It is said that those who are called to do the work of the Dread Father or those who are compelled to pray for the Night Mother's children are the most ruthless, savage, and vicious of all. But is it that they were really born with something special or rather that they were born without the most basic of human emotions? Compassion, caring, and feeling.

Each stroke of a knife, hidden poison, or fortuitous arrow only pulls you further into the cold embrace of darkness, further and further away from normality. There is no salvation to be found in the Dark Brotherhood, no matter how hard many may seek it though violence. There is only the Void, and it feels nothing. There are only seductive promises of vengeance.

No wonder so many desperate people are lured in.

In the latest hours of the night when most are still sleeping and almost none dare to tread, a circle of candles flickers, casting eerie shadows on the walls of the Green-Kettle manor. Placed in the very center of the circle is a sculpture of the most grotesque varieties: an entire skeleton which had been dug out of the Windhelm catacombs and assembled into a very familiar shape.

As Raffi looks down at the figure, he feels almost nothing as well, except for pride. It is time for him to move the final pawns of his grandest scheme into place. Quietly, he kneels down into the circle, the petals of the Nightshade he scattered around it staining his last pair of silk trousers a murky purple. But he doesn't think about that. His focus is entirely on the final sweet result of his labors. Carrying out the ritual is almost euphoric for him as he brings a blood-stained dagger down on his effigy-the housekeeper was useful for something after all.

Sweet mother, sweet mother.

A stab to the spine.

Send your child onto me.

A stab to the chest.

For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.

A final blow to the skull.

For a moment, there is nothing but stillness, but then with a chilling gust of air, the candles begin to snuff themselves out one by one, leaving nothing but a trail of pitch black smoke behind.

Now, all there is to do is to wait for his reward.

May Sithis take Dahlia Wintersnow into his dark embrace.

Riding off into the fresh air gives Ralof a new perspective on life. As he sits on the back of his borrowed horse, he thinks about everything he has been though in the past two months and winces. He could have made some better life choices, but what else was he supposed to do about the pain clawing at him from the inside like a dark, angry pit? He scrubs a hand down his face. That still didn't give him any right to make Dahlia nor Ulfric's life harder than it already was. He is even more indebted to them than he was before, especially for Dahlia's understanding those times she picked him up in some dark alleyway. He knows very well that she hasn't exactly had an easy time of it herself. This is one of the reasons why he is determined to get this task done as quickly and efficiently as possible. He will not fail her.

Once he makes it out into the open plains of Whiterun, he doesn't bother to stop even if he is tempted to check in with Gerdur and see how she is fairing. Perhaps, he can stay there on the way back. For now, he just wants to reach Solitude. The one luxury he does allow himself, however, is a quick dip to bathe himself in the Karth River. It has been too long since he bothered to care about his appearance, but if he is to appear at the Blue Palace and be Ulfric's emissary, he'll need to look the part.

As soon as he reaches the gates, he leaves his horse with one of the Stormcloak soldiers stationed there and starts with the first part of his job: delivering the manuscript that Dahlia asked him to pick up from her friend Andonato.

While the writer is a nice enough man, he is a bit eccentric to say the least. Before handing the damn thing over, the man insisted on waxing poetic on the finer merits of pre-3rd era prose, something of which he knows nothing about. However, Dahlia asked him to do this, so how was he to refuse? At least the delivery should be straightforward. The Bard's College is easy enough to find, and then he'll get back to the main reason he is here. He'll be in, out, and on his way back to Windhelm in time for the wedding.

Despite the fact that the market district of Solitude saw quite a bit of damage during the Battle for Castle Dour, it seems to Ralof that at least some of the economic activity is returning to the area if it is a bit limited. The usual stalls, vegetables, spiced wine, and the butcher are open for business., and he can even spot a few vendors helping one another to lift stray debris from what is left of the stalls and cleaning the charred coating from the outside of them. It almost feels like hope, and that is something that Ralof could use more of these days. He quietly files this information away to report back to Jarl Ulfric upon his return.

Soon, he wanders his way to the flashy red and gold painted door of the Bard's College. There would be no mistaking it even if he had no sense of its location. Of course, the Bards would have a flare for the dramatic. He chuckles under his breath as he thinks about Dahlia and that fact that she would have fit in just fine here. Upon his return, he'll have to remember to tease her about it. She's sure to flush red and deflect as she always does.

But he is stalling.

As he stands outside the painted door, he shifts his feet back and forth, and the book in his hands suddenly feels as if its pages are made of lead instead of fine Falkreath parchment. What is wrong with him? It's not like he is going to run into more Empire soldiers or an ambush inside. There are only a bunch of poncey, melodramatic poets, singers, and lute-strummers.

