or cry out. The Imperials have never meddled in our business before, even when we were their slaves. They won't bother now."
"What are you going to do with me?" Sigrun asked.
"Oh," Arvyn tutted. "And here I thought you were the smart one. As it so happens, you're now a slave; and I aim to sell you for a high price in New Gnisis."
"What about what you said before?" she asked again. "All that talk about helping Nords." Suddenly a swift jab from a blunt weapon struck Sigrun in the ribs.
"Don't put words in my mouth, n'wah b*tch!" Arvyn replied, sounding quite offended. He composed himself, then continued in his smug tone. "What I said was that I wished to restore the bonds between Dunmer and Nords. And I truly do wish to restore the bonds between Dunmer and Nords: the bonds of slavery, that is!" He burst into laughter.
"But don't you worry your pretty little head, n'wah," the dark elf continued. "You'll have plenty of company soon enough. Not very talkative, but those are the rules. As for your cunt, you're worth more as a virgin." At this, he pressed his face against the bars, his red eyes glaring at Sigrun, and his voice a low, venomous hiss. "But don't think that you can escape on account of our kindness. There are other ways we can punish feisty little n'wah b*tches that you won't like that won't harm your virtue none." At this, he stuck out his tongue and yelled at Sigrun. Instinctively she flinched, and Arvyn laughed as he pulled away from the bars.
Sigrun did not say any more words. True to her fears, she had indeed fallen in with a great rascal and was now a slave. She wondered if Jonna knew that she was missing and was right now searching for her: doubtless she would, brave-heart. Yet it was miles from Winterhold to the Nightgate Inn, where she told Jonna to meet her, and by the time she realized that Sigrun was missing, she herself would be many miles away.
After a few minutes passed, the sound of a trumpet being blown outside caught the attention of Arvyn and Sigrun. The Dunmer walked over to the wagon and made sure the cage was secured, then he left the little shelter with the other elves. With some time to herself, Sigrun decided that she should make the best use of it. She shifted this way and that, but found that her bonds were securely in place. A rumbling noise in her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday at the Nightgate Inn; if only one day had passed since then. She doubted even if at full strength she could break from her bonds.
There was a noise of commotion in the courtyard. Sigrun shifted herself so that she could see as much as could be seen; which, admittedly, was not very much. The little group of dark elves were standing off to one side, which she could tell if one moved or from where their voice was heard. From the other side appeared Imperial soldiers, dragging four prisoners in chains: Sigrun guessed that they were prisoners because of the rags in which they were dressed, and the fact that their hands were bound. For a brief moment, she caught a glimpse of them: an Argonian covered in shimmering emerald scales, two women, one older and one younger, and a young boy. Arvyn appeared and began slowly walking before the prisoners, inspecting them: in his left hand was a short black club, which he stroked almost lovingly with his right hand.
"Not as good as your usual stock," Arvyn drawled.
"Times have been hard up here, Hlas," an Imperial spoke, though Sigrun could not see who was speaking. "Winterhold is a ghost county, and the locals are afraid to violate the new laws. We've had to drum up a few of them..."
"Spare me your silver-tongued excuses, Imperial scum," Arvyn retorted. He paused in front of the Argonian, then tore the ragged clothes off his back. He then laughed aloud.
"A runaway slave!" Arvyn exclaimed. He quieted down and inspected the others. "Hmm, this one's hairs have gone a bit gray."
"She's a Nord, ain't she?" the Imperial asked. "Their hair's naturally that light."
"Now this one," Arvyn said, leering at the younger girl. "This one'll fetch a high price." He put his hand between the woman's legs, who stifled a cry. "Ah, not bad, not bad at all." Then he came to the young boy. "Scrawny little runt, this one. Still, he could be of use to someone."
"Well?" the Imperial asked. "What do you think?"
"Twenty ebon for the lizard and the old hag," Arvyn said. "Two hundred for the boy and the b*tch."
"We deal in septims out here, Hlas, you know that," the Imperial replied.
"And where by the cock of Vivec is someone like me supposed to get filthy gold drakes?" Arvyn asked.
"You're the miser, Hlas, not me," said the Imperial. "I'm sure you have friends in Riften who can hook you up."
"Well, that's my price," Arvyn stated.
