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blueclock3000 · 7 years

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Caretakers of the Emperor

By Sicilian Oravarian

[In 3E 389 the wicked mage, Jagar Tharn, ensnared Uriel Septim VII’s form onto his own and sent the Emperor to Oblivion. While the prison was of Jagar Tharn’s design, it was vulnerable yet to the influence of Princes who dominated the realm. This text documents the meeting of the unholy royalty and their concerns of what to do to their new guest.]

“Give me his asshole.” Molag Bal grabbed one of his servants and sent their head into pieces against his table. “There is much to do with a Septim but a little reminder of the forces he has mingled and barter with is in order first.”

LET’S KILL HIM! It’d be so easy just bash Bash BASH his skull in! COME ON! Just do it!

Mehrunes Dagon was never raised properly and thus didn’t know how to quote his words. Peryite’s many claws rapped against the chair his serpentine form curled around. The chaos and cacophony of these meetings always riled him up and it came to be expected that every few meetings he would explode into insanity much like his kin.

“Order, I say, order!” He chimed. Peryite rested his head as his temper fumed.

“Give me that royal ass! Aren’t you sickened by the violating hands of mortals slithering into our realm and taking our servants? I say we violate them back.” The Prince who said this needs no identification. He turned over to the woman quietly scrying far across the table. “And what are you up to, Azura? You secretive bitch!”

Hermaeus Mora slithered by, his casual negligence of his tentacles and their proximity to bodies giving Molag Bal a much arousing shiver.

“Vivec?” He cried out in desperate want.

Azura burst into laughter.

“Your lover is still struggling to maintain power in his faux temples. Don’t worry, I’m quite certain you and him shall see each other again.”

“I’ll rape you! I’ll rape all of you!”

“Order! Nothing gets done if everyone is just shouting what they want!”

“You’re shouting you want order.” Azura said as her second self spoke whispers upon dying sun rays to her servants far away.

“Yes, but what I want is best for all.” Peryite hissed.

“Azura.” Groaned out Mora. “Perhaps you and I shall discuss Morrowind. I have schedules with a certain part of it, if all works out accordingly. Shall we see if there’s any conflicts….or rather,” His voice dragged into a malevolent growl. “How far you intend to influence it.”

The sudden stink of wet swine and carcass invaded the room and all but Malacath quivered at the intense rancid mist only a Prince of dying animals could marinate and concoct.

“Morrowind, we speak? What business have any of you with it?” Hircine said.

“Far more than a mere hunt.” Mora replied.

“Technically you want Solstheim, idiot.” Azura said. “Keep that filthy isle. It’ll make a great dumping ground for your hogs and dogs. So please tell them to stop defecating on the meeting floor!”

Malacath rose out his seat and slammed his hand against the table.

“Stop oppressing his personality!!”

Sanguine’s mind found its way through the intoxicated fog.

“We should think of how to care for the Emperor. Uriel knows the pleasures of life and beyond, let’s at least be gracious hosts for a while.”

“If it’s sustenance he needs…” Namira gracefully but with quick purpose uncurtained her left breast, revealing a mushroom infested rot lump quivering with the release of new age pus, “…let’s give him a taste. They say in strife a man may find his star.”

Sanguine’s cheeks ballooned with a torrent of vomit, only withdrawn with hesitation and reminders of his drinks the night before.

Throw my lands into CHAOS! THE EMPIRE IS DESTINED TO FALL AS ARE ALL THINGS! I refuse to rest until we usurp the throne and GIVE ME WHAT IS MINE!!

A xivali risked it and whispered into the ear of his lord, reminding him of their meddlings in Nirn and the long term benefits. Suddenly the disappearance of Uriel Septim VII seemed to work just perfectly.

I WITHDRAW MY DEMANDS. PROCEED AS YOU WISH. I AM PLEASED.

The moving flow of stars left Azura’s eyes as she snapped to Dagon.

“What does that mean? What are you scheming?”

NOTHING. STATEMENTS WITHDRAWN FROM I. ONLY APATHY TOWARDS THIS MADNESS.

“Bullshit!” Azura screamed. “You monkey-looking maniac, what are your plans? Give them to me!”

Molag folded his arms and chuckled heartily.

“You plot too? I’ve got my eyes and servants on your vampiric hordes!”

