skyrimkinkmeme | Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

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“Interrogation, my jarl.” The rebel stands, dusting his hands. “The Empire’s been sniffing ‘round the borders of the Rift – we’ve caught a couple of their scouts, but we can’t find their camp, and this faithless dog knows exactly where it is. We’ll have it out of him, and be ready with a nice surprise.”

The regicide’s eyes darken, brows drawing down and lines deepening on his face. He fixes Crispus with a glare. When he steps into the clearing his mail clinks softly, and Crispus shuts his eyes. He’s heard Ulfric Stormcloak can shout a man apart. Perhaps he’s just a coward after all, but he’d rather not see his death coming for him in that fashion.

“Were you not given orders on the treatment of prisoners?” The man’s voice is low and even.

“He’ll live. I’ve only given him a scare, it’s not even—”

“I know torture when I see it,” says the jarl, with an edge in his voice that makes even Crispus flinch. He opens his eyes, though. This conversation has taken an unexpected turn.

“…Of course, my jarl,” the rebel says.

“Those orders came from me.”

“Aye,” mutters the officer.

The jarl cocks his head, calmly. “Is that all you have to say?”

There is a long moment of silence. Then - “It’s no worse than they’ve done to ours,” the officer blurts, suddenly. “There’s reports coming in from Helgen—”

“And so you would learn torture at the feet of your Imperial masters, as they have learned it at the feet of their elven ones?” His nostrils flare, and Crispus realizes with a thrill of foreboding that his calm, steady manner cloaks rage, black as a storm. “You challenge my authority? The man to whom you swore an oath? Pick up your shield.”

The officer stares at him.

“Pick. It. Up,” the jarl says; he has no shield of his own, but his blade is already drawn. The other man swallows. He looks suddenly very small, but there must be some truth to what Crispus has heard about Nords, that they consider it dishonor to refuse a challenge, for the man picks up his shield and squares his shoulders. He draws his own blade, but makes no move to use it. He is very pale.

“Go on,” his commander says, in a soft voice, staring him down. He is utterly still, unblinking. “At least try to hurt me.”

The officer steels himself and swings, with a roar.

Torygg did not stand a chance, Crispus will remember thinking, later. The Stormcloak fights like his name; three ferocious blows and one deft hook of his axe and his subordinate stands shieldless and stunned, and in another two seconds it is over. The jarl seizes him by the scruff and slams him against a tree, buries his axe only whispers from his face. Where it stands, shivering.

“The last time I saw a legionnaire treated so, it was one of the Thalmor holding the knife,” he growls. The officer swallows. “A true Nord lets his enemies die with honor. If you ever defy my orders again – if I even hear rumor you’ve been torturing prisoners – I will have your head myself.” With a contemptuous shove he pushes the officer away. Rips his axe free of the tree. Looks calmly around, to the silent crowd that has formed around the edges of the clearing. “Galmar,” he says. “Who’s second in command here?”

“That’d be Thorygg,” says a greying warrior, also wearing the bear cloak and helm.

Ulfric nods. “A strong sword arm wins battles, but a keen mind wins wars, as my court mage is overly fond of saying. I’m giving the command to someone who can use his brains as well as his fists.”

“My jarl--!” says Crispus’ erstwhile tormenter, but the one called Galmar elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up, you idiot,” he says. He doesn’t take his eyes off the jarl as he says it; there’s a strange expression on his face, harsh and knowing. “What are you all looking at?” he barks, to the crowd of Stormcloak soldiers. “Get back to your posts.”

The soldiers disperse. Frost hangs in the air as the jarl blows out a long breath through his nose. Galmar claps him silently on the shoulder, and then quickly drops his hand. They both turn to leave.

“Thank you,” Crispus blurts, still stunned by his turn of fortune. A traitor and a killer the man may be, but never let it be said that Crispus Decimus did not give thanks where it was due.

Ulfric Stormcloak pins him with an icy gaze. “Save your thanks for whatever gods you still believe in, Imperial,” he says, and stalks rapidly up the hill.

Not!OP is flailing in sheer joy at the awesome!

I kind of love Crispus, and I really love Ulfric here :D

Crispus is a very scared kid who does not give himself nearly enough credit for bravery. I’m glad you like him. Thanks for reading!

This is an awesome little one-shot. Crispus is great and Ulfric is pure Viking king, and it's very satisfying to see that Stormcloak get put in his place.

Side note: I love how you've portrayed Galmar here, as probably the only person in the whole scene with a full understanding of what's actually going on between the lines. Oh Galmar. You're a good friend.

I’m so glad you mentioned Galmar, I love him too. Thanks for reading!

*Headcanon accepted* You've made OP very happy!

The last line is the best part of this whole fill. Patented Ulfric blend of jerkass and badass, right there. Thank you so very much!

Ha! I like your description of Ulfric, and I’m glad you think the line suits him. Thanks for the great prompt, very glad you enjoyed!

Oh, what a joy this was to read!

The window may be small, but it reveals so much with so little; that's good writing. Your style reads nicely, a!a, and lends both elegance and weight to your storytelling.

I do hope I stumble upon more fills from you in the future!

Aw, thanks for reading! And for saying such nice things.

Not only do I really like this, and think you have the characterisations perfect, but I also hope you'll be posting it on another site where I can bookmark it more easily. I'll definitely be wanting to read this again :)

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