The next month tests the newly-crowned King and Queen in ways that neither of them had anticipated. The slew of paperwork making its way across Ulfric's desk as well as the streams of nearly-constant petitioners flowing through their doors were expected, even anticipated. However, since their ascension to the throne, there have been more meetings with an even bigger council as Windhelm has been made the new capital. More than ever before, questioning eyes have been following them everywhere.
As new noblemen and other such hangers-on make their way into the city, the judgement of cosmopolitan Cyrodiil follows. Solitude was a different way of life, one with balls and spectacles to entertain the masses and keep them happy, lulled into a state of sedation. Here, these courtiers will not find the same vapid creature comforts which play so well into their vanity for everything in Windhelm is shades of grey. Brightly colored birds who twitter and squawk have no place here as they are quickly disposed of by those who are far more hardened and far more patient. The ways of intrigue and court politics of this Hold are not like the courting dances of mating birds, but rather more likened to the hunt. Those who vie for the High King and Queen's attentions must tread carefully or risk a larger bird of prey emerging from behind the grey to swallow them whole.
It is no less true for Ulfric and Dahlia's current situation. As more eyes look upon them, the shadows of hungry vultures follow, waiting to sink their talons and teeth into them. It only takes one moment of weakness, one small and minuscule slip-up, and they will descend upon them in a feast. However, Ulfric has no intention of that ever happening. He has played this game for longer than most of them. Some would even say he invented the rules or at the very least has mastered bending them to his liking.
Unfortunately for him, this is not the only preoccupation which has been eating away at his already severely-shortened sleep schedule.
As Dahlia has been moving further along into her pregnancy, her state of health has become more delicate as of late. Most mornings Ulfric awakens only to see her eyes are already open, and she is leaned miserably over a metal bucket next to their bed. And so, he starts most of his days with one arm wrapped tightly around her as the other holds the hair back from her face as she is sick. What else is he to do?
Later, when Dahlia feels more herself and the nausea has subsided, she always apologizes profusely for being an inconvenience to him, and every time he waves her off. It is the very least he can do for her since she is carrying their child. He only wishes he could do more for her.
Little does he know that she wishes echo his own.
Dahlia spends most of her hours laying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, trying to read a book, or attempting to do some of the paperwork she has had Jorleif or Galmar smuggle into their room. Or at least that was what she was doing to try to help make a dent in his daily workload...until he found out about it.
"Lyssa specifically stated on her last visit, 'No stress. No work.'"
"I am sure that Lyssa wouldn't mind if I helped read and sign a few papers. That is no trouble at all." She look at him with tired eyes.
"You need to be resting, and leave everything to me. I can handle it." He argues back as he takes one of her hands in his own and brings it to his lips.
She shakes her hand from his. "But I am resting, Ulfric. That is all I do. I am hardly even allowed to get out of this bed to take a turn about the room or visit Lydia."
"I am doing all I can to take care of you and make sure the baby-"
The next words she says are unfair, and she knows it, yet in her frustration she says them anyway. "Yes, and you're doing such a good job of that by the way. I hear you come in at half past 3 in the morning almost every night. Love, why can't you come to bed, and-"
"You know why I cannot." To his credit, he tries to be patient with her, as he knows she does not mean the words she says in the manner it comes out. "We have a responsibility to our people."
"But you do not have to shoulder that burden alone. Please." She reaches out a hand to him, grasping it tightly as if he were her lifeline keeping her from sinking.
Ulfric sighs tiredly. There is no way that he can win and the sooner he realizes this, the better for him it will be. "I do not know what you want from me." He tells her quietly as he looks back at her, his eyes pleading with her for some understanding.
But she does understand, and perhaps that is the worst part about it.
"Take a moment, and be still." She implores him as she slowly takes his hand and places it to her stomach. "Feel this?" She moves his hand so it grazes over the small swell there. "We are soon going to be a family." Dahlia looks up at him a fragile smile gracing the corners of her lips, her eyes shining up at him in the tenuous candlelight of their room.
For a singular moment, he obeys her wishes, and he is still. The shadows dissolve from the room and disappear from his face as he looks down at her and feels the gentle curve of her stomach. It is as if she were lit from within as she glows from somewhere deep inside herself-a place of pure happiness and contentment. He wishes sorely he could hold onto it for just a little longer before he has to snuff it out.