“I’ll have my vampiric hordes on your servants as well.”

“Fucker dick! I’ll have a little surprise for your boyfriend.”

“Taking a male form are we?”

“Now why would I want to make you insecure?”

“God….damn…” Sanguine muttered through his pants. “The banter…”

Meridia hummed to herself as the outline of her form danced through many colors and lights. Peryite had used them to comfort his mind until he realize there was no pattern to them after spending half an hour thinking there was. It only swelled his stress. The maiden of lights just watched as others spoke, keeping note on Mehrunes Dagon and his sudden satisfaction.

Clavicus Vile had spent the whole meeting uttering conflicting information to pin the Princes against each other but none had cared to listen. Despite Sanguine’s invitation to a meeting afterparty, Vile proceeded back to his realm to listen to music and ponder if he had lost his touch.

“Why do you all fret so wearily?” Yawned out Mephala. “Is it not enough the Empire has been deceived by a falsehood, a falsehood that this Jagar Tharn will be unable to keep up? He’s a sneak with no knowledge of how to rule. With patience we shall see the Empire tear itself apart.”

“Death to evil!” Yelled out a paladin as he leapt upon the center of the table. “By the Nine I see all the vileness of all the worlds at conference! You fools! You merely line your heads for an execution!”

“ENOUGH!!!” Peryite shrieked as he slid onto the table, wrapped himself around the paladin and vomited cancerous surges down his throat. The paladin’s body erupted piece by piece into blood plops and infested meats.

“Whoa ho ho! Sick!” Molag Bal laughed as he pulled up to the edge of his seat.

For Sanguine this was hilarious but with the upset caused by Namira’s prior exhibition, it was the last straw. He later stood in a two foot hill of his own upheave.

“Boethiah doesn’t even bother showing up but she sends her pranks!” Peryite shouted. “ORDER I DECLARE! BAGAWK! ORDER!!” He span his head wildly in circles as Meridia slid over to talk to Dagon, as Namira began to produce lewd and putrid juices while darkness overwhelmed her among the vomit - which pile of vomit is up to you - while Nocturnal stood as she did since the beginning and waited for the ramblings and initial madness to exhaust itself to only incredibly irritating levels. She could exert her status and speak truths of the void but that cannot be withered in use. Namira knew of Nocturnal’s presence, which stirred her lewdness in the first place.

“Shut the fuck up!” Azura yelled as she hurled an ebony moon AND a star at the dragon. Peryite’s temporary fray into insanity had already expended itself in the taking of a life so he took the blunt damage as a reminder to maintain himself and returned to his seat. He left the tumor vomit corpse as punishment.

"What takes Nocturnal so long?" asked Azura.

Molag Bal whipped out his menacing rod and smiled as the narrative was now forced to use unpleasant innuendos.

“Yeah, where is she? I wouldn’t mind a threesome with you and her.”

Sheogorather blurred his form as his torso leaned in 45 degrees to the cloaked and despicably fragrant Prince of Nightmares. The blur was to hide or perhaps make notice of his legs remaining strictly upright. Lips popped in and out in a bubble fashion about Vaermina’s head, whispering plots. She took heed of each as she held her sharp chin in thought.

“Tell me your voices on this, Mad Prince. Nightmares for one long stayed in Oblivion will only seem like the anxieties of one in a crime ridden village. Horror awaits in memories of a world far kinder growing more distant away.”

Sheogorath nodded before jerking his neck abruptly and collapsing on the ground. A Sheogorath from within the corpse emerged, ripping through the carcass as if it were paper. The mouths around Vaermina’s head whispered in fear as they beheld the display. The new Sheogorath stepped out of his corpse like a man at last ready to attend the ball. He rolled the corpse into a paper ball and tossed it to the side. The mouths parted, allowing a silent one in the back to fly onto the featureless jaw of the Mad Prince, cracking a growing smile as it glided through the air.

“Old ideas scrapped, Vaermina!” His golden eyes sharpened. “This dream business has a lot more potential than what those deviled eggs over there are cooking up! I say, why torture the man any further? Give him pleasant sanity from these wonderful waters.”

“Help the Emperor? You’ve intrigued me before, I thought you’d be pleased with another Pelagius.”

