Relruthmaar
"Het Zu'u los, Dovahkiin! Grind hin oblaan! Grind rel do ruth ahrk maar!"
The mighty wyrm before them was a big one, Fjolnir noted. Huge, most would say. Its large, bronze scales shone blindingly bright beneath the afternoon sun, and its eyes were two burning embers surrounded by a pit as black as the Void itself. The dov's voice sounded like the ungodly cacophony of two mountains chafing past one another. Unlike the otherworldly voice of Alduin, this dragon's voice seemed to intrude into Fjolnir's very being, and seemed to pervade the very boundaries of soul and flesh itself.
The head of the beast was even more fierce and feral. With teeth locked in a perpetual snarl, a horned snout that seemed to exhale smoke with each breath, and a set of curling horns that locked back into some crown of jagged bone, Fjolnir looked upon this creature with dismay.
When Lydia had told him that the Jarl had placed out a bounty on a dragon, he had expected some small wyvern or a little green lizard. Instead, he had received Alduin's bigger cousin. Not very sporting, this one. Acting like some measly flying pest, when he himself is fouler and more malicious than those damned ancient dragons.
Now more than ever, he regretted having ever decided to take Lydia along for this excursion. While she stared down the beast, blade unsheathed and shield raised, the wyvern was hungrily glaring back at the both of them, head darting from the Dovahkiin to his traveling companion, then back to the prophesized slayer of dragons.
"Lydia," Fjolnir said sharply, "get inside the keep. Stay there."
Hesitantly- no, almost rebelliously- Lydia slunk off, slow and deliberate as if to spite him. Fjol's heart was racing, his nerves raw and chaffing with each passing second. Truthfully, Fjolnir would have grabbed her by the arm and threw her inside himself if there was not a leering beast watching him. She would likely never understand his motives, but Fjolnir would be damned if he was going to have to contend with her death.
Fjolnir was brought back to reality with a deep, rumbling din. The ground shuddered at the clamor. It was then that the sellsword discovered the sound's origin; the dragon was laughing. Laughing. This scaly bastard dared to chuckle at the concept of humanity, at the meaning of altruism and compassion. No, these monsters knew only how to dominate; in their ancient culture, there was no distinction between who was ethically correct and who was the strongest. Dictation was their sole concept. Which was fine with Fjolnir, he silently admitted. He would just teach this lizard the concept of mortality.
"Yol…Toor Shul!"
The Shout caught Fjol by surprise. In seconds, a stream of flame had sprouted from the very lungs of his scaled opponent. He barely had enough time to roll out of harm's way. At the same time, the dragon had decided to take to the skies and attack from afar. If the beast had not been trying to kill him, Fjolnir would have written poetry about the majesty of the feral animal as it sliced through the wind itself in its flight; alas, it was time to take this glorious fiend down.
"Joor…Zah Frul!"
Azure tendrils twisted from within the dragon's being, shining bronze and striking blue merging in a dissonant synchronization. "Niid!" the wyrm indignantly protested. His fluid flight had descended into a violent collision with the keep, his massive form destroying the upper portion of the decrepit tower. Rubble flew into the river below, stone crashed to the road below, and several wood tables splintered upon impact with the ground. Though worse for wear, the tower remained. Somewhat. Lydia, hopefully, was still alive, albeit disconcerted.
"Come on, big guy," Fjolnir laughed. "I hope you aren't planning on calling it quits. I, for one, want to enjoy this hunt."
His pride hurt, the ancient dragon violently staggered to his feet, and turned back towards his Nordic nemesis. Craning over his own large physique to glare at Fjolnir, the dragon let loose another torrent of flame, his Voice louder than before, each syllable of the Shout pronounced far sharper than they formerly were.
Smirking, Fjolnir rolled beneath the flame, the heat blaring upon his back, and his skin began to sweat as though he had been standing near a campfire. He was amused to know that his words actually daunted this colossal foe. And why wouldn't he be? Before, he was a measly mercenary who could scarcely stand in this world. But once he learned of the power that lurked beneath him…he became a walking legend. A gift of the gods themselves. Fjolnir Sword-Quill, Dovahkiin, "Born Hunter of Dragonkind," the less-known "Dancer of the Sea of Ghosts," the titles went on. Few could stand before him, and fewer survived such encounters. This dragon was no exception.