Pulling away from her slightly, he looks down at her with a guilty frown, and she already knows what he's going to say before he so much as sucks in a breath. "I have to go, my heart." He tells her as one of his fingers rubs slow circles on the back of her hand.
Dahlia swallows hard and looks away from him while biting her lip. She can already feel the skin under her teeth trembling, and if she was not holding herself back, an avalanche of tears would be sure to follow. As much as she was fighting with him just moments ago, she doesn't want to make things any more difficult for him than they already are.
"I will be back soon." He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, but she refuses to look at him.
They both know his words are a lie, but he says them anyway as if wanting them to be true would make it any less painful for either of them. He may as well be wishing on falling stars for all the good it will do.
She allows him to go, being as kind to him as she can despite the fact that she feels she will disintegrate into dust at any moment.
Before leaving her, Ulfric settles for kissing Dahlia on the cheek one last time. He would have liked to do more and give her a proper kiss, but he can see that he is already pushing her frazzled emotions enough as it is. As much as it breaks his heart, he does what is best for her.
And then, not more than a few seconds later, she is alone again, left with nothing but the quickly-fading residual heat from the place where his lips touched her tear-stained cheek.
"And what do you expect me to do now? It is not as if I can snap my fingers and have everything fixed all at once." Ulfric quips as he leans back in his chair. "There is only so much we can do, and if you haven't noticed, the efforts to reestablish Skyrim have been moving in a positive direction as of late."
"Yes, but it is unfortunately not enough. When you were elected as the next High King at the Moot, we had expected swift change." A new council member from Whiterun states, frustration in his tone. "We have not seen any benefit as of yet."
Ulfric folds his arms over his chest defensively. "The changes are there, but the effects of them will ripple slowly into the rest of the country. These things take time, and you would know that if you stuck your head out and took a walk through the Docks or even the Snow Quarter."
"A lot of that was done was because of your wife. It's common knowledge that everyone knows. Would you have moved your feet so quickly otherwise? Speaking go her, where is the Dragonborn anyway? She is just as integral to the process, and as High Queen, I had thought she would be attending these meetings meetings as well-"
"She is on bed rest." He folds his arms over his chest defensively. "Not that I owe you an explanation."
"How far is she along and when will we be seeing the heir to the throne?" Another council member interjects.
"By Summer." He answer curtly, not giving them any more information than that. It is his and his wife's personal business, not theirs.
"At least that is one less worry we have. Divines know we don't need a war of succession after finishing the Civil War."
"Any news from Hammerfell?" Lord Timberwood asks, directing the attention of the council back to matters at hand.
"We only sent Ralof out on his assignment a few weeks ago. I don't think he has even reached the border yet."
"Why such a delay? Isn't this of the utmost importance?" Lord Corolius chimes in. He does so at any moment there is an opportunity to pick at Ulfric's perceived inefficiency as if he thinks he could do the job of High King any better.
"As stated in our last meeting, we could not send any official emissaries until I was crowned. I sent them the day after."
Lord Levus Corolius sniffs, clearly unsatisfied with his answer but taking it anyway. At least for now. Perhaps at a later date there might be something he can do to stir the waters.
"If there is nothing else which requires my immediate attention, I will adjourn this meeting as I am required elsewhere at the moment." He bites his tongue on what he really wants to say, thinking of Dahlia and what she would tell him if she were here. You will attract more friends with mead than with water.
The members look between each other, some of them nodding their heads before bowing to their King and leaving the council room.
"Took you long enough." Galmar pushes off from the wall he is leaning against and makes his way over to the table Ulfric is sitting at.
"I would have ended it sooner, but they are right to be entitled to their frustrations. Skyrim is still very much a mess." Ulfric sighs as he pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. "But at the same time, patience is necessary."
"I have an idea, if you're willing to hear it, that is." Rikke also steps forward from one of the corners of the room. He had asked her to attend the council meetings as well so that she might give him some further perspective.
He nods at her, gesturing to one of the chairs beside himself for her to sit.
"I think you're going to need to make a bigger display for them. Tangible action speaks louder to these people than anything else-other than septims jingling in their pockets, of course."
Ulfric leans forward to rest his chin in one of his calloused palms as he chews on Rikke's statement. It is more than apparent to him that there is wisdom in her words, and he had even considered what else he might do for his people-something that is quick, well within budget, and easily in his power to pull off at such a short notice.
