“So he’s an Imperial,” Dyce was explaining to Ysgarald. “But he was raised by Nords in the true Nord fashion. It’s actually a bit of a mystery, I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
“Uh huh. Does he want to join the Stormcloaks?”
“I don’t know.” Dyce winked, “You should ask him.”
“Look, I know you mean well, but-”
“Can you just please tell him I’m here? I don’t want him to go home. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Go on.”
Ysarald relented, shaking his head.
“Perhaps you should concentrate less on matchmaking and more on strategy,” Galmar suggested.
“Be honest,” Dyce said. “Which would you prefer to be doing, matchmaking or strategy?”
“Strategy!”
“Well that’s great,” he grinned. “You handle the strategy and I’ll handle the matchmaking and everyone’s happy. Anyway, here are the reports, have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Well, he got you there,” Ulfric observed, as Galmar tried to marshal some defence to Dyce’s logic, all far, far too late.
Galmar didn’t have time to argue about it, as he was making last minute decisions before he left to begin the next offensive. Ysarald returned several hours later, grinning and slightly drunk and he had to confess Dyce hadn’t stayed very long and he didn’t know where he was.
When a guard eventually reported that Dyce was at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, Ulfric wasn’t entirely surprised. His Thane clearly loved slumming, even by the standards of Bretons, and was often seen sitting around the fire with the Khajiit who sometimes camped outside the city walls.
“Well, go and tell him he’s needed here,” Ulfric said.
The guard returned alone. Ulfric sighed, “Well, let’s hear it.”
“He said uh, that if you wanted to talk to him, that uh, you’re welcome to join him. At the New Gnisis Cornerclub...” the guard trailed off.
“Right. Dismissed. I’ll deal with him and his doubtlessly massive hangover tomorrow morning.” Ulfric looked out down the hall. Galmar had gone, and Ysarald had stumbled to bed. Jorlief was sitting at the table, looking tired and dutiful. It was very quiet. “Go to bed, Jorlief,” Ulfric said, rising from his throne. “We all need rest.”
He felt old as he ascended the stairs to the sleeping quarters. His palace was full of old men, he realised. Save for Dyce. He took off his jarl’s armoured robes and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.
“It’s my city,” he murmured. “Why the hell not, if he can?”
Still he was not remotely foolish enough to put his robes of office back on. He found some nondescript clothes in the closet and a long fur cape and hood, the latter he pulled down low over his face. How many of the Dark Elves might recognise him he had no idea. It was better to keep a low profile.
Ulfric heard Ysarald snoring in his room as he hurried past, the guards nodding at him as he left the Palace of the Kings for the swirling snow and dark night outside. For a few moments he stood there, feeling the cold pinch at his face and burrowing his bare hands deeper under his cloak. It was very late. Guards were patrolling, and a drunk was singing badly somewhere, but otherwise the city was quiet.
It grew less so as he ventured into the muck of the Grey Quarter. People were still awake here; he could hear conversations behind closed doors and out in front of the New Gnisis Cornerclub, from which spilled light and conversation and the smell of strange cooking, several Dark Elves were lounging around despite the cold.
Ulfric ducked his head and pulled his cloak close as he stomped past them, vowing to make them regret it if they started something. They didn’t. They watched him go past with mild interest and returned to their conversations.
It was not like a normal inn in here. For a start the air was thick with smoke, and the kind of cooking smells that made Ulfric’s eyes water. No one was singing, or fighting. There was a lot of noise though; intense conversations, the clatter of wooden or bone dice across the tables, and the clink and scrape of glasses and chairs. Everyone was in constant motion; once a point of conversation had been concluded half the participants stood up and went to different tables to start the next one.
What's a Thief to a King? M!DB/Ulfric 8/??
“Uh huh. Does he want to join the Stormcloaks?”
“I don’t know.” Dyce winked, “You should ask him.”
“Look, I know you mean well, but-”
“Can you just please tell him I’m here? I don’t want him to go home. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Go on.”
Ysarald relented, shaking his head.
“Perhaps you should concentrate less on matchmaking and more on strategy,” Galmar suggested.
“Be honest,” Dyce said. “Which would you prefer to be doing, matchmaking or strategy?”
“Strategy!”
“Well that’s great,” he grinned. “You handle the strategy and I’ll handle the matchmaking and everyone’s happy. Anyway, here are the reports, have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Well, he got you there,” Ulfric observed, as Galmar tried to marshal some defence to Dyce’s logic, all far, far too late.
Galmar didn’t have time to argue about it, as he was making last minute decisions before he left to begin the next offensive. Ysarald returned several hours later, grinning and slightly drunk and he had to confess Dyce hadn’t stayed very long and he didn’t know where he was.
When a guard eventually reported that Dyce was at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, Ulfric wasn’t entirely surprised. His Thane clearly loved slumming, even by the standards of Bretons, and was often seen sitting around the fire with the Khajiit who sometimes camped outside the city walls.
“Well, go and tell him he’s needed here,” Ulfric said.
The guard returned alone. Ulfric sighed, “Well, let’s hear it.”
“He said uh, that if you wanted to talk to him, that uh, you’re welcome to join him. At the New Gnisis Cornerclub...” the guard trailed off.
“Right. Dismissed. I’ll deal with him and his doubtlessly massive hangover tomorrow morning.” Ulfric looked out down the hall. Galmar had gone, and Ysarald had stumbled to bed. Jorlief was sitting at the table, looking tired and dutiful. It was very quiet. “Go to bed, Jorlief,” Ulfric said, rising from his throne. “We all need rest.”
He felt old as he ascended the stairs to the sleeping quarters. His palace was full of old men, he realised. Save for Dyce. He took off his jarl’s armoured robes and sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.
“It’s my city,” he murmured. “Why the hell not, if he can?”
Still he was not remotely foolish enough to put his robes of office back on. He found some nondescript clothes in the closet and a long fur cape and hood, the latter he pulled down low over his face. How many of the Dark Elves might recognise him he had no idea. It was better to keep a low profile.
Ulfric heard Ysarald snoring in his room as he hurried past, the guards nodding at him as he left the Palace of the Kings for the swirling snow and dark night outside. For a few moments he stood there, feeling the cold pinch at his face and burrowing his bare hands deeper under his cloak. It was very late. Guards were patrolling, and a drunk was singing badly somewhere, but otherwise the city was quiet.
It grew less so as he ventured into the muck of the Grey Quarter. People were still awake here; he could hear conversations behind closed doors and out in front of the New Gnisis Cornerclub, from which spilled light and conversation and the smell of strange cooking, several Dark Elves were lounging around despite the cold.
Ulfric ducked his head and pulled his cloak close as he stomped past them, vowing to make them regret it if they started something. They didn’t. They watched him go past with mild interest and returned to their conversations.
It was not like a normal inn in here. For a start the air was thick with smoke, and the kind of cooking smells that made Ulfric’s eyes water. No one was singing, or fighting. There was a lot of noise though; intense conversations, the clatter of wooden or bone dice across the tables, and the clink and scrape of glasses and chairs. Everyone was in constant motion; once a point of conversation had been concluded half the participants stood up and went to different tables to start the next one.