Angrily, his foe followed up his shout with a bite that could have split a man in two. A humid draft washed over Fjolnir as he slid underneath the dragon, again narrowly avoiding the attack. As he came underneath the exposed underbelly of the massive wyvern, the Nord lashed out with his sword and dagger, seeking to pierce the scaled abdomen of his enemy. Some of his mad slashes drew blood, whilst several of his wrathful stabs let loose a surge of crimson lifeblood.
The dragon roared in fury, and stood on his haunches. Flapping his wings, he succeeded in taking to the skies, his frame seeming almost serpentine as he snaked away past the trees and rocks. Fjolnir was about to use Dragonrend once again to prevent his escape…until the dragon changed courses once again. He was heading directly for Fjolnir, his snarl looking more like a smile in this one moment. It didn't take a scholar to guess what he was planning on doing.
Fjolnir struggled for the shield strapped upon his back, the dagger in his left hand clattering to the ground in the attempt. He cursed as he clumsily attempted to get his hand into a stalwart clasp onto the shield's grip. Bringing it above his face, Fjolnir dropped to one knee in an attempt to conceal as much as his body behind the steel aegis.
He could hear the buffeting of the wind. He could hear the dragon roaring. Yet…why hadn't the beast Shouted? Daring to peer from over his shield, Fjolnir was horrified to see that the dragon had disappeared. A large, scaly child of Akatosh had just flown away when Fjolnir had so much as turned his sight!
Fjol was just about to frantically search for his adversary when he heard the flapping of wings once again. Except this time, they were closer. Yet the dragon was still nowhere in sight, Fjolnir noted. That could only mean one thing…
"Yol…Toor Shul!"
Fjolnir's was blinded by the sudden igniting of flames, his guard weakened by the distraction. Already, he could feel the heat. He could feel his skin burn away, his eyes melting, his bones charring and blackening. Fjolnir Sword-Quill could feel himself being given over to the flames.
Except it never came. As Fjolnir struggled to lift his shield back above his head, he could hear the inferno beating over steel already. With his shield not even in the way of danger, this proved peculiar. As he tried to blink out the blinding light, he gradually regained his vision. The sight awaiting him was extraordinary.
Standing over his prone body was Lydia, her own shield raised, its fine craftsmanship quite literally parting the flames that it withstood. Standing strong behind it was the mighty lass herself, heroically erect and defiant against this bane of men.
As the final embers dissipated into the air, the dragon once again took to the skies. Lydia took but a moment to glance in Fjolnir's direction. He could see a tell-tale glint of teeth in the afternoon sun. His Housecarl had just defied his orders, ran out to face a dragon, and saved his life in one fell swoop. And she was grinning like a fool. I tend to rub off on people like that, apparently.
Dusting himself off, Fjolnir rose to his feet. The dragon was simply toying with them now; swishing about in the air one way, then diving dangerously close to the ground another. One moment he would be in front of them, and another he would be flanking them, before swooping back around in their line of sight. The Dragonborn would have tried to Shout the dragon back to earth, but that would mean a moment of vulnerability if he should miss; not just for him, but for-
Gods damn it, enough of this! She came out here on her own accord- her life is in her hands, as is my life in mine. Her survival is determinant of her actions in this fight. So, I've free reign to Shout whenever I see the opportunity to. She's not like to complain, in any event…
"Joor…Zah Frul!"
Once more, the dragon was sent plummeting to the ground as a series of cobalt wisps sprouted from his scaly hide. This time, however, his body crashed onto the ground with a thunderous boom. Unlike last time, his recovery was slow and lethargic, his every movement accompanied by pained roars and unsteady, shaky jerks.
"Lydia?"
"Yes, Fjolnir?"
"Let's finish up here."
With his Housecarl in tow, Fjolnir charged. Gripping his sword in both hands, he delivered a gruesome slash to the wyvern's snout. Recoiling in pain, his adversary almost knocked him over with the sweeping motions of his head. Meanwhile, Lydia was making short work of the beast's abdomen. Throwing her weight against the blade, she stabbed upwards and pierced the thick scales protecting the dragon's innards. She followed this up with another stab. And another. And another. Over and over, again and again she attacked. There was no longer any discipline in her attacks. Only some outlandish, foreign bloodlust remained in her technique.
The dragon, at this point, had ceased his attempts at retaliating. At each poke and prod, he merely flinched and tried to escape from the assault, and yet he was still bound to the earthly ground by his (unwillingly) newfound mortality.