“Bitch, please.” He chuckled. “Pelagius is more than one Pelagius as far as he and I are concerned. Besides, the Septim’s head is already a festival. The Divines speak to him, what’s another friendly voice? That Tharn lad has given us gold here. In the Septim’s time of need he will find new loyalty in wondrous dreams, loyalty that will carry over once he returns to Mundus.”

Vaermina’s brow jolted to join the wrinkles above.

“You speak of others but what are you concocting, Sheogorath?”

“A new kind of future for Tamriel. I say we proceed with Love, shall we?”

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smolpocketmonstercoffee · 7 years

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HoA 06

H E A R T _ O F _ A R S O N

Ulfric has faced many years since the Great War but there is a face that has hung in silence in his mind since then. All those years later, finding that face again would draw new memories to be made in the wake of the war he waged against the claws of the Empire. And the matter of other claws that would sink into the very flesh of Skyrim itself brought its own problems, along with a mysterious stranger. The path of the future was not certain. But the fresh return of that face in his mind brought questions. Ones he felt needed to be answered.

START, PREVIOUS, NEXT

TW: N/A

The two weeks that followed after first hearing that song on Loriel’s lips went by fast, Ulfric often found himself caught up in either paperwork or complaints and Galmar had spoken to his brother about controlling his behavior around the Dark Elves, least he make Windhelm look shameful to any important visitors who witnessed. There was so much going on that Ulfric was grateful when he heard about a patrol heading towards the border to check on its status that he went with just so he could get out of the Palace of the Kings.

That patrol was glad to have him with them, some of them glad to have Ulfric there to deal with the political talk with the captain of the Morrowind Side of the border, and when they made for their return, Yrasald was already talking about knocking back a few bottles of mead and flirting with the new pretty little woman at Candlehearth Hall.

As they came into view of the bridge though, Ulfric recognized the hue of gold at the wall of the bridge, overlooking the docks, and he wondered why it was that one of the three Altmers of the city was out in the cold. It wasn’t likely to be the crotchety old Alchemist, and chances were slim that it was the sly speaking merchant of the market since the market was open and would be for the next nine hours.

Which meant it was likely to be Loriel himself.

Ulfric said nothing until the group reached the start of the bridge and he looked to Yrasald.

“Go give the report to Galmar,” he requested to the man who gave an absent nod before the Jarl took to the stairs to ascend to the top of the bridge’s sheltering wall.

And there Ulfric found Loriel, lounging with chin on folded arms against the wall, watching the Northern Maiden as it set out for Solstheim over the waters. Peacefully, the wheat colored hair wafted in the wind.

He looked like his mind was somewhere far, far away.

For a moment, all Ulfric did was watch.

What was going on inside that golden head of his?

Finally, when a gust of wind blowing in off the sea made Loriel close his eyes and shiver, Ulfric stepped to come beside the elf and leaned against the wall.

“It’s cold out, bard. Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“It’s always cold out in Windhelm, Jarl.”

Ulfric wanted to argue that it wasn’t always but then again, his blood as a Nord protected him from the chill. All Loriel’s Altmer blood did for him was give him better magic usage.

The elf sighed and he stood up properly, leaning against the wall of the bridge the same way as Ulfric, the skin of his nose, fingertips, and ears a rosy red. The growing stubble Loriel was sporting that morning was fine blond, the stuff around his mouth significantly paler than the rest.

“Sometimes I want to go back. To Solstheim, I mean,” Loriel said very softly.

“Why haven’t you?”

There was silence as the wind whistled between the two of them.

“Because it never really felt like home.”

“Not like the Summerset Isles.”

“Not like Skyrim.”

Ulfric found himself surprised from the correction, the soft smile on Loriel’s face as he gazed down to the docks telling the Jarl that he wasn’t lying either.

His shoulders rose slightly with a deep breath that he let out through his lips before he went on, telling Ulfric, “Skyrim always has had this… incredibly constant feel to me. The paths that I first walked along thirty four years ago haven’t changed, neither have the caves and ruins I once explored, the cities I once visited. Everything here is just so… untouchable. It’s beautiful.”

If anyone had told Ulfric thirty years ago that there was an Altmer who spoke of Skyrim with love, he would have thought the person was trying to pull his leg. But seeing the look on his face, the sound of his voice as he expressed his admiration of the country he loved made Ulfric feel a bit fond. The way Ulfric imagined a father would feel hearing praise about his own child.

