She doesn’t flinch, meets his eyes. “I think you’ve been distracted. I think you need to be reminded of what it’s like for the commoner. Especially the commoner who is also an outsider, an immigrant. Especially on the backs of a civil war where the rallying cry of the winning side is “Skyrim is for the Nords. What unity does that serve?”
He rises, strides forward, places a hand on the small of her back. She is warm, all indignant fire and Breton temper. And she trembles; a fine tremor, yes, but it seems to grow with his touch. “Dine with me. We’ll discuss it further.”
She slips away from him. “I’ve said my piece. You can consider it. Beyond that, if there are no men to spare, Jarl Ulfric, I see nothing else to discuss.”
“You know,” he mused, pushing yet again, “were you to accept my offer, I’d venture to say we could unite Skyrim within a fortnight…”
“The Rebel King and the Mythic Hero?” Seirian says. “It’s quite a romantic notion.” She looks up at him through dark lashes. “But not one I’m ready to entertain. Thank you, Jarl Ulfric, for your time.” She turns to leave and stops, looks back at him over her shoulder, a strange light coming to her eyes. “If I may venture make my own arrangements regarding security in the Gray Quarter?”
The laugh bubbles up before he can stop it. “I’ll make the announcement. So long as you don’t bring dragons into the city, by all means, proceed.”
#
Windhelm is quiet for a week, so quiet you can hear the soft crackle of snow piling against the stone. The kind of quiet that’s invariably broken, late one night, by the clash of steel, the song of screams.
Ulfric is awake—as he is often these nights, restless and thinking of the future—and prowling the darkened corridors of the palace; he hears the commotion easily through a half open window.
When he arrives in the Grey Quarter, everything is still. The scraggly group of Guards that make up the secondary unit stand on the edges of the Quarter, hands on sword hilts or still reaching for bows. The elves hang back in the shadows, pressed against the sides of buildings, watching with avid interest.
In the shadows beneath the Corner Club, Ulfric recognizes the stooped form of Rolff Stone-Fist, doesn’t recognize the two heavily armored creatures that stand next to him, or the others that have suddenly melted out of the darkness.
He does recognize the ethereal blue gleam of armor magic, the small figure coming up behind Rolff to take over pushing him up the stairs, towards his Jarl.
“Dragonborn?” Ulfric says, as she passes Rolff into the hands of the guards. Ulfric nods and they lead him away. “I see you’ve solved the security problem…”
“For the moment, anyway.” The woman smiles, watches him peering closely at crested helmets, the scale-shaped segments of the belly and shoulder armor, the strangely familiar swords… No, thinks Ulfric, it couldn’t…
“Jarl Ulfric, I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, the whispers of the former guardians of the Empire. Those who once served the Emperor, who now serve the Dragonborn.”
Apparently, it could.
“I’d like you meet the newest members of the Blades.”
Ulfric’s laughter breaks the night.
Trust this woman, he thinks, to broker her very own army.
Untitled, 2/2, Ulfric/Female!DB
He rises, strides forward, places a hand on the small of her back. She is warm, all indignant fire and Breton temper. And she trembles; a fine tremor, yes, but it seems to grow with his touch. “Dine with me. We’ll discuss it further.”
She slips away from him. “I’ve said my piece. You can consider it. Beyond that, if there are no men to spare, Jarl Ulfric, I see nothing else to discuss.”
“You know,” he mused, pushing yet again, “were you to accept my offer, I’d venture to say we could unite Skyrim within a fortnight…”
“The Rebel King and the Mythic Hero?” Seirian says. “It’s quite a romantic notion.” She looks up at him through dark lashes. “But not one I’m ready to entertain. Thank you, Jarl Ulfric, for your time.” She turns to leave and stops, looks back at him over her shoulder, a strange light coming to her eyes. “If I may venture make my own arrangements regarding security in the Gray Quarter?”
The laugh bubbles up before he can stop it. “I’ll make the announcement. So long as you don’t bring dragons into the city, by all means, proceed.”
Windhelm is quiet for a week, so quiet you can hear the soft crackle of snow piling against the stone. The kind of quiet that’s invariably broken, late one night, by the clash of steel, the song of screams.
Ulfric is awake—as he is often these nights, restless and thinking of the future—and prowling the darkened corridors of the palace; he hears the commotion easily through a half open window.
When he arrives in the Grey Quarter, everything is still. The scraggly group of Guards that make up the secondary unit stand on the edges of the Quarter, hands on sword hilts or still reaching for bows. The elves hang back in the shadows, pressed against the sides of buildings, watching with avid interest.
In the shadows beneath the Corner Club, Ulfric recognizes the stooped form of Rolff Stone-Fist, doesn’t recognize the two heavily armored creatures that stand next to him, or the others that have suddenly melted out of the darkness.
He does recognize the ethereal blue gleam of armor magic, the small figure coming up behind Rolff to take over pushing him up the stairs, towards his Jarl.
“Dragonborn?” Ulfric says, as she passes Rolff into the hands of the guards. Ulfric nods and they lead him away. “I see you’ve solved the security problem…”
“For the moment, anyway.” The woman smiles, watches him peering closely at crested helmets, the scale-shaped segments of the belly and shoulder armor, the strangely familiar swords… No, thinks Ulfric, it couldn’t…
“Jarl Ulfric, I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, the whispers of the former guardians of the Empire. Those who once served the Emperor, who now serve the Dragonborn.”
Apparently, it could.
“I’d like you meet the newest members of the Blades.”
Ulfric’s laughter breaks the night.
Trust this woman, he thinks, to broker her very own army.