After several more slashes, Fjolnir decided that it was time to end this. With the creature's head weakly struggling to lift itself from the ground, it proved surprising to consider that this was- in fact- some lousy excuse for a dragon. An arrogant one, certainly. But by Talos, even Alduin had made Fjolnir work for the victory!
Chuckling, Fjolnir examined his sword. Fresh blood was collecting in the sword's fullers, and a small amount was trickling off onto the earthen ground. Shrugging, he stepped closer to the dragon's head. The beast made no attempt to struggle as the Nord placed his boot upon his head. With a well-placed attack, Fjolnir pierced the wyrm's skull, ending the beast's reign of terror once and for all.
With one last gasp and roar, the dragon perished. Seconds later, his skin began to crackle and peel, his very corpse burning and disintegrating, leaving nothing but bones behind. A familiar sensation overtook Fjolnir. He could feel the surging of the dov's soul as it entered…somewhere. Like a walking, talking soul gem, Fjolnir had just absorbed this dragon's very essence. This dragon was now dead. Permanently. There would be no afterlife for it, presumably. For but a brief moment, he considered where exactly that would place this beast. Would a dragon go to the Soul Cairn? Or, would he be returned to Akatosh? He was left without an answer when he pondered as to how it must have felt.
"Well, Lydia, I've acquired a rather insatiable thirst. What say we head down to the Bannered Mare to celebrate?"
"Very well, my Thane."
"Fjolnir. Honestly, you are a stickler for tradition, aren't you?"
"Is everyone inside?"
"Yes, sir," Khrazz replied.
"And how did they take to the news?"
"They refused, initially. General Tulius said little, but his disapproval was obvious. Jarl Elisif protested until Tulius and her steward interrupted."
"And they are going to call for a meeting between the Jarls after this, yes?"
"Yes, sir."
Without another word, Lillandril Stormbinder turned towards the door. Dressed in his ebon-colored Thalmor robes, his hair flung about carelessly as he walked. Slowly, he stepped inside. The Blue Palace was largely left in the same condition as it had been when last he visited- effeminate and womanish, blindingly regal and disgustingly unbefitting for a king- or queen, rather- of the country. A mockery of an Altmer court, plain and simple.
These bureaucrats strode about in their silks and furs, participated in the latest fashion trends and gossiped of the actions of their betters, and proved once again why Man was a disgusting, filthy animal better suited to dying like flies than attempting to "govern" themselves. Their very existence was an affront to the descendants of the Aldmer. Dunmer, Bosmer, Altmer, it made no difference; all of them were better off without this spawn of the Trickster God. And yet Lillandril was bound by duty to swallow his pride and convene with them? First Ambassador Elenwen had a sense of humor…
As he climbed up the stairs to where everyone was situated, Lillandril could tell that the guards were giving him dirty looks from beneath their helms. Even the servants looked upon him with disdain, he noted. No matter, he decided- a pair of boots made from their pelts wouldn't have half as much defiance as they now possessed.
When he had made his way up the staircase, he could finally see the true enemy before him. Jarl Elisif in the center, upon her cushy throne, surrounded by her cowardly court. She was the leader of this farce; the ringleader of this menagerie of clowns. Thanes who had never done a day of work in their lives, a steward who looked as if he had never seen the outside of Solitude except from atop whatever ivory tower he had crawled out of, an oafish Housecarl, parasites, all of them. The only one there who Lillandril would even deign to call a "worthy opponent" was General Tulius, and that in itself was a stretch. An upstart, that one. Raised to Military Governor sometime before Ulfric Stormcloak was captured, according to some dossier he had read. Then, this "Dragonborn" practically ended the war for him, murdered Ulfric, and allowed Tulius to add that to his various "accomplishments." He could never understand humans.
Each and every person here glared at him- only to hide their true feelings beneath the placid masks of a nobleman's court. He knew the tricks; he knew of the concealed emotions that they kept buried, for he himself had watched from afar as his dear brother Gallandrill learned of affairs of state from an early age. He was aware of the artificial motions, the superficial smiles and gestures. They hated him, and he was homicidally-inclined towards each and every human in front of him.
"Greetings, everyone. The Third Aldmeri Dominion sends its regards. We've important business to discuss, so let us hurry and discuss what we 'request' of you."