Ralof shakes his head to clear the thoughts swirling just beneath the protective surface he built over the last few weeks. The real reason for his hesitation is that he is afraid of failing the tasks he has been given. What if Ulfric and Dahlia see that he has no use anymore? What will he do then? All he has known for the last three years is serving the Jarl and his cause, and Dahlia has become like a second sister to him. Where would he go if they should turn him away?

A soft voice clears their throat from behind him, and he finally realizes that he is blocking the door to the College. He moves to the side quickly as his face turns red with embarrassment. How long had they been standing there?

When he finally turns around to offer an apology, he is met with an awkward-looking Altmer with delicate facial features and bright blonde hair. From the looks of him, it appears that perhaps he is a writer as he notes splotches of dark ink stains on his fingertips. But what would an Altmer be doing here at the Bard's College? They have their own schools which are considered to be far superior to Skyrim's.

"Good morning, good sir." He speaks with a soft voice, and Ralof almost has to strain to hear him despite the fact that they are standing mere feet apart. "Are you by any chance lost? If you're looking for the Blue Palace, it's the big blue building to the North of here."

Great. Now the stranger thinks that he is an idiot on top of being lost.

"No, no." Ralof stammers as he tries to recover. "I mean to be here at the Bard's College. Do you by chance know Giaurd Germane? I have a delivery from Windhelm." He holds up Andonato's book awkwardly.

The High Elf blinks a few times, clearly confused by the fact that Ralof really does have business here. He doesn't exactly look the type that would want to have anything to do with the College. "Yes, I do know him. He's one of my colleagues. If you follow me this way," he gestures to the door, "I will take you to him."

"Great. Good." He smiles, and then remembers his manners and holds out a hand to his new friend. "I'm Ralof of Riverwood, by the way. What is your name?"

His guide stops suddenly. This is the second time he has been taken off guard by this Ralof character. Why would a Nord bother with niceties towards an Altmer and particularly a Stormcloak?

"I am Elisindir." He bows slightly as he reaches a hand out to open the door for him.

Ralof repeats the name as if testing it out on his tongue before nodding back at him. "It's nice to meet you. Are you some type of writer?"

Elisindir flinches again, but continues leading Ralof upstairs to where Giuard's office is located. "I guess you could say that. I, uh, I am a historian."

"History, eh? I never was much for writing or history myself. More concerned with swords and bows." Ralof scratches the back of his head. "I know the basics though. Doing all that research must be hard work, eh?"

It has always been easy for Ralof to make friends wherever he goes because he always has something to talk about or a kind word for someone. His mother taught him that from the time he was a young boy: always be kind to others, and they will be kind to you. However, he senses that Elisindir is a little shy, and Ralof would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't a little nervous as well.

Elisindir chews on his lip as he ponders this strange Nord's demeanor. Back in the Summerset Isles, only those who want something show any type of interest or are overly nice to another, but as he turns to look at Ralof, the only thing he can detect is genuine curiosity. His mother never taught him what to do in situations such as this. He swallows the thick lump in his throat. "Yes, you could say that the art of historiography has its challenges."

Ralof gives him a wide smile. "You look like a studious one though. Nothing you can't handle right? Just flip though a couple of books, check a couple of facts, and off you go."

The longer Elisindir is in Ralof's presence, the more awkward he feels. For one, no one has ever shown any interest in his studies before, and for another, he has also noticed the bulge of muscles underneath his armor. Between those two things, he has had quite enough excitement for one day. After all, there is no point in trying to make any type of friends here. They will all eventually leave him anyway.

Thankfully, he is saved from answering the latest slew of questions from Ralof when they finally make it to Giuard's office.

"This is where I leave you." Elisindir bows again and turns to leave back through the hallway; however, Ralof catches him on the shoulder, flashing him a charming smile.

"Thank you. Perhaps we will see each other again."

"Perhaps." One word is the only response he gets as the Altmer doesn't stick around long enough to exchange any more. If Ralof did not know any better, it would seem he couldn't get away fast enough. What did he do?

Dropping off the book is a short affair, Giuard is elated to have a new work by Adonato, so much so that he even hands Ralof some gold "to stop at the Skeever for a drink and a hot meal" before going home. Whether or not he will use it for that, he is unsure, but it was nice to be appreciated for his work. A smile pulls its way onto his face and doesn't leave him until he reaches the Blue Palace and is standing in front of Elisif.

This is going to be complicated, and Jarl Ulfric is not going to like this, not one bit. As he stands in front of the Jarl of Solitude, he can clearly see that there is a small swell near her stomach, and Balgruuf has a hand placed on top of it.

"Thank you for coming all the way out here to meet with us, Ralof." His former Jarl answers. He is familiar enough with Balgruuf and how he operates, even noting the smug smile on his face. He is certainly proud of himself.

Elisif sniffs. "Yes, it is nice that Windhelm is deigning to heed our call. As you should have seen on your way in, there are several parts of the city which are in need of repairs. I hope you've brought some type of proposal from Ulfric."