"Well, I want more," the Imperial returned. "Already put myself out quite a bit, getting your boys up here. Plus, the lizard is clearly worth two hundred."
"He's a runaway slave," Arvyn returned. "That makes him a liability, both to me and to my customers. Nobody's gonna want a slave that might bring trouble."
"Still, he's healthy," the Imperial said. "Don't your people need strong hands, what with all the clear-cutting and burning you do in Eastmarch?"
Arvyn did not answer.
"As I said, two twenty for the lot of them," he spoke at last.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," the Imperial interjected. Sigrun then saw him approach Arvyn: he was dressed in the garb of the Imperial Legion, with a cloak of gray wolf's fur about his shoulders. "Now, I told you that I want more. I don't really give a damn about them, I'm talking about my personal cut for boarding your slavers."
"There will be no compensation," Arvyn stated. "That is part of our deal: shelter and protect my people, and we'll buy off your prisoners."
"I don't think you understand, Hlas," the Imperial said. "You're giving me what I want, there's no two ways about it, alright? Either you give me my cut, or I'll send a message to Cyrodiil. I wonder what the Emperor or the Elder Council might say if they found out about your little slave racket?"
Arvyn chuckled. "You're going to have to work on your threats, n'wah. The Elder Council is in the pocket of the Aldmeri Dominion, and they don't bother themselves with the Dunmer. Also, we both know Emperor Crixus is tripping over himself to suck my people's collective cocks. What makes you think he'll turn on us now?" The Imperial made no answer.
"That's what I thought," Arvyn returned. "Your kind are weak. The time of the elves has come, and your Empire is just the shell of a dying shalk. Throwing around the Emperor's name won't get you anything." He spoke several words in a language Sigrun could not understand, and one of the other elves appeared with a bag in hand. "Take your money and go."
While the one elf was shilling out the payment, three others approached the prisoners. The boy and women were dragged away out of sight, then the three appeared again. Each of them were bearing clubs and they attacked the Argonian without mercy, beating him until he fell to the ground, holding his arms above his head to protect himself. At this, Arvyn told them to halt; but instead of reprimanding them, he approached the Argonian and removed his trousers.
"You lizards like water, yes?" Arvyn drawled in a mocking tone. "Here, why not have a drink?"
Sigrun winced as she saw the poor Argonian coughing and sputtering as Arvyn pissed in his face; then the other three joined in and did likewise. Meanwhile, the Imperial had taken his money and turned his attention to their behavior.
"Don't you think that's a little too much, Hlas?" he asked.
"It's decidedly less than he deserves," Arvyn said as he pulled his trousers back into place. "Besides, if you had the chance to stick it to those filthy gold-skins that brought your Empire to its knees, wouldn't you?"
"The Empire is stronger than ever," the Imperial stated, putting on a haughty air of authority. "We were not brought low by the Dominion: we agreed to a truce that we have kept for these forty years. Besides, we're not like you dark elves. We welcome the opportunity to work together with the Altmer for our mutual benefit. We respect other races..."
"That's why your Emperor regularly punishes the snow-backs," Arvyn stated. "And turns a blind eye to our slave trade. Because you Imperials respect other races." He laughed arrogantly. "Keep living in the past, n'wah. If the Empire were strong, would they have allowed House Sadras to annex Cheydinhal without even so much as a fight?"
There was no answer. Meanwhile, Sigrun saw the other three, now fully cloathed, bringing the first three of the prisoners. Like herself, their hands were bound; once they were brought to the cart, their feet were bound and they were placed up against the wall. Then they went for the Argonian, and with their clubs beat him all the way back into the shed, where they roughly bound him in chains. Then Arvyn and the other elf appeared, walking towards the cart in the shed.
"Viras," Arvyn said to the elf who had the bag. "Unlock the gate. Salus, Edril, Dovyn, make sure she doesn't try anything."
The elf Arvyn had called Viras removed from his belt a chain of keys, from which he took a dark gray one and put it to the lock in the wagon's cage. Sigrun tried to curl up against the back of the wagon: Salus, Edril and Dovyn were the three elves that had beaten and pissed on the Argonian, and they were now coming for her.