A light headache pounds behind his temples as he pulls at the overtired muscles in his brain to get them to work. Bright ideas for him have been few and far between as of late. He has been burning himself at both ends and is certain that the effects will catch up with him sooner than not-especially with the moods Dahlia has been in.
"I'll think about it. Thank you for your advice as always, Rikke. It has been valuable to have you back with us and fighting on the same side."
"I still think that you should set an example. Roll a few heads, metaphorically speaking, of course." Galmar interjects.
The ex-Legate shakes her head as she smirks at Galmar. "Perhaps if you would take that bear helm off, you'd have more thoughtful ideas beyond that of your battleaxe."
Heonly narrows his eyes back at her in response, and Ulfric smiles despite himself. It it is good to see that someone is able to retain their sense of good humor throughout this new stage in their lives.
"How have you been holding up, your Majesty?" Galmar turns on him, trying to needle him a bit and pull him out of the sullen state he has been in lately. "Are you ready?"
Is he ready? It is a loaded question. Ready for what? And when has he ever been truly ready for anything? His pretty words and carefully composed speeches are woven together to give the appearance that he knows what he is doing, but how much of that is pure instinct which is later supplemented by many sleepless nights of strategic planning? Up until now, it has worked in his favor, but he wonders if at some point in time, his luck will run dry. What will he be left with, and who will he be then?
Instead of speaking his mind, he pushes his thoughts down as he has always done, compounding them until they inevitably hit critical mass to spill forth and charge him with interest.
"I am always as ready as I am going to be." Ulfric says eventually, a non-answer not going beyond scratching anything beneath the surface of everything roiling beneath this façade. He is not prepared to release that wave upon him or anyone else for that matter. He'll save that for late nights behind his desk as he ruminates with a glass of something stronger than the watered-down mead they serve at council meetings.
"Oh come now, old man. You can't mean to tell me you aren't excited about the little bear cooking in Dahlia's oven." Galmar looks at him with a knowing stare before adding in a gentler, less teasing tone. "I know you've wanted a family for a long time."
"Is this your way of telling me that you'd like to be Uncle Galmar?" Ulfriic quips, playing into his hand. It will be the only way to get him off of his back.
"Perhaps it is more than a bit too late for Rikke and I to have any children of our own, but you know that you are family to me, and any offspring of yours is as good as my own."
"Careful there, Bear-Helm, someone will think you actually have feelings under that helmet." Rikke jabs.
Galmar bites his tongue as her response manages to wrestle a chuckle out of their High King. He's seen the stress and the weight of Ulfric's new duties and knows the man needs a break. If Rikke poking fun at his expense affords even a little humor, he'll allow it for now. "Laugh all you want, but you're the one who agreed to marry me, so what does that say about you?"
"That perhaps I had one too many brain cells knocked loose during the Civil War."
"Remind me again who won that war and whose side you are on now?" Ulfric joins in with the first genuine smile either of them have seen all day. Their objective has been met.
"Don't be so smug, my King." Rikke retorts. "You still have a lot of work ahead of you."
And there it is, the reminder. Ulfric sighs loudly as the gears in his head start turning again. "I will deal with this mess all on another day. For now, I have paperwork waiting for me, and that's infinitely less tiresome than dealing with you two."
For once, it would seem that today the papers scattered upon Ulfric's desk have finally cooperated, organizing themselves into saintly rows and pristine coordinated piles. He leans back in his chair and inspects the contents spread across its surface-there is actually space where he could put things. It is a first for him in what feels like the Divines know when. He savors it for a moment, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath: sky above, peace within.
After spending the last week glued to this exact space, save for a few court appearances, his hard work has finally paid dividends. Perhaps he will even be able to go to bed early tonight, hold onto his wife, and listen to her read to him from one of her many books about magic or whatnot. He doesn't care what it is as long as he gets to listen to her voice, and he knows that it would please he greatly.
While things have been a bit strained between the two of them as of late, he knows that it is neither of their faults, even if he does sorely wish that Dahlia's ire would not find him so often. What else can he expect from her at this point? And how much can he expect her to bite her tongue when she's so clearly uncomfortable? If he were in her boots, he is certain he would have Shouted down half of the Palace (or more) by now.
Maybe he will even surprise her tonight when he comes to bed and-
One of his eyes cracks open as his thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of raised voices floating intrusively into his office, disturbing his peace and harmony. He leans forward in his chair, and it creaks ominously as if protesting and warning him to ignore the disturbance while he still can.