To his credit, Ralof holds his patience with both of them, which is one of the reasons Ulfric decided to send him to begin with. Although he is not familiar with court politics, he always has an air of friendly diplomacy about him.

"I come with a letter from Jarl Ulfric as well as a small sack of septims which has been allocated for repairs." He holds the letter out for Elisif, but Balgruuf is the one who steps forward.

There is silence in the throne room while everyone holds their breaths as Balgruuf passes the letter to Elisif, but they do not have to wait long before knowing what her thoughts on the letter are. She wrinkles her nose with a sneer as she practically tosses the parchment to the side.

"This is unacceptable. A single bag of septims is not enough to fix all the damage which has been done here. He'll have to do better than that."

"I am afraid that is all the best Jarl Ulfric can do as there are other Holds which require our assistance as well. If you are willing to wait..."

"The people Haafingar will not wait!" Elisif shouts, her voice becoming a shrill yell thought the palace.

"My sweet, perhaps, with your condition, you should rest in your room. I promise that I will take care of his." Balgruuf interjects.

She seems to ponder his proposal for a while before making a show of getting out of her throne and slowly making her way back to their bedroom, but before she disappears completely, she turns to Ralof, apparently not quite done with him.

"You can also tell Jarl Ulfric and the Lady Dragonborn that we lament that we will not be in attendance for their wedding. Unfortunately, my condition will not permit me to travel.

However, from her tone of voice and the vicious smile on her face, he can tell that she is not very sorry at all. No, Ulfric will not be happy with this news at all.

Snow is coming down hard on the outside of Windhelm, the first real storm of the Winter season. Dahlia watches it carefully as fat flakes fall in front of the frosted windowpanes of her and Ulfric's room. She should be getting ready for their dinner tonight at the Gnisis, but for some reason, she can't tear her eyes away from the scene in front of her. This evening is peaceful, even more so than usual. As her eyes search though the white haze below, she does not see anyone out and about, which is strange even in a snowstorm. The people of Windhelm don't usually mind a little cold weather, and normally, business carries on as usual, just under the cover of extra layers of clothing and a heavy fur cloak.

On the spur of the moment, Ulfric suggested to her that they should go out for one last grand date before their wedding, and who is she to decline him what he wants? She smiles to herself as she finally manages to move from the window to her closet to sort though the new set of dresses that she was generously given by Ulfric. While Dahlia is thankful for the gesture, she also was rather annoyed at him that he spent his money on something so ridiculous. His only answer to her was to shrug his shoulders and walk away.

After picking out a powder blue dress, Dahlia hugs her arms over her torso, rubbing at her sides slightly. Despite the fact that there is a fire roaring in the hearth, it still hasn't gotten any warmer in the room when it should have. A frown pulls at the corners of her mouth, and she moves back to the windows to check for a draft-the only logical explanation for the chill in the room. There is a fine layer of frost spidering its way up the surface which wasn't there just a moment ago. Curious.

As she ponders what could be causing it,-magic maybe-Dahlia absentmindedly runs a finger over the bubbled panes of glass. However, her train of thought is interrupted by a shadow moving slightly in its dull reflection. There is no one else here. Of this, she is certain. Ulfric is still downstairs speaking with Jorleif about arrangements for their wedding feast, and Galmar is down talking with the chief of the guards about recruitment. There are no servants around because she did not hear the door open, and she closed it herself not an hour ago. It has to be a trick of the light.

Goosebumps break out on her skin as if her instincts are telling her something isn't quite right, yet when she turns around, she sees nothing. There is only stillness and the crackle of the fire.

It's utterly silly of her to be this paranoid, but yet she cannot shake the prickle she feels at the back of her skull telling her that she should be worried. She shakes out her hands and forces herself to focus on scanning the room thoroughly, checking every crevice, nook, cranny, and shadow with meticulous scrutiny.

Nothing.

A breath escapes her lungs as she steps forward, but her relief doesn't last long. Soon thereafter, it becomes a gasp, and then a piercing scream which echoes throughout the entire Palace.

Initially, it is hard for Dahlia to understand what exactly has happened to her in the confusion of so many feelings and sensations coursing through her body. First comes the realization that she is looking at a Dark Brotherhood assassin, the blazing red and black leather of their guild giving it away. Then, shock runs through her system; she has been attacked, and her arms go out automatically to defend herself, but the assassin is already moving away from her. Finally, a searing pain flashes through her body, as she crumbles to the floor, sprawling out in a pathetic heap.

In the midst of the chaos, Dahlia is faintly aware that she is still screaming-a shrill sound which is muffled through her own ears as if it were filtered through a wall of water. It is accompanied by the fluttering boom of her heart reverberating through her chest. Move. Move. Move. Each beat ticks off another valuable second that she could be using to disarm the assassin in her room instead of sitting frozen on the floor. Panic and pain have swept away all good sense she has, so there is only one thing left for her: instinct, and it is none too content to sit back and watch the situation unfolding in front of her.