Skyrim was his.

And to the fugitive of the Summerset Isle, it was a place he called home.

Ulfric wanted to ask the bard about his thoughts on the war, but instead, he asked about Solstheim. His city was the only port to it, but Ulfric had only once left Skyrim and it had been for the war, a thing that did not touch the island north of Morrowind.

The elf smiled, closing his eyes as he pictured the place. “Solstheim is… diverse. The island can be divided into quarters almost. Almost,” he repeated with a laugh, his smile turning fond.

“I think you would have liked the Felsaad Coast. It has the most Nord-based culture, and it feels the most like the northern half of Eastmarch. Hospitable for us less-hearty folk and snowier the further north you go. Thirsk Mead Hall and the Skaal village are in that region. The people of Thirsk are very… I don’t know. Headstrong? That’s probably the nicest word I can come up with from the one time I dealt with them. The Skaal villagers are very peaceful though. Very one with nature. In the Skaal village, everyone has their own responsibilities and nothing ever goes to waste. They’re very efficient in a way that almost makes me a bit jealous.”

Ulfric couldn’t help but chuckle a little. The way he went on to describe the Skaal people made him very curious. He almost wanted to meet them.

And as Loriel continued to talk about the southern half of the island, a place covered in ash blown in from the Red Mountain, Ulfric finally felt like he was looking at Loriel and really seeing him for the first time. More than just some remnescent reminder of the Thalmor Aid. More than just a fugitive of the Summerset Isles. More than just a bard.

Him.

He was seeing him.

The Altmer told him about the Ash-Spawn infestation that seemed to be caused by the volcanic ore called Heart Stone, and about the old and slightly unhinged Dunmer mage that lived out to the eastern corner of the island in his giant mushroom tower. He spoke about Raven Rock and about the First and Second Councilors, about the local alchemist who he took an apprenticeship under while waiting out the war. He told the amusing tale behind the name of the local tavern that he had taken up singing at in the afternoons to pass the time and they both laughed together.

Loriel told Ulfric about the investigation he helped with that uncovered an assassination plot on the First Councilor and how his help had earned him not only a permanent citizenship in Raven Rock but also a house.

The first thing he really ever came to own for himself since the day he had left the Isles.

But it wasn’t enough.

Solstheim didn’t feel like home.

So he returned to a place he could call home.

Skyrim.

But Ulfric had to wonder though, with all this talk of Solstheim.

About Stalhrim.

About Arson.

About the Dragonborn.

“You said you spent ten years in Solstheim. Did you ever come across an ore called Stalhrim?” he asked, trying to touch on the topic without making the jump seem terribly random.

And Loriel blinked, drawn out of his mirthful tale of remembrance.

“Stalhrim?” he repeated.

“Yes. It’s also called-”

“Enchanted ice.”

The elf was frowning now.

“Yeah, I’ve ran across that stuff before. Tried to pick at it too. Have you ever seen a pickaxe break on ore? ‘cause I have,” and he sighed in exasperation.

And then Ulfric watched Loriel cup his hands over his mouth and blow on them before cupping his hands over his ears.

“Finally cold?”

“Don’t even get me started, you damn hot-blooded Nord,” Loriel said with an accusing look that broke into a smile bordering on the edge of laughter, his nose almost as red as his angry blush and so were his fingertips from the cold wind that failed to be warmed by the warmth of the noontide sun.

“Why don’t you walk with me? You’re enjoyable to talk with.”

Loriel let out a huff through his nose. “Sounds fair. Good conversation seems to be hard to find around here unless you’re either a merchant or a bard. Or a Jarl,” he added, his voice almost teasing with a playful rise of his brows.

Ulfric fought a smirk.

Without any further excuses, the two of them stepped into the city side by side, Ulfric easily aware now that Loriel wasn’t standing so far away or leaning against something that he came up to the bridge of the Altmer’s nose.

“So why did you ask about the Stalhrim?”

“The Dragonborn mentioned trying to make armor out of the ore. I was curious as to if you might have met him while you were in Solstheim.”

Loriel rose a brow at the Jarl.

“Everyone wants to know who that guy is, all ooky-spooky and whatnot looking.”

“Ooky-spooky?” Ulfric repeated as they approached the Palace of the Kings.