"I do not know what you speak of, and I would appreciate it if you would not address me in that tone of voice..."
Dahlia.
What is she doing downstairs?
His heart skips a beat as he begins to collect his things, and he leaves the room.
She should not be down here. She's supposed to be resting and-
"Here you are dressed in fine silks which our Jarl and High King provides for you, but what have you done since you've been crowned? We have not seen you once." The voice of one of the commoners echoes through the room, her tone discordant and bristling. "I had to walk two miles to get here because I could not afford to take the cart, yet you act as if going down two flights of stairs is a burden to you."
"I am sorry I have not been able to be as present recently, but with recent developments I have not been feeling well."
He can hear Dahlia's voice clear as day, strained as and tired, as she tries her best to navigate whatever situation is unfolding. She's probably leaned back all the way on her throne and-
"None of us have been feeling particularly well, your Highness. As you should know, the Winter has been harsh. Provisions, crops, and assistance has been hard to come by, and with the new taxes..."
"It is a way for all of us to contribute to the greater good of our Hold and keep things running-"
"Then why haven't we seen any of this yet. Are you keeping it all for yourself?" The woman in front of her spits.
"There is a shipment scheduled for tomorrow to leave for the outer communities, but they have been delayed due to-"
"Excuses. You're no hero of the people, just a worm like the rest of us, only you crawled out of your hole and now pretend that you are some champion." Her eyes narrow at her as she thrusts a finger towards Dahlia, stabbing at her with harsh accusation. "Your care not for any of us and could not be less bothered if we rotted beneath the feet you hope we kiss."
A new voice clears its throat interrupting the conversation before speaking. "Whatever qualms you have with my wife and your High Queen, you have to take up with both of us as we rule this Hold and country together."
The petitioner turns slowly, eyes widening slightly to see Ulfric standing at the entrance to the Great Hall, his back leaned casually against a wall. While his body language would suggest that he is relaxed as he rests comfortably against the stones of the Palace, his eyes are filled with nothing but hardened flint. He is ready to be struck as hot sparks dance behind the coolness of his irises.
"Is there something you'd like to say about the way we have been running this Hold? If so, please speak up. We are always happy to hear feedback from our people, especially since we both personally risked our lives to bring safety and security to you."
While the words sound innocent enough, his voice measured in careful yet level tones, it is hard to miss the thinly-veiled threat behind his statement.
The woman backtracks quickly, bowing her head slightly as she stares hard at the floor beneath her. "I-I was just telling her Majesty that things have been hard for us outside the capital as of late, especially with the canceling of the New Life Festival. It is a tradition we have held for a long time and the food and drink offered there help us all to cope with the harshest months."
To some extent, he understands, and it is true that they did cancel the formal festival which normally takes place in the city in favor of encouraging smaller celebrations in individual homes. Funds have been spread thin for them as of late what with financing Torsten's boats, making repairs to Helgen, and sending much needed aid to other Holds.
Perhaps this is the opportunity Ulfric is looking for to practice what Rikke had suggested earlier. He spares a moment to look over to his wife, his displeasure welling within him as he can see how she has placed a hand over her stomach as if trying to protect herself and their baby. Taking in a deep breath, he blows it out slowly to keep his head firmly placed between his shoulders. It would not do to lose his temper now.
"We might be able to see what we can do about reinstating the festival at a reduced capacity which everyone might enjoy. More efforts should be made between all of us to understand the situation we are currently in." Ulfric looks pointedly at the petitioner, his eyes narrowing. "Many would not do any better in this situation and to take it out on your High Queen who has done nothing but advocate for you is unacceptable."
The woman at least has the foresight to attempt to look guilty as she bows to them both. "Thank you both, your Majesties."
"Now go." He points behind her to the closed front door of the Palace. "We will not be seeing anyone else for the day." Ulfric nods a head towards Jorleif. "Any further issues can be taken up by our steward who will make sure they are seen to."
Without so much as a glance to the other occupants of the room, Ulfric swiftly makes his way over to his wife, taking one of her warm hands firmly in his and pulling her up from her throne to lead her out of the Great Hall.
"My heart," he begins as he looks down at her, the corners of his lips pressed down in concern.