Fus.

Dahlia uses the Shout so effortlessly, that she doesn't have to think about it or even process its meaning. It is innate-a part of her, and her would-be killer falls to the ground as she drags herself across the floor to meet them. If there is one thing she knows about herself, it is that she will not go down without a fight. She'll push her body through this just like she has any other time.

Her fingers graze over the dagger she keeps under her skirts, feeling warm, sticky blood as she grabs for it hastily to slash at the Argonian thrashing around in her grip. She has to focus. Must focus. But it is hard for her to hold on to her blade as her blood coats her hands making the handle slippery. That has to be the source of her pain. She dully realizes that she must have been stabbed in the thigh.

Soon, the dagger falls from her grasp, and her eyes flutter and roll back into her head. Was the weapon she was stabbed with poisoned? It must have been because she has never felt pain like this before, and no matter how hard she tries to blanket herself in the comfort of a Restoration spell, it never comes.

The next thing Dahlia knows is darkness as she blacks out for a sweet, Mara-blessed moment before she is harshly jolted back awake. The world spins around her precariously while her mind tries to work sluggishly through what has awoken her from her momentarily painless sleep. A deep rumble vibrates through the cool stone floors and all the way through her body as the door to the room crashes against the wall, splintering at the sides. Shortly thereafter she can distinguish the sounds of steel against steel, and the harsh, angry tones of a male's voices faintly float through her ears. Finally, it registers to her that Ulfric must be here. She blinks heavily as her eyes try to follow the swirling shapes and figures around her.

It is Ulfric's worst nightmare come true. The scratching, gnawing beast which he holds behind his normally cool exterior now alive and staring him in the face, and now he stands to lose everything that is worth having all in one moment. Of course the Gods were not done punishing him. He was stupid to think otherwise, but he will not let them take Dahlia. They can have him, torture him, abuse him, but they cannot have her, and he will spit directly in their faces as they desperately try.

Hot, indignant rage mixed with cold panic bubbles up within him as he quickly picks the intruder up by the shoulders thrusts them into the wall.

"What do you think you are doing here in my Palace, in my home, and with my heart?" Ulfric forces out with a low growl. "Who sent you?"

No answer.

The Jarl pulls the attacker's forward until he is staring into the darkened irises of his eyes. "I said who sent you. Answer me or by Talos, I will-"

The assassin spits in his face, and a crackling static of anger fizzles its way through Ulfric's limbs, surging up his arms until he bashes the Argonian's head against the wall with a sickening crack. "Do not test me because make no mistake, I do not play games. But if I do, I make sure I always win."

Still nothing.

A low growl of frustration at this defiance bubbles up from his chest as he reaches back to repeat the motion; however, Ulfric hears a soft moan which makes him hesitate in his movement: Dahlia. He sees a shade of red so vivid that he can taste the color of it coating his tongue like a tempting dessert, and he cannot help himself. If he were a better man and if he were thinking more logically, he would know that there is a better answer to this. But he is neither of these things at the moment, and he could not care less about what is right, only what is just. And there is only one answer for that. Ulfric reaches down for his axe and buries it satisfyingly into the lizard's chest.

Soon thereafter, the softness of fur meets Dahlia's skin as she feels a sudden shift in gravity, and she is floating, sailing off towards the heavens. She could swear that from a distance she can hear a voice calling her name as she strains to find its source.

"Dahlia. Dahlia. Dahlia," it echos, as Ulfric tilts her face up gently to meet his eyes. "Are you okay? What happened?" A deep frown forms on his face as he struggles to figure out what to do for her.

Oh, it is coming from Ulfric, and she is now in his arms. When did that happen? As Dahlia looks up at him, she sees his frown and returns it with one of her own. She doesn't like that she has caused him pain; she didn't mean to.

"Speak to me, and keep your eyes open. Don't close them." He tells her gently as he carefully kneels down with her in his arms to pick up the dagger she was stabbed with.

It's hard for her to follow his instructions, but she doesn't want to make him any more sad than he already is. She only want to make him happy, so she forces a small smile up and into the corners of her lips.

"I'm fine now that you're here." She tries to tell him, but her words are slurred as her tongue feels like lead in her mouth.

"I'm going to take you to a healer. Can you hold on for me? Just for a few minutes? We're going to see Lyssa." He places a kiss to her fevered forehead, picks her up, and walks with her out into the hall, passing a worried Galmar on the way.

"What in Oblivion-?" The housecarl stops to stare at the blood quickly oozing down Dahlia's half-exposed legs, but Ulfric only pushes him lightly out of the way, not bothering to to elaborate on any of the details. There is no time to explain or even to take a breath. He can only keep moving.

"There was an attempt on Dahlia's life." Ulfric calls over his shoulder, his voice wavering in panic. "You'll find a dead assassin in my room. Go and check the body thoroughly. I will know who tried to do this and have their head on a pike by morning."

