All right, Anon, here's what sprang to mind from "defiance adoration." It's rather pre-pairing and came out more as a character sketch than a full on story. Alas. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
An angry Dragonborn would be enough to make lesser men shake in their boots; the faintest shimmer of sparking energy that Ulfric can see curling around the length of her fingers would send them ducking for cover.
But Ulfric stays. Somewhat amused and, he admits to himself, entranced by her anger.
The last time he saw her like this had been the night of the battle for Solitude. The Stormcloaks had been victorious. (Only just, Ulfric admits to himself. Had the Dragonborn not taken a treated arrow during the midst of battle, well….it may very well have swung the other way.)
Feverish and sporting fresh stitches, she’d been storming down the main thoroughfare of the city. In only her nightshift. So determined to see to her home, to the vagabond children inside—left in the tender care of her housecarl—that even the smoking husk of the city and the Stormcloak guards (who’d been advised not to impede her movements but to let Ulfric or Galmar know when and where she went) wouldn’t stop her.
She wears the same take-no-prisoners look now—though, Ulfric thinks, her Arch-Mage robes aren’t nearly as fetching as her night shift—as she comes to a stop feet from his throne, stares him in the eye.
“Jarl Ulfric.”
“My Dragonborn.”
The same dance. She, ever politic and impersonal and he pushing the boundaries of propriety.
She is not his.
But time will see to that. He’s certain he hasn’t been wrong in the signs he’s read.
“You must do something about the security in the Gray Quarter.”
He exhales. It’s a months old argument.
Since the taking of Solitude, the celebrations across the country have been…exuberant, to say the least; and none more so than those in the heart of the land. Windhelm’s streets have been awash with food and drink, with songs that echo into the night, and the crash of colorful spells set off by the priests of Talos.
Some of those celebrations have led to the damage of property in the city, most notably that of the Dunmer. And once Wuunferth had released the Dragonborn from her period of rest, Ulfric had heard more about the plight of the Dark Elves in a fortnight than he had in years.
“—Stone-Fist is completely out of control. Fayel’s arm is broken. Revyn has a sprained ankle. And the damage to the Corner Club will take months to repair.”
“Where is Rolff now?”
“Still drunk,” she says. “He’ll keep in a cell until morning.” She frowns, puts a hand to her head, and for a moment it’s as though someone has drained the spark from her. “This is not the way to begin anew.”
He sighs. “Seirian, would that I could spare the men. We’re still in the process of rounding up stray Legion, not to mention Imperial spies and rebels who are trying their damnedest to impede rebuilding in the holds. We’ll have to make do with the secondary city guard unit.”
Her full mouth thins and her eyes narrow; the faint line of violet paint—leftover from some long ago Breton magical-coming-of-age ceremony, Ulfric has been led to believe—across her nose and cheeks shimmers in the firelight, gives a strangely ethereal quality to the grey of her eyes, the paleness of her skin.
“You’ve been feeding me that line for the last month.”
“And it’s still true.”
“The logistics? Yes.” Another sigh. “But it’s not just about warm bodies for security, though that’s a pressing need. You’ve talked of uniting Skyrim. You may want to start with your own city. Your people—and that includes the Dunmer living under your mantle—need to see that you take an interest in their well being.”
“You think I don’t know how to care for my people?” There’s an edge in his voice. Sharper than he intended, because her words cut.
Untitled, Ulfric/Female!DB
An angry Dragonborn would be enough to make lesser men shake in their boots; the faintest shimmer of sparking energy that Ulfric can see curling around the length of her fingers would send them ducking for cover.
But Ulfric stays. Somewhat amused and, he admits to himself, entranced by her anger.
The last time he saw her like this had been the night of the battle for Solitude. The Stormcloaks had been victorious. (Only just, Ulfric admits to himself. Had the Dragonborn not taken a treated arrow during the midst of battle, well….it may very well have swung the other way.)
Feverish and sporting fresh stitches, she’d been storming down the main thoroughfare of the city. In only her nightshift. So determined to see to her home, to the vagabond children inside—left in the tender care of her housecarl—that even the smoking husk of the city and the Stormcloak guards (who’d been advised not to impede her movements but to let Ulfric or Galmar know when and where she went) wouldn’t stop her.
She wears the same take-no-prisoners look now—though, Ulfric thinks, her Arch-Mage robes aren’t nearly as fetching as her night shift—as she comes to a stop feet from his throne, stares him in the eye.
“Jarl Ulfric.”
“My Dragonborn.”
The same dance. She, ever politic and impersonal and he pushing the boundaries of propriety.
She is not his.
But time will see to that. He’s certain he hasn’t been wrong in the signs he’s read.
“You must do something about the security in the Gray Quarter.”
He exhales. It’s a months old argument.
Since the taking of Solitude, the celebrations across the country have been…exuberant, to say the least; and none more so than those in the heart of the land. Windhelm’s streets have been awash with food and drink, with songs that echo into the night, and the crash of colorful spells set off by the priests of Talos.
Some of those celebrations have led to the damage of property in the city, most notably that of the Dunmer. And once Wuunferth had released the Dragonborn from her period of rest, Ulfric had heard more about the plight of the Dark Elves in a fortnight than he had in years.
“—Stone-Fist is completely out of control. Fayel’s arm is broken. Revyn has a sprained ankle. And the damage to the Corner Club will take months to repair.”
“Where is Rolff now?”
“Still drunk,” she says. “He’ll keep in a cell until morning.” She frowns, puts a hand to her head, and for a moment it’s as though someone has drained the spark from her. “This is not the way to begin anew.”
He sighs. “Seirian, would that I could spare the men. We’re still in the process of rounding up stray Legion, not to mention Imperial spies and rebels who are trying their damnedest to impede rebuilding in the holds. We’ll have to make do with the secondary city guard unit.”
Her full mouth thins and her eyes narrow; the faint line of violet paint—leftover from some long ago Breton magical-coming-of-age ceremony, Ulfric has been led to believe—across her nose and cheeks shimmers in the firelight, gives a strangely ethereal quality to the grey of her eyes, the paleness of her skin.
“You’ve been feeding me that line for the last month.”
“And it’s still true.”
“The logistics? Yes.” Another sigh. “But it’s not just about warm bodies for security, though that’s a pressing need. You’ve talked of uniting Skyrim. You may want to start with your own city. Your people—and that includes the Dunmer living under your mantle—need to see that you take an interest in their well being.”
“You think I don’t know how to care for my people?” There’s an edge in his voice. Sharper than he intended, because her words cut.