"I know what you're going to say Ulfric, but-"
He stops suddenly, turning her to face him and placing a hand under her chin so she is forced to look up at him. For a moment, he says nothing more, only looking at her with gentleness in his eyes, before leaning down to press his lips to hers.
The kiss is soft and sweet-reminiscent of those first days with her where they were guided only by their wants and not forced so much to think about their needs nor obligations. Slowly, his arms come up to wrap around her and draw her in closer, pressing them as close as he can while his hands roam up and down her sides in carefully-measured circles. By now he knows very well the answer to what she wants as well as what she needs: a bit of warm affection until she yields to him.
And after a few seconds, there it is. A shiver which rolls down her spine, comforting like the cooling rains after the unbearable heat of Last Seed. She sighs as she leans into him, and he takes advantage, slipping his tongue into her mouth and deepening their kiss. He breathes her in as much as he can, selfishly enjoying the feeling of her in is arms and what his touch does to her.
No one ever said he was always a good man, and this is as much for him as it is for her.
Eventually, she pulls back from him, inhaling deeply as if he had stolen the very air from her lungs. When she regains her voice, it is barely above a whisper. "What was that all about?" Her eyes look up at him slightly dazed from their kiss.
A hand moves to cup her cheek before burying itself into her hair. "Do I need a reason to kiss my wife and mother of my future child?"
"Well, no but...aren't you going to scold me for being out of bed?"
"Do you want me to?" His hand moves from her hair to slide down to the small of her back.
She sighs. "No, not particularly."
"Then, I won't but-"
"Here it comes..."
His lips turn up into a teasing smile. "-you should be in bed."
Dahlia shakes her head but laughs despite herself. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist."
"You're quite right." He leans forward to kiss her again, this time on the forehead. "I can't resist you, but you still need to go back to bed."
"The irony of this situation is not lost on me, I will have you know. Normally, I am the one pulling you into bed."
"And now I return the favor. Come now." He laces his fingers through hers and leads her back to their room. "I'll even let you momentarily distract me before I go back to paperwork."
"What a generous offer." She quips at first, the bite of it a little more harsh than she intended, so she amends herself. "That would be nice."
"Someone recently told me to slow down, so I am taking those words to heart."
Ah, yes. Of course, he would use her own words against her. He is ever the tactful politician.
"Wise words. You should listen to that person more often." The corners of her lips twitch as she teases him.
"On second thought, perhaps I should just go back down to my office." He pulls away from her slightly, not so much for her to think he is actually going to leave, but just enough to continue to provoke her.
"You wouldn't!" She grips his hand tightly as she looks up at him incredulously.
"Wouldn't I?" He challenges, leaning over her as he presses her back into the door.
She shakes her head and swallows. He's just toying with her now. "No, you would not."
Ulfric then does the unthinkable; he leaves her at the door, turning to walk down the hall away from her.
Dahlia stares at him, thoughts whirling. "Where are you going?" The question is panicked and small as it falls from her lips. She didn't think he would really leave.
However, then he turns to her, an apologetic smile set on his face, "To get my paperwork and bring it here. I'm going to be spending the afternoon with you."
In plain mid-Winter the frozen tundras of Skyrim are nothing but dead and grey shadows of future begotten seasons-the ghost of what once was or what will be. It is hard for anyone to believe in such stark conditions that there ever was a season where tender shoots of leaves pushed forth from the forests and blades of grass whispered in the wind. No matter which way Ralof turns, the monotoned landscapes are a wasteland laid bare as they stretch out before him as far as his eyes can see.
He is no stranger to the abandoned landscapes this time of year brings as he crawls through brambles of brittle undergrowth which snap crisply beneath his feat. However, with two weeks on the road, what he wouldn't give to see the lush forests of Riverwood in full bloom or even the jeweled greens of the great evergreen forests of Eastmarch. He is starved for color, drained of anything which would give some semblance that this blur of flat delirium will cease any time soon.
When he was asked to act as an emissary for the High King and Queen, he was honored to take the job. He still is, but travel has been slow going as he trudges through the snow and slush of the backroads in Skyrim, and he had hoped to be at the border almost a week ago.
Picking up his head to cast another futile look across the sleeping forests of southern Falkreath, only the barest glimmer of promise is in sight as he observes the ever-looming Jerall mountain pass getting closer. Sentinel seems so very far away and nearly impossible to reach. He sighs, letting out a puff of more frosty air to add to the expanse of already too many shades white before him.