The Jarl does not wait for a response.

The only indication he has that his word is being followed is the loud curse which drifts faintly into his ears as he makes his way down the stairs. "Fucking Talos."

Serves him right for arriving late. Ulfric can only imagine the scene he has walked into. An Argonian with the skull cracked open like a fresh egg, his axe still lodged deeply in the chest.

As he finally moves out of the Palace, Ulfric suddenly finds that there are entirely too many sets of stairs and too many winding alleyways in Windhelm. It wastes valuable time as the Jarl tries to find his way to Lyssa. Since their move from Solitude, the healer has taken up home with her new spouse, some foot soldier in his army who lives on the outskirts of the city. It's lucky for him that they did because with what Dahlia has told him of her, the herbwife turned Restoration apprentice is his only hope other than Wuunferth-and he wouldn't like to take his chances with the old Destruction mage. They barely tolerate each other as it is.

A sudden unexpected slam of her door startles Lyssa, who has her head over a cauldron of something boiling over the hearth of her kitchen area.

"What in-," she turns to see the Jarl carrying an injured Dahlia and freezes. "Jarl Ulfric, what is-"

"She has been stabbed, and there must have been some type of poison on the blade or else I know that Dahlia would have healed the damned wound by herself already." He hastily lays her out on the kitchen table in front of him as Lyssa rushes around to bring forth various herbs, salves, and clean bandages.

Once Dahlia is laying as comfortably as he can make her, Ulfric pulls out a chair to sit by her side and pushes back the hair sticking to her forehead as Lyssa checks the wound.

"Did you see what she was stabbed with? Or better yet, did you happen to bring it?"

Ulfric only stares down at Dahlia's face which is contorted in pain, her eyes glassy and unfocused but still open.

"Jarl Ulfric," she interrupts him more sternly to get his attention, "do you happen to have the dagger? It will go a lot faster if I can identify what exactly is doing this. I have some suspicions, but precision is of the essence."

His mind whirrs as he tries to remember where he put the weapon before remembering that he had stashed it messily into his belt loops after picking Dahlia off the ground. He hands it to Lyssa hilt-first before focusing once again on his future wife.

"I should I have been there, and for that I am sorry." He shakes his head in self-criticism, but his hand doesn't leave the side of Dahlia's head as he continues to stroke his fingers through the damp locks. He will not be moved from her side.

What happened for an assassin to get the drop on her? Usually, Dahlia is so careful.

Ulfric sighs in worry as he looks down at her face, her eyes now closed as she leans her flushed face into his touches. She has gotten soft in the weeks since life has gone on in the Palace, too accustomed to the ritual of daily life, and neither of them can have that. It is a luxury that they cannot afford: normalcy. While blessed in the riches of one another, which is more than what many others can say for themselves, they are cursed doubly in others. And he wouldn't have it any other way. Each and every day spent with her is a new reason for him open his eyes to the light of the morning.

He only hopes that Lyssa will be able to work her magic so that they can continue to share many more of them together.

It is too late when they decide to let Rikke out of her cell. All this past week she had tried to talk to the guards on duty, but not one of them had believed her. And why should they honestly? A note which magically disappeared? To them, she is a prisoner who they imagine would love nothing more than to see Dahlia and Ulfric fail.

However, what they do not realize is that it is not necessarily that she really wants them to crash and burn.

She heard the scream, and as much as she isn't the biggest fan of either of them at the moment, she still doesn't wish either of them dead.

Perhaps she is growing soft. Deep down on the inside, all she feels is a gnawing guilt. But at the end of the day, didn't she join the Empire to prevent more death? Maybe she has always been soft.

She only wonders if in hindsight that they will see that she tried to warn them and maybe there might be a manner to get themselves out of this together.

More than that, she hopes that Dahlia will be okay.

She never wanted this. Who would? The Dragonborn is the only option that she can see to help Ulfric pull Skyrim back together. One way or another, she has to go on the throne. The Legate has has more than enough time down here to think about the bigger picture of the current political situation and more than enough time to contemplate the failings of the Empire. While she will not betray her belief in what Tiber Septim once created, she can also see where there are flaws. Especially as of late.

Maybe they can come together and try to make the best of this if they don't execute her first.

Ulfric's fist comes crashing into the wooden table at which he, Galmar, and half the council are sitting. "I demand justice! And who are all of you to tell me that I cannot have it? I am the Jarl, after all, and this attack was not only a threat to myself, but to that whom I hold most dear. I will not allow for this to stand!"

His voice vibrates dangerously through the stones of the chamber where they are sitting, causing waves of nerves to go sliding through those gathered for the emergency council session.

"It's rash, Ulfric, and the people-" The new head of the council, Timothy Timberwood, starts to speak, but is interrupted.