The cage was opened. Edril, the largest of them, seized Sigrun by her feet and dragged her out of the cart, throwing her onto the ground. Arvyn, Viras, and the driver then roughly shoved the other slaves into the back of the wagon. Sigrun, meanwhile, was pulled to her feet by the three elves and then subjected to the worst humiliation she had yet faced: Edril pawed at her hair, Salus groped every part of her body he could get his gray-blue hands on, and Dovyn held Sigrun's head in his hands and licked her face.
"Come along now," Arvyn said to them. "We haven't got all day."
With a look of disappointment, the three threw Sigrun into the back of the wagon with the others. Then they picked up the Argonian, threw him inside the cage, and Viras locked the door behind them. One by one, they climbed atop the wagon, readying for their departure: then suddenly Arvyn's club poked through the bars and struck the little boy on the back.
"Not a sound from any of you, ya hear?" he demanded. "I hear as much as a peep, and my club will be getting mighty friendly with you. Now shut it!"
The wagon gave a lurch as the driver whipped the horse and left the shelter. Four more elves appeared, each of them dressed warmly, armed with curved blades and leading a horse behind them. These, it seemed were the escorts for the slavers. All told, ten Dunmer were here around the cart: even were she armed, these odds would be too much for Sigrun.
As the wagon left Fort Kastav, it became apparent that they had spent more hours there than Sigrun had believed. Though the day had not yet turned to night, it was growing old and the sun was already coming to rest upon the mountain peaks to the west. Sigrun also noticed that the sky above them was filling with dark clouds: a storm was fast approaching. Despite this, the slavers didn't seem to be in all that much of a hurry. The wagon carried on at a steady pace, with no thought of the coming storm.
The road was long and cold, for as they were going, a light snow began to descend from the mountain heights. The boy and the young girl begged for something warm to cover themselves from the cold, but they received nothing but a strike from the clubs. The older woman tried to reason that, if they were to be slaves, they would be worth more alive than dead. Despite her words, she also received a brutal clubbing and was silenced. For the rest of that day, they was silence in the back of the wagon.
Sigrun remained silent, using her eyes and ears more than anything else. The other Dunmer's names she learned in due process: the driver was called Llovys, and the four guards were Erso, Damar, Vedran and Tens. Viras, it seemed, was Arvyn's right-hand mer in this venture: he kept the keys as well as the money bag. Him Sigrun watched intently, for she guessed that her first opportunity to escape would come from him. The guards were of the same temperament as the other three, though they kept to themselves. Most of them bore spears, and had short, one-handed swords upon their belts, but Erso had a blade that was slightly curved and longer than the other swords. If she attempted to escape, she knew that she would either need a weapon or know which ones to keep watch on as she tried to flee.
The day wore on, and soon the sun was almost hidden in the clouds. As for the snow, it continued to fall in thicker and thicker. Arvyn refused to stop for the night, and instead ordered Viras to light a lantern and hang it upon the wagon. With this, the wagon rode on through the night without any sign of stopping. Weary and sore, Sigrun was tempted to fall asleep, yet she willed her body to stay awake. As the night deepened, the cold began to tell on all of them. Even Sigrun was shivering despite her best attempt to remain steadfast. The little boy suddenly gave a whimper, but unfortunately it was loud enough to be heard. Dovyn clambered down off the top of the wagon and began taunting the little boy.
"What's the matter, little n'wah?" he asked. "Are you cold?" The boy nodded. "Here, I'll give you something nice and warm."
With that, he dragged the boy up to his feet and ripped off his trousers. Sigrun looked away, but the boy's mournful cries and agonizing screams rang in her ears: they were the worst sounds she had ever heard in her entire life. She wondered if the poor people of Whiterun screamed the same way when they were nailed to the walls of the city. Merely thinking about it made her want to vomit. In her heart, wrath was boiling over like a cauldron: wrath that she could do nothing but listen to his poor, pained cries. In the silence of the darkness, Sigrun came to a conclusion.
Whether or not Arvyn Hlas had promised her safety was immaterial; like they did to the little boy, these slavers might find another way to please themselves without laying a finger on her maidenhead. The farther they went along the road, the more Sigrun realized that, even if Jonna were searching for her - brave-heart - she would never find her. She felt helpless without her weapon, and even more-so without her best friend, as dear to her as her sister Lucia. Yet she would never see any of them again, not in this case, and it did not matter if she felt vulnerable without Jonna. She knew that she would have to do something on her own, make her own escape, or else forfeit her life. Despite the desperation of the situation, Sigrun swore to herself that she would find a way to escape, somehow or another. It was with those words that weariness overcame her and she fell into an uneasy sleep.