“No one knows who the hell he is, he shows up at places and up and disappears at random. I’ve heard too many drunk couriers talk about how difficult it is to find the guy just to give him messages. Half the time I wonder if he’s even real or if everyone is under the same Sanguine intoxication-spell,” Loriel expressed, his hand gestures exasperated and confused and his face growing redder and not from the cold.

Finally, Loriel huffed and rubbed his forehead, shaking his head as he composed himself.

“I kind of don’t blame him for hiding who he is though,” he said, “I mean, what if he has a family? Loved ones? Divines only know how many people who would want a man of that sort of power under their thumb and would do anything to get him to do what they wanted. On top of the fact that he’s supposed to kill pretty much every dragon he comes across and save the world?”

The way Loriel explained it made Ulfric’s responsibilities feel very small in comparison.

He remembered when he was a child and how daunting the idea of becoming Jarl was to him. He was supposed to become responsible for an entire Hold. Then when he was selected by the Greybeards to become one of them, it felt like he was trading one intimidating responsibility for another. Both of them made joining the war feel easy.

To Arson, hiding his identity was probably the only way he could hope to live a normal life again after the whole Dragonborn business was done.

If it ever was done.

If he survived to see an after to that mess that was made his responsibility by the Divines.

Ulfric thought back to the way Arson declined to join the war. The way he told him to stop trying to kill the people who were once their brothers and sisters in arms and focus on the real problem, the Thalmor.

Maybe Arson was right.

Maybe Ulfric needed to find another way. To not only save Skyrim, but also to save her people from more heartache.

And he frowned deeply.

The entire thing was starting to give him a headache as he reached out for the door.

Loriel’s long arms beat him to it, fingers splayed over the wood as he pushed it open and when he paused to looked up to the elf, the Mer gave a quirky red-nosed, red-eared smile.

“Royalty before common-folk, go on.”

His voice was playful.

Teasing.

And Ulfric shook his head, his brow furrowing despite the smile that crept to his lips.

And the Jarl stepped into the main hall.

Loriel let out a low, impressed whistle as he crossed his arms over his chest, or perhaps that was just the elf tucking his hands into his armpits to warm them.

“Never been in the Palace before?”

“I didn’t think it was my place. The only common-folk looking people I’ve ever seen enter are that Free-Winter fellow and a few people that I know are servants here. Everyone else is either you or part of your war-lot.”

“The people of Windhelm are always welcome in the Palace of the Kings. A Jarl’s responsibility is to his people and if there is a problem, it can be brought to me, although on moments when I am not avalible, my steward who is responsible for more common affairs will tend to the matters unless he feels that he was approached with a problem outside of his control. In which case, he will bring it to my attention,” Ulfric explained, the smell of the noon-meal being cooked wafting up from the kitchens and the sound Loriel’s stomach made gave him a little more incentive to lead the elf to some place where the cold could be staved off and see if perhaps they could snag an early plate.

“Some of the people say you go off adventuring.”

“I occasionally join patrols to tend to problematic matters throughout Eastmarch. Occasionally these matters are political based, sometimes they are matters of safety. What kind of leader would I be if I did not make an active effort to look after the people who look up to me? To sit on my throne and do nothing but revel in the riches of my status while my people suffer like those Imperial Jarls.”

“I never thought about it like that. I take it most Jarls aren’t so adventurous though?” the Altmer asked curiously as Ulfric pushed open the door of the kitchen where Sifnar and the Palace’s master hunter were talking over the slow-spit that held meat being cooked for the evening meal for the palace. The Jarl always ate the richest with the best quality, best choice of everything, while everyone else ate in rank with the servants typically getting the equivalent of scraps in Ulfric’s view. But even then, the servants of the palace ate better than most.

Upon seeing the Jarl’s presence down in the kitchen, as well as his guest, the cook lifted two fingers with a questioning look, not wanting to disturb his Jarl’s conversation and Ulfric nodded, the Altmer’s brows raising in curiosity and surprise at the quality of service.

There were many a day where he could praise the staff of the castle for their efficiency. They knew their jobs well, and many of them had been in the employment of the palace for years.

“The Jarl of Dawnstar was among the best of my sort when it came to adventure before his age caught up with him, and the previous Jarl of Falkreath as well.”