"The people also cry out to see justice done! Have you not seen them in the streets?" He leans forward, unthinking and he reaches out, fingers curling over the scruff of Timothy's overcoat. "If you are so unconcerned about your future queen, how would you like to join Lord Green-Kettle in the Bloodworks? How would you feel if this were someone you loved?"

Galmar places a hand over his shoulder to remind him of what he is doing and where he is. While he is also angry about the situation at hand, they have to keep a cool head.

Timothy swallows thickly. "I can understand your frustrations, my Jarl, and I sympathize. But there should be a proper trial. He is a nobleman! We cannot just condemn a man without proof!"

"Proof? You want proof?" Ulfric releases Lord Timberwood from his grasp and slams a tarnished gold ring bearing the Green-Kettle crest down onto the table, denting the surface. "Is this enough for you?"

"Wherever did you get this?" Torsten Cruel-Sea, another new addition to the council, asks.

"I found it." Galmar informs the group as if daring them to challenge his credibility. "It was in the pockets of the assassin along with a note containing specific instructions-orders to murder the Lady Dragonborn."

"My wife bleeds, and I bleed for her pain, as we all should." Ulfric appeals to the council members, annoyance lacing his voice while he pours himself a glass of much-needed wine. A headache pounds insistently underneath his temples. "The only form of adequate payment for such crimes is blood repaid in return. I demand an execution."

"But therein lies the problem. She isn't your wife yet, my Lord. By law, an execution is not required in this case."

Ulfric suddenly throws the silver-gilt pitcher in his hand towards the wall where it then clatters to the ground with a jarring crash of finality. "She damn may as well be as I count her among my kin in two weeks' time. You'd do best to remember that if you like your seats on this council." His cold irises meet each and every one of the members, daring them to turn their eyes and their back on her-and by extension on him. He will not take no for an answer.

"But she is also a prominent citizen and the Dragonborn." Cruel-Sea offers. "And she is counted as a citizen of this Hold so the highest penalty should be served either way." Cruel-Sea chimes in.

Galmar nods in agreement. "Yes, and if there is no execution, they will only try again later."

"Rightfully put, friend." Ulfric answers as he rubs his hand over his beard in thought. "I think the execution should be public. It would drive our point across even more."

No one dares to contradict the Jarl's wish this time, not wanting to be on the receiving end of his particularly bad temper this morning. It has been a few days since the attempt on Dahlia's life, and now she is upstairs resting and healing well. There are only a few lingering effects of dizziness leftover form the incident at this point, and once the poison is out of her system, she will be able to heal herself. She'll be fine in time for their wedding next Fredas.

"Don't you think the Lady Dragonborn should have some say in this matter?" Another member of the council offers, and Ulfric's eyes turn to him, nostrils flaring in easy irritation. "I-I don't mean to naysay you, my Lord. I only mean to involve the victim of this crime as well. Her voice should be heard."

He seems to consider the idea for a moment before answering. "Yes, she should. I will be sure to bring the idea to her; however, one way or another, there will be an execution. The only question is whether it is to be made public or not." He gestures to Jorleif who is sitting in the corner and taking notes of the meeting. "Bring me my good parchment and a quill, as well as my sealing wax. I want to start the writ immediately. There's no time to waste. Every breath that milk-drinking bastard takes is one too many."

After the writ is drawn up and and the meeting is over, the council members file out one by one, each of them carefully tipping their head in a bow to Ulfric before they leave. None of them want to make the same mistake as the new head councilman. The Jarl's temper is infamous throughout the Hold. Spend enough time in his presence, and one is bound to see why he inherited his father's title of the Bear of Eastmarch.

"Ulfric," Galmar starts. He is the only one other than the Jarl himself left inside the council chambers at this point. "Don't take this the wrong way, but-"

"I don't like the sound of where this conversation is going, friend." He snaps already testing his housecarl with his poor mood. Once an idea has gotten into Ulfric's head, he is more stubborn than spriggan sap.

"You know that I love you like a brother."

"I'm not going to like what you have to say, and I am not in the mood for good council at the moment, Galmar."

Stone-Fist folds his arms over his chest, digging himself in for a fight. He knows exactly how this will go. "But you need to hear it. That's why you keep me around here, and if you pulled your head from your ass for one moment, you'd know that Dahlia would tell you the same thing."

"You heard them, Galmar. If it were up to these cowards, they'd do nothing at all. Only sit on their hands and collect coin!"

"And I never said I disagreed with you, Ulfric. But you need to remember to argue with your head and not your temper. That stunt you pulled with Timothy and then the pitcher-"

"I was angry. You would have been too if it were-"

"You can't let your anger get the best of you!" He catches and holds Ulfric's eye despite the fact that he can see angry heat rolling like waves off of him. "This is exactly how you got that blasted reputation!"

The Jarl starts to protest, but Galmar will not allow him the time.

