Then the Legate - a big, wiry man, lips tilted just enough to suggest a smirk - put a gleaming dagger to Ulfric's throat. Everyone knows you whore for him as well as his so-called cause, the man said. Drop the sword. She did, and opened her mouth.
NO, the man barked. Turn around. Now Shout - but listen carefully. If I see you move from that spot, or if any one of my men is harmed, I will bleed your beloved killer of kings like a squealing pig. As Ulfric tried to swallow around the cloth in his mouth and the knife digging into his throat he saw her shoulders stiffen - and then she clenched her fists, raised her head, and bellowed OD-AH-VIING!
Nothing happened. Now, the Legate snarled, and his soldiers rushed forward to bind her, near-tripping over themselves in their hurry to render the Dragonborn less dangerous.
They're frightened boys, many of them. When the Legate pulled her to him by her hair more than a few turned rather green. But others looked excited, and when the man removed Ulfric's gag and tossed it to them (put that on her, I want to hear him beg) they complied, grinning. There will be no help from that quarter. Nor will his own Shouts do any good, not against so many, not when most of his own men are wounded and all of them are bound.
Elenwen, Ulfric reminds himself. Broken ribs grating, lungs screaming, shock magic crackling over his body until he smells burning hair. A thick grunt jerks him free from the memory.
Don't look.
Out of the corner of his eye he chances a desperate glance at the others. Their faces are bent towards their laps: Ralof's white-lipped and sick, Galmar's dark and terrible.
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timeasmymeasure
Defiance 2/?
Date: 2013-06-24 04:08 am (UTC)NO, the man barked. Turn around. Now Shout - but listen carefully. If I see you move from that spot, or if any one of my men is harmed, I will bleed your beloved killer of kings like a squealing pig. As Ulfric tried to swallow around the cloth in his mouth and the knife digging into his throat he saw her shoulders stiffen - and then she clenched her fists, raised her head, and bellowed OD-AH-VIING!
Nothing happened. Now, the Legate snarled, and his soldiers rushed forward to bind her, near-tripping over themselves in their hurry to render the Dragonborn less dangerous.
They're frightened boys, many of them. When the Legate pulled her to him by her hair more than a few turned rather green. But others looked excited, and when the man removed Ulfric's gag and tossed it to them (put that on her, I want to hear him beg) they complied, grinning. There will be no help from that quarter. Nor will his own Shouts do any good, not against so many, not when most of his own men are wounded and all of them are bound.
Elenwen, Ulfric reminds himself. Broken ribs grating, lungs screaming, shock magic crackling over his body until he smells burning hair. A thick grunt jerks him free from the memory.
Don't look.
Out of the corner of his eye he chances a desperate glance at the others. Their faces are bent towards their laps: Ralof's white-lipped and sick, Galmar's dark and terrible.
Don't look.
A laugh; a muffled cry.
Don't look.
He looks.