Sigrun's sleep was troubled by greatly disturbing dreams. In a moment she was carried out of the little wagon and into a dark wood. The trees were black, even darker than though they had been burned with fire, and pale eyes bubbled upon their bark, all of them gazing at her. From out of the dark there appeared the hooded figure, bearing a staff in its hand. Sigrun had a feeling that she knew this old man, but how she knew him she could not guess. The old man and the trees vanished, and she found herself in a dark valley with sullen clouds blotting out the light. A giant brass man appeared out of nowhere, and Sigrun realized that he had her father Eirik captive. She reached out towards him, but the scene shifted again. She was now wrapped inside a silk bag that gave gently if she pushed or kicked against it; even stranger, she found that the bag was filled with water and that she didn't need to breathe. There was a reddish light coming from somewhere, which was periodically darkened by a shadow that passed ever and anon. For some reason, that shadow seemed to give comfort to Sigrun, and she reached out with her hand to touch it. A voice spoke tenderly as her hand reached for the shadow, and though the voice was vague, as though coming from beneath the earth, Sigrun felt happy upon hearing the voice. Then another voice, thin and hissing, broke from the silence and the bag was suddenly struck. She was filled with fear and a dreadful knowledge that the bag must not be broken. She could hear the little boy crying, and then her own voice seemed to be crying as well.
Suddenly there was another violent blow, and Sigrun awoke. She was bound inside the cage, sore and hungry, in the early hours of the morning. She soon realized that the wagon was not moving, and that she was lying on her side, with at least several other bodies lying upon her. The voices of Arvyn and Llovys suddenly burst through over the sound of nearby rushing water and a screaming, bellowing horse; one angry and the other fearful.
"It wasn't my fault, sirrah!" Llovys begged. "These things happen!"
"Oh, do they, now?" Arvyn retorted. "I've got a haul bigger than your mother's arse and the horse breaks its fucking leg, and all you can say is 'these things happen?'"
"We shouldn't have rode through the night," Llovys returned. "He needed rest..."
"So it's my fault, then, is that it?" Arvyn asked. Again the sound of a cracking whip was heard. "I've just about had enough of you!"
"We should have gone to New Gnisis straight away," Salus drawled.
"Shut up, fetcher!" Arvyn snapped. "We go where I say we go and when I say we go there. If you don't like it, then find yourself another slaver to work for." Sigrun saw Arvyn turn to Llovys, grab him by the neck and drag him down a nearby ravine. There was a loud splashing of water, then after a few minutes it subsided and Arvyn walked back up alone.
"Well, what are you fetchers all waiting for?" Arvyn demanded. "Get a move on!"
"Where we goin'?" Edril asked.
"To the slave-camps in the marshland," Arvyn grumbled. "It's closer on foot."
"But that be the other side the river!" Edril returned.
"So?"
"Them prisoner's be bound 'and and foot!" Edril returned.
"Then you and the others take the bonds off their legs," Arvyn said. "We need them to walk. And use the club if they try anything."
"What about the river?" Salus asked. "We're famished and we can't wade through it on an empty stomach."
"Did you fetchers really eat all of our rations in one sitting?" Arvyn asked.
"We was 'ungry," Edril replied.
"Troubles take you all!" Arvyn swore. "Do I have to do everything for you?" He sighed angrily. "Skin the horse, I'm sure we can use it's meat."
"Do you want us to cut it's throat first?" Erso asked.
"Did I say that?" Arvyn asked. "Let the b*tch suffer. Can't abide these hairy, human beasts anyway."
The horse cried out in agony as Dovyn, Vedran and Tens began cutting off large strips of meat out of it's living body. Even worse, the pained cries of the horse seemed to fill the Dunmer with delight, for they laughed and kicked the horse as they carved it up. Suddenly the cage was opened and Edril began dragging the prisoners out one by one and throwing them upon the road. Viras then took the key-chain and unfastened the bonds about their legs. Most of them were too cold, sore and weary to attempt any escape.