"Others do not see what I do. What Dahlia sees." He waves his hands vaguely towards towards Ulfric. "We know you because we are close to you-because you have let us in. They do not. You know I am right, but you're refusing to see it because of your drive, your passion, your bleeding heart."

At this, Ulfric deflates with a sigh. Of course Galmar would see that, and after all the years of standing by his side, his houscarl knows exactly what makes him tick down to the last Dwemer cog. This is a classic case of him letting his emotions run away from him. He means well not just for Dahlia, not just for Eastmarch, but for all of Skyrim. His deepest desires are not anchored in a desperate, selfish grab for power as most would be inclined to think. He truly believes in this. A better Skyrim which is free. The idea courses through his veins, swells his lungs, feeds his soul- it's the very dream which teases at the edges of his nightly fantasies and the nightmare which tears straight through to his guilty conscious.

"Thank you, Galmar, for the perspective." He rubs at his temples, trying to massage away the headache from earlier. He knows Galmar is right. While most times Ulfric is good about keeping a level-head about things and see the bigger picture, when it comes to those few things which really matter to him, he is selfish and blinded by that which he is afraid of losing. And what man wouldn't be? He is only human. However, if he wants to rule over Skyrim and see her into a new dawn, he is going to have to be more self-aware.

"It's the same thing you would do for me." Stone-Fist touches a hand to his shoulder, leaving Ulfric alone in the council room to ponder his life choices. Or rather the lack thereof. He has a job he is set out to do, and he cannot fail. No matter how selfish he would like to be. As much as he has decided upon this path for himself, it is just that: a straight line, where there are few choices and very little options for him in order to perform the duty he has bound himself to.

And Dahlia would tell him the same thing. She knows the strings of destiny and has followed them to her fate. If she knew how selfish he was acting, she would be disappointed in him. It's one of the reasons why he knows that someday she'll make a fine High Queen.

Not for the first time, he wonders what he has done to deserve her.

"I tried to tell them, and I know you have no reason to believe me, but I hope you would do so anyway. Why else would I come here and offer that I had this information?"

Dahlia looks intently at Rikke as she listens to her speak.

As if she had any other option. She has been laying in her and Ulfric's bed for the past two days as she waits for the poison in her system to finally dissipate.

"I still firmly believe in that the Empire was our best option for getting us out of this mess with the Thalmor..."

If she is trying to endear herself to Dahlia, this is certainly an interesting way of doing so. However, she continues to listen politely since it seems that the Legate is finally making some effort on her end to play civil with her.

"I have had a lot of time to think while I was in that cell, and you're right."

Dahlia raises her eyebrows with surprise. That's certainly not something she was expecting to hear from the Legate.

"Despite the fact we were on separate sides, we have to fight together, and you're the only hope out of this inevitable mess. You have to rule. Stand beside Ulfric and talk some sense into him." She sighs. "I know he isn't a bad person, but he needs guidance and to be reminded to himself at times. Ever since I have known him, he has always been passionate, but the Great War changed him. And I guess I can understand why, but at the same time he needs help. And that's you."

When the guards came to her room and first told her that Rikke was insisting that she be allowed to see her, she wasn't sure what to think about it, but she certainly didn't expect for her to admit to being contacted about her attempted assassination. And she definitely didn't expect for Rikke to come around and decide to back her and Ulfric.

"But why? Why now? You were so adamant that we would not see eye-to-eye." Dahlia finally finds a moment to ask.

"It is not that I have changed my mind, but rather that I have thought about what you have said-that the Empire has not been doing as it should. The Thalmor are left to run rampant and unchecked, and as much as it pains me, they never respected our Nord values." She seems to think about something else for a moment, biting her lip as if trying to keep the next words from spilling out. "Additionally, I have to see things from a realistic perspective. There are also the implications which go along with not supporting you and that would mean death at this point."

She is nothing if not pragmatic, and Dahlia can at least appreciate that. "So, it's all or nothing then. Throw yourself in with the lot you've been given and try your best to stay alive."

Rikke puts a hand up in protest at the sentiment, but now it is Dahlia's turn to speak and for her to listen.

"I don't begrudge you of that view. After all, that's what any of us want. To live. Maybe grasp at some small hope of happiness. I'd be lying if I told you that I wasn't doing the same. I didn't ask for this destiny, but I followed it all the same for a similar reason: I liked this world. I didn't want it to end, and I wanted to live. We're not so different you and I."

"No, I guess we're not." Rikke admits, the words coming out slowly as if it were hard to admit.

"Ulfric isn't all that different either, and neither is Galmar. They're only men. Flawed in some ways, but all they want is a better tomorrow."

"I know that better than you could ever know. They're not evil." The Legate crosses the room and finally pulls a chair over towards the bed to sit. "Ulfric has always been passionate about everything, and that's one of the reasons Galmar followed him. He has always had this way about him. The man says what he means, and he feels it deeply. His heart is in the right place, but his methods are lacking."