At least when he crosses through Halldir's Carin over the border, he will be able to take a horse to make things easier on him. As a precautionary measure, he has decided to go on foot until reaching Hammerfell. There have been reports of scattered remnants of Imperial military camps attacking anyone getting too close to Cyrodiil, even more so since the assassination of the Emperor.
Once he reaches Elinhir, it should only be another week until he reaches Hammerfell's capital. At least, that is what he hopes.
With every step he takes, the significance of the letter he carries weighs heavier and heavier upon him. Ralof chews on his lip as he thinks about its contents-the hope that is placed solely into his hands. He has not felt so important since he his promotion to officer months ago during the heat of in the Civil War. Back then, lives depended on him as they trusted him to command and see the way through to the end. While it is only a single piece of parchment, he still feels the gravity of it just as acutely. It is not just a small contingent of lives which are at stake now but rather all of Skyrim. He can feel their bodies piling up atop his shoulders and pressing him into the slushy mud of the path he currently walks.
How long will he be able to carry them, and what if he should fail and come back empty-handed?
Ralof shakes his head, forcing the thought away abruptly. If he continues to think about it, it will only suck him further down into his own personal Void.
Instead, his heavy steps continue to trudge forward towards his destination. There is no use panicking about it now. What will be will be, and he cannot afford to be distracted.
Several minutes later that focus and attention is required of him as he hears the howling of wolves accompanied by sounds of a struggle in the distance. Picking up his pace, Ralof hurries to see if it might be someone in trouble, and when he sees who it is, he momentarily freezes.
Elisindir? His eyes narrow. But what is he doing all the way out here in the wilds of Falkreath?
He shakes his head and moves into action, drawing his sword from its scabbard and charging into the fray. While he is suspicious of him, his sense of duty will not allow him to leave the man to fend for himself. Strangely, Elisindir hasn't cast any spells, and instead wields a small enchanted dagger as he sits precariously on top of a bolder.
The more he sees, the more he is confused, and Ralof furrows his eyebrows. Aren't the Elves gifted in magicka? Why isn't he attacking?
Sword in hand, Ralof rushes to the first of the large beasts, thrusting his sword through a space above the ribcage before spinning away and parrying another which leaps at him. It has been a while since he has fought much of anything, and his muscles scream in protest as adrenaline pumps through him. Despite the fact that it has been months since he has seen battle, he is still sharp as ever. Perhaps it is something he will never forget.
He manages to keep the remaining three wolves at bay, and he casts a glance over to the Altmer, hoping that he will do anything which may be of help. Skilled as he may be, numbers overwhelm and the pack has an upper hand in that area.
"Any day now, Elf." Ralof shouts over to him as another wolf charges at him. He sticks one of his arms out and uses the momentum to throw the beast over his shoulder. "I could use a hand here, eh."
Elisindir looks down at him from his perched position, silvery hair falling forward into his face. What can he do? He has never been any good at Destruction or most other schools of offensive magic. Ever since he was a child, his magicka has always been stunted and more biased towards defense-something which his mother has never let him forget. He bites his lip as he throws up his arms and casts the only spell he knows which would assist his rescuer.
Ironflesh surges from his fingertips in faint grey strands as he manipulates the minerals around him. He guides it carefully towards Ralof, concentrating as his fingers move in elegant patterns to knit magic and reality together into an armor that might be of some use to him.
As Elisindir untethers himself from the spell, Ralof feels the sudden weight of something falling over his shoulders. Momentarily, the sensation catches him off guard, and one of the wolves brings its big paws up to his chest. He braces for the impact; however, it never comes. Instead of slicing through his flesh to the bone, the claws slide uselessly off of his skin barely leaving more than a scratch.
He brings his hands up to his face feeling the strange gravity of the spell pulling down on him and chances a glance to Elisindir. The look is fleeting, not more than a second, but he can just see the barest tinge at the tips of the Elf's ears before his attention is redirected to the two remaining wolves attacking them.
With this new armor cocooning his body, Ralof makes short work of them, and soon the beasts have all fall around him. He takes a moment to wipe his the plate edge of his sword in the snow before turning back to the Altmer watching him and pointing his blade towards him.
His voice is a low growl, threat made evident through stance and well as tone. "What in Oblivion are you doing here, and where do you think are you going?"