"Don't eat all the meat either, you fucking sloads!" Arvyn shouted. "Now then, get them on their feet and into the river."
"I can't swim!" the little boy cried out.
"Then you better learn, n'wah brat!" Dovyn replied as he dragged the boy by the neck and into the river.
Before Sigrun knew what was going on, Edril and Erso had lifted her off her feet and she was going down into the river with the others. The water was icy cold and the river was deep; but she was tall and her feet found the bottom and, despite the current and her bound hands, she was able to paddle towards the other side. Despite being heavily wounded, the Argonian had the least trouble wading across the water. The older woman seemed to be going rather slowly, and it was then that Sigrun noticed her arm was covered in blood. The younger woman was trying her best to keep the older one's head above water, though both of their hands were bound.
At last Sigrun came up on dry ground. If there had been any thought of fleeing, it was quickly dismissed. Damar, Edril and Erso had crossed the river before them, and Erso's long-sword was drawn and ready in his hands to strike down any who might try to escape. Looking back, she saw the little boy was floundering in the water, unable to swim and being dragged down by the heavy manacles around his wrists. The rest of the Dunmer made it across the river, leaving the horse to suffer and bleed out on the other side: none of them gave so much as a second thought to the little boy. Arvyn, who was the last one across, merely looked back at the drowning boy and sighed.
"Fucking n'wahs," he sneered. "More trouble than they're worth. But I've lost enough today, no use crying over another one." He turned around to the others.
"We make for the slave-camps in the marshes," he proclaimed. "We stop for nothing. Is that clear?"
The others grudgingly agreed, then, with some rope that had been salvaged from the wreck of the cart, tied each of the prisoners together on a line. The Argonian went first, with Sigrun, the young girl and the older girl following on behind, and the now nine Dunmer walking in front, to the side, or behind. Thus they left the river and began walking on into a barren, sullen land. As they were climbing up the hill away from the river, Sigrun looked back towards the river. The form of the drowning boy could be seen, floating lifelessly away downstream.
The day finally dawned dull and gray in the sky above. Storm clouds and a haze of smoke obscured the sun before them, and the farther east and south they went, the smoke began to appear behind them, obscuring the sight of the river. The Dunmer urged them on relentlessly, sometimes using the whip or club to keep them going. They hungrily devoured the horse meat they had carved off of the dying horse's body, but did not share any with the slaves.
As for Sigrun, she was now deep in thought as she tried to keep up with the frantic pace set by her captors. Her legs were free, and now if she could only reach Viras, she might be able to set them all free. The worst part about this was that Viras was at the head of the company, and between them were the four guards and large Edril. Not only this, but she was weary, having not eaten for almost two days, and she could not count on the help of the others. The young girl, though a Nord, was small and looked as though she had no desire to pick up a sword before she had been captured. The Argonian was tall and strong, though he also was starved and received more blows than the others had: it seemed her captors delighted especially in punishing him even when he had done nothing to deserve it.
Suddenly the line came to a halt as they were dragged back by a heavy weight. Arvyn ordered those in front to wait as he drew out a knife and cut the old woman off of the line: she had collapsed and could not be roused. Once she had been cut free, Arvyn kicked her body aside and, sending the whip cracking across Sigrun's back, urged them on again.
Then came the rain. Slowly at first, but suddenly increasing until it became a great downpour. Everyone was soaked to the bone and miserable. The lashes upon Sigrun's back stung as the water dripped relentlessly upon them. Ever and anon, one of their captors' restraint gave way and they would strike one of the prisoners: usually the Argonian, but Sigrun and the young girl got more than their fair share of stripes and blows as well. In between watching where she was going and holding back the pain of her wounds, Sigrun tried to plan her escape. The clouds above were so thick and the rain so heavy that one could scarce see very far: if she did not at least try to get to Viras, it would be too late. They would get wherever they were going, or tire of dragging them along, and then it would be over.
Her thoughts went to Arvyn. He had been acting strangely ever since she had awoken this morning. At first he seemed eager to make a quick septim from their captivity. Now it seemed that he had no care whether his prisoners lived or died. Perhaps something had happened between falling asleep the night before and waking up that morning in the crashed wagon that had caused him to change his mind. Whatever it was, Sigrun had no desire to be the next one to suffer.