Dahlia sits with this revelation from Rikke for a while, turning over the admission in her head and checking against what she knows about Ulfric. It's not exactly a comfortable silence, but it is a necessary one. The two women have a lot to think about and a lot to learn from each other.

"What do you think you doing here?"

Dahlia and Rikke's eyes snap to Ulfric who is now standing at the doorway, his hand halfway to his axe.

"Ulfric, it's fine. Rikke actually-"

"What do you mean it's fine? Who authorized her being here?"

"I can take care of myself, and if you must know, I am the one who had her brought here. If you'd listen for 5 seconds, you'd know she has important information." Dahlia tells him not unkindly, yet sternly.

"It's fine. I can go." The Legate begins to stand, but Dahlia holds out a hand to her to stop her.

"No, you'll stay here and tell Ulfric exactly what you told me."

The Jarl takes in a deep breath and moves to sit on the bed next to Dahlia so that he is facing Rikke. "I'm listening."

"Your nobleman was not working alone."

"What do you mean?" He frowns as he looks to Dahlia next to him as if to confirm what Rikke is saying is true.

"She came to me of her own accord to tell me that she received a mysterious enchanted letter saying that she would be rewarded handsomely if she helped a 'mysterious, mutual' friend." Dahlia answers before placing a hand on one of Ulfric's. She knows this has to be difficult for him, and she appreciates that he is staying mostly calm. Every fiber of his being must be shouting at him to quickly lock Rikke away.

"And why wasn't this information brought to our attention earlier if you knew something?"

"I tried to tell the guards, but you can imagine the reason why they didn't say anything just as well as I can. None of them wanted to believe me. I'm just a prisoner here-and Imperial sympathizer. They had the same reaction that you did when you walked in and saw me here."

"This is unacceptable. If they had-"

"But they didn't, and that's all past us now. I don't want to dwell on it any longer." Dahlia squeezes Ulfric's hand under her own. While she is dealing with this whole situation as gracefully as she can and putting on a brave face for him, she is still a bit shaken.

"I will have a talk with the captain and try to figure out where this oversight happened. There will be consequences, just as there will be consequences for Raffi Green-Kettle."

"And what did you decide to do about him? I know you were just in a meeting." Dahlia asks a little nervously. She is almost certain she knows what Ulfric is going to say, but she is worried about the outcome. He was livid as he was getting ready this morning.

"A public execution. Preferably tomorrow. I had actually wanted to talk to you about this. You're the one who was affected, so your opinion should be heard."

Rikke watches the conversation unfold between them, noting the way he treats Dahlia with care and values her opinion. It would almost bring a smile to her face if it didn't remind her of what she once had with Galmar. Either way, she is happy that Ulfric has found someone who matches him.

"Well," Dahlia hesitates as she about what she will tell him. She's never been asked something like this before. And she knows that the execution is inevitable. "I can understand why you would sentence the man to death, and I am not saying that you shouldn't. He did make an attempt on my life...but public? Is that really necessary? It's a little gruesome, don't you think?"

Ulfric glances at Rikke as if also to gage her response to his decision. Her face stays neutral, a trained indifference she has learned from many years in the Imperial army next to General Tullius. He'll get nothing from her.

"While it is not pleasant, it is not often that I, or any other Jarl, calls for something public. However, this is a grave offense, and if an example isn't made, there are sure to be more attempts."

"I understand, and I guess you are right." Dahlia concedes. "It should be public exactly for this reason. That still doesn't mean I have to like it."

At her answer, Ulfric breathes a sigh of relief. It makes him feel safer this way. He then turns his attention back to Rikke. "Do you have any more information or any ideas as to who tried to contact you?"

She shakes her head. "Unfortunately, I do not, or I would have given it to you. Whoever it is went to great lengths to make sure you'd have no indication as to who did this. I'm assuming you've already interrogated the lord?"

"Yes, thoroughly. There is nothing that he has been able to tell us, and as far as we can tell, he genuinely doesn't know who it is or even why they asked him to do this." Ulfric admits.

"Then, there is nothing else we can do about the matter now except to be on our guard." Dahlia offers. "Thank you, Rikke, for coming to me. It is appreciated."

With nothing else to be said, the Legate bows her head and stands from her chair to walk towards the door where there is a guard waiting to take her back to her cell.

"Rikke," Ulfric calls out to her. "I would also like to thank you. You didn't have to do this, and I am sure that perhaps you were a little more than nervous about how I would react to this situation, so I'm grateful. I'll be making other arrangements for you soon. The Bloodworks is not exactly comfortable."

She nods her head as a guard leads her by chain back down to the lowest level of the Palace. There is a lot to think about after this conversation. It seems that perhaps her guess was right: perhaps, Ulfric isn't quite hopeless yet, especially if Dahlia is backing him.