The clouds overhead began to darken and the Dunmer became more and more restless and uneasy. Now it seemed that they were doing not much else in between walking but taking turns beating the Argonian. Suddenly the company came to a complete halt: chaos had ensued. Edril and Tens had grabbed the young girl, while most of the others were beating the Argonian with their clubs. Damar then stepped up and, seizing the Argonian by the feathers that grew from behind his ears, said something about how he reminded him of his favorite guar. What happened next was no better than what had happened to the boy, as Damar lifted the Argonian's tail and, with the others holding him down, began to do something no normal person would have done to their favorite pet. Sigrun was about to look away when a strong hand seized her by the throat.
"Didn't forget about you, n'wah," Dovyn hissed. "You taste good, for a snow-back. I wonder if your face is the only part on you that's so soft and supple." With that, his right hand began groping up her thighs. She tried not to cry out, but a frightened gasp escaped her lips when Dovyn's hands roughly gripped the gap between her legs. Suddenly there was a slash, blood splashed across Sigrun's face, and Dovyn backed away, crying like a baby: his right hand had been severed at the wrist.
"Hands off my property, fetcher!" Arvyn shouted. With his sword in one hand and club in the other, Arvyn's attention was firmly fixed on chasing off Dovyn.
But in the commotion, Sigrun noticed that the slice from Arvyn's sword that had cut off Dovyn's hand had also cut the rope that bound her to the other slaves. Though her hands were still bound, she was free of the main line. Escape was now possible: all she had to do was run as fast as her tired legs could, and hope that the rain and the debauchery were enough to mask her escape. She almost leaped at the chance, but remained frozen in place. How could she possibly go and leave the young woman and Argonian at the mercy of these slavers? How could she ever truthfully claim to care for Skyrim's people if she, like the people of Whiterun, turned a blind eye and deaf ear to their suffering? But she was unarmed and weary, and the darkness grew and the rain did not cease.
"Kyne," she prayed under her breath. "Whose children we are, and who commands the powers of the sky. Grant me the strength to strike down these elves and save the prisoners."
The cold rain sent shivers all across her body. The dry, leaf-less ground beneath her feet was growing muddy. But she had said what might truly be her final words, and now there was nothing else for it. Jonna or no Jonna, she would either act or die. Steeling herself, she ran towards the two Dunmer who had pinned the young woman down and threw herself against Tens, who was the smaller of the two, knocking him down into the mud. Edril noticed the attack and, pulling himself out and up to his knees, reached over to seize Sigrun; she delivered a swift kick to the face with her muddy boots. She tried to stand up, but found it difficult to do with her hands bound. Her feet slipped in the mud and she couldn't get a firm grip to try to push herself upright. Unfortunately, that gave her enemies the advantage. Vedran and Salus broke away from watching the Argonian's humiliation and seized Sigrun by each of her arms. Erso also joined them, drawing his long-sword slowly from its sheath.
"Pathetic n'wah," Erso mocked. He then raised his sword up high, aimed directly at Sigrun, so as to cut her in half from the head down. She struggled against her enemies, but there was no escape. Her escape attempt had failed.
Suddenly there was a bright pink flash that, after the gray, sullen darkness of the storm, was blinding in its intensity. For a moment Sigrun could feel nothing: she thought that she was dead. But then her nerves exploded into twitching fits of agony, and she rolled around helplessly in the mud. She was in the mud, but still alive. The three elves had been knocked away and were shuddering and cursing: Erso's blade had melted. Suddenly Sigrun noticed that her hands were also free, and she pushed herself back up onto her feet, willing herself to ignore the ache and weariness that urged her to lie down.
She charged again at them, pushing Salus to the ground. She could still remember his greedy hands as they moved across her body. With a fury and strength that she did not know she possessed, she tore apart his narrow, bony face with her bare hands. She reached for his groin, to rip off something else, but her hand touched the hilt of a sword. She rolled aside as Vedran and now Tens were charging at her together, then drew out the sword and cut Vedran's leg out from under him. The pouring rain and distant crash of thunder could not drown out the agonized howls as Vedran tried in vain to remain upright.
Now she was on her feet again, sword in hand, and fire pumping through her veins that made the chill of the rain vanish. Tens and Edril were now on their feet, drawing their weapons, charging towards her at once. Without thinking she dove forward into the mud, as her enemies collided into each other. Edril got up, but Tens did not: Edril's blade had dug into his back. But Sigrun hadn't been idle. She drove her sword through the back of Edril's leg, sending the large Dunmer falling to the ground. Then, rising to her feet, she dug the sword blade into his neck. It went in half-way but didn't complete the cut all the way through: but Edril was dead nonetheless. Then, as Tens was trying to pull himself up, Sigrun drove her sword through the back of his neck and out his mouth.
By now the others had more or less realized that they were under attack. Erso was groping for a fallen club in the rain, while Vedran was hopping about, sword in hand, eager for payback. Salus was lying in the mud, crying and bleeding out of the gashes in his face, Arvyn was nowhere to be found, and neither was Dovyn: only Damar seemed not to notice the fight, so absorbed was he in his mischief against the Argonian. But then suddenly Viras leaped upon Sigrun from behind, grabbing her by the throat. Her eyesight was blurred, and the rain only made it worse. In a moment, she took to her knees and sent Viras over her back.
With space to breathe, Sigrun didn't wait for anything, but blocked the blow from Vedran's sword, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling back into the mud. Another roar of thunder split the twilight sky as she brought her sword across Viras' chest, just recently back onto his feet. The blow stung and sent the inexperienced slaver staggering back, clutching at the wound. Suddenly she lost her footing, as Vedran pulled her to the ground. Sigrun rolled aside as Erso's club swing fell amiss and hit the dirt. Back on her feet again, she turned about as Viras was charging at her again; she thrust the sword straight into his stomach. A long, loud, gurgling death-rattle escaped his lips, along with a fair amount of blood that splattered upon Sigrun's face.
Slowly she rose to her feet, as another bolt of lightning crashed in the mountains behind her. Vedran and Erso were cowering in fear, facing down this woman who had slain three of their number and seriously wounded two. By now, Damar had finished his business and left the Argonian lying in a blood of his own blood. But he hadn't the time to pull up his trousers as he noticed the three dead bodies and Salus lying on the ground, moaning and groaning in helpless agony. Without missing a beat, he picked up a blade and charged at Sigrun. With sword in hand, she blocked the first blow, then the second, then the third. Years of training and the fire that now burned in her veins were enough to keep her alive in a duel of swords. Her opponent was not very large, but seemed rather slow in his movements. In one brief glance at his naked lap, Sigrun saw the reason. A wicked thought, brought on likely by the ill-treatment she had received at their hands, came into Sigrun's mind and she drove her sword straight through his groin, slicing off all the members at once. Damar dropped his sword and collapsed into the mud, weeping like a baby as he held his hands over his wound. But the massive amount of blood pouring out from between his fingers showed that the wound was fatal.
Thinking that he had now the advantage, Erso charged at Sigrun from behind, hoping to catch her unawares and deliver a killing blow to the back. But whether she knew or guessed that he was coming, she took to one knee and spun around, blade outwards, towards her opponent. On dry ground it would have been a deftly executed cut, but in the mud, she slipped and fell forward into the mud. Still, the blade met her opponent's chest, slicing through the brittle chitin armor and biting into the flesh. Erso fell forward, a look of surprise on his face as he met the mud.
"Fucking n'wah!" Vedran's voice cried out, as he crawled menacingly towards her. "The Troubles take you! You think you're won? Lord Vivec knows all things. He'll find you, he'll find you wherever you run and hide, and when he does, he'll ram his cock down your fucking throat!"
But Sigrun did not remain fallen down. She pushed herself back onto her feet, took up her sword, and shoved it into Vedran's mouth, silencing him forever. As she pulled the sword out, suddenly a hand seized her from behind, a hand she knew far too well.
"Snow back b*tch!" hissed Dovyn. "You cost me my hand. Now I'm gonna make you suffer, long and hard!"
She threw her head back, hitting him in the chin and stunning them both. As the brief concussion faded and her vision returned, she saw a hand holding a stone coming straight towards her. Bringing up the sword, she cut off his left hand as well, leaving Dovyn with two bloody stumps at the end of his arms. He let out a loud, frightened cry and collapsed to the ground, gazing at his bleeding stumps in horror. But his tears meant nothing to Sigrun: it was less than he deserved for what he had done to her. But there was still one left, lying in the ground, gasping for air and weeping pathetically.
"P-Please...show mercy," begged Salus. "I didn't mean any harm, I just..."
"You wanted to fuck me, is that it?" Sigrun asked. She knelt down, pulling Salus' head up by his wet, greasy, black hair. "I'm going to send you to your dead gods, dark elf." She then brought up her sword to the level of his scalp. "When they ask how you became so scarred, you tell them you bear the punishment of your sins. You tell them that Sigrun, daughter of Eirik Dragonborn, child of storm, has so disfigured you!"
With that, she began crudely hacking off his filthy hair with her sword. She did not spare his scalp, but cut it off in bloody strips with each blow. Her ears were deaf to his cries; all that went through her mind were this mongrel's filthy fingers as they pawed at her hair. Now he was going to meet his ancestors with no air, not even much of a scalp. When at last his blue-gray head was shorn of hair, bloodied and scarred, Sigrun left off torturing him.
She rose to her feet, amid the downpour, then her knees gave out and she fell down into the mud. The fire died out and she was weary, wearier than she had ever been. Her eyesight was dim and her limbs ached worse than they had in her whole life. It was all she could do to keep from falling forward into the mud and lying among her enemies. Instead, she gripped the hilt of her sword, stabbed it into the earth and pushed herself back onto her feet. Into her mind came again the prisoners which she had forgotten.
Wearily she staggered among them and examined them. The young woman's throat had been slit and she lay dead upon the ground. The Argonian, however, had received the worst punishment possible. Aside from having been violated, he was filled with cuts and deep gashes where the other elves had treated him none so kindly. It seemed that he met a slow, vile and miserable death.
Sigrun now pushed herself back onto her feet and undertook the hardest part of her journey yet. Seven Dunmer lay dead at her feet, slain by her hand. Dovyn she could not see, and Arvyn seemed to have quit the fight at the onset. Now she must needs make good on her escape, or else wait here to be found by Arvyn or more slavers. With sword in hand, unable to fight but unwilling to meet anyone else without a strong argument, Sigrun resigned herself to this wearisome task. The light had gone by now and only the intermident flashes of lightning gave her any idea of where she was at or where she was going. She did not know if she was making for the river, her goal, or going deeper into Dunmer territory, and towards these slave-camps in the marshes. Yet she continued forward, refusing to give up though her limbs screamed at her to do so.
How long she wandered in this state she could not guess. The storm refused to relent, and the moons, which before had been her guide in the darkness, were now veiled. Previously a flash of lightning had illuminated what appeared to be a ravine somewhat before her path. She hoped that there would be an overhanging cliff, under which she might take refuge from the storm. Carefully, so as to not misstep, she made her way slowly around to the mouth of the ravine, using the lightning to guide her path. Now she stood at its mouth and began hobbling forward: she was weary, hungry, the bruises she had received from falling down in the mud were aching beyond belief, and her breath came out in rasping gasps. She was now walking into the ravine when another lightning-flash illuminated two figures before her in the ravine, with hands on their weapons: one larger, and the other smaller. Her hope, it seemed, had cheated her. She had fled the slavers only to come upon these two out here in the middle of the night.
As weariness and hopelessness overcame her, Sigrun's thoughts drifted to Jonna. She muttered her name, and then collapsed to the ground.
(AN: Actually, i had "Flash of the Silver-Hammer" in mind when i envisioned the latter part of this chapter.)
(I'm sure somebody is going to be upset at the twist on Arvyn Hlas' character and how i depicted everyone's precious Dunmer. But in the official Elder Scrolls lore, House Hlaalu was disgraced and lost its Great House status after the Red Year. And with my Nerevarine Llevas Dorvayn having never opposed slavery or abolished it - there is no statement in the official lore of Nerevarine abolishing slavery - it is in fact quite alive and well in annexed Eastmarch. Also Emperor Crixus would turn a blind eye to the reinstatement of slavery, since it's 'just the Nords' and he is greatly desirous of making friends with the Great Houses of Morrowind.)