With Sifnar and the Huntsman fulfilling their duties, Ulfric came to stand by the fire and Loriel knelt, extending his hands out to the warmth, his golden skin glowing in the light. Occasionally, he would lift his hands to his pointed ears and cup over the ends.

“Sounds dangerous. You could die while you’re out there,” Loriel commented, looking up to him as his toasty fingers pinched along the edges of those ears.

“I could,” Ulfric agreed, “but I would rather die doing what I feel is a service to my people than sit in silence.”

There was silence for a few breaths before he heard that one statement.

“You really are like your father.”

And it startled Ulfric.

Loriel was still looking up to him with those amber eyes, calm and patient.

Loriel knew his father?

“I met him once,” Loriel explained, turning his eyes back to the fire and extended his hands out. “Just once. The very first day I came to Skyrim. I had been passing through the boarder along with a merchant’s caravan when I saw him along with a handful of his guards, out dispatching a nest of trolls that had taken over Refugees’ Rest. At first I thought he might have been a commander of the guard or something like that. I had made a point in my life before then to always avoid encounters with people of high standing, least I be memorable to them and the Thalmor catch up with me. I stayed away from palaces and castles and keeps and longhouses and when I couldn’t avoid being near one, I kept my head down. But he was really the first person of importance to the country that I encountered who… sought out his duty to his people so actively.”

There was a quirk of a smile on Loriel’s lips as he remembered.

“I remember how he greeted the head of the caravan like one would an old friend, and he shook the hand of everyone in the company, chatted with people he recognized, and welcomed people he didn’t to Skyrim. The way he spoke to everyone regardless of race with such incredible kindness was…” and he took a breath, trying to find the right word and he shook his head when he couldn’t before he looked up to Ulfric, smiling. “Your father was my very first impression of Skyrim, Ulfric.”

And it sounded like a very good first impression.

It was at that time the two of them received their early plates of lunch and Loriel’s cold appendages had returned to their original coloring, so Ulfric motioned for Loriel to follow.

He enjoyed their conversation enough to not want the continuing of it to be interrupted so he did not lead Loriel to the tables but rather towards the war room where Galmar and Yrsarald were standing at the war table.

Yrsarald looked up, “I was starting to wonder if the elf threw you off the bridge.”

“I didn’t feel it was necessary.”

The sound of Loriel’s voice made Yrsarald and Galmar both start and when the elf stepped into the room after Ulfric, Galmar’s expression tightened, as did his hand on the edge of the table. Ulfric narrowed his eyes at his housecarl.

“Loriel Elsinlock, this is my housecarl, Galmar Stone-Fist, and this is my leading military commander, Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced,” Ulfric introduced.

“I’ve been acquainted with your brother on multiple occasions, housecarl,” Loriel noted, his voice polite.

“So I’ve heard. Just don’t break anything important.”

“I’ll make an effort but no promises.”

Galmar gruffly huffed but said nothing else further. It seemed Galmar had taken Ulfric’s words to heart that if he couldn’t be tactful, keep it short.

Ulfric then brought the elf up to the Northern wing and despite his own age in comparison to the Altmer’s physical one, he could hear Loriel puffing behind him as he climbed the last flight of stairs. Ulfric had years of practice going up and down those steps in comparison.

When they reached Ulfric’s own room, Loriel paused, his expression startled almost.

He wondered what thought flashed through the elf’s mind as he pulled up another chair to his desk and moved papers out of the way so they could sit together. Then, he sat down.

“I thought this would be a better place to be than watching Galmar glaring at you while we talked. He is… a bit protective of me.”

“Not exactly the first word I’d choose, but I’ll take your word for it.”

Ulfric knew exactly what word Loriel was thinking too.

“He still has his lingering feelings from the Great War.”

“What about you? Any lingering feelings?”

Ulfric rose his eyes to Loriel as the elf took the chair beside him. There were some. But none of them seemed to really be directed towards that specific Altmer.

“Lingering sensations I suppose. Lingering memories. Of what happened.”

Loriel shook his head.

“Bad topic to pick. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t his fault and Ulfric said so.

The elf shrugged and took his first bite of food, closing his eyes with a soft, happy sigh.

“It’s been a long time since I ate food that tasted this good.”

Ulfric was curious but he didn’t press, only saying, “If your services as a bard are for hire, I might be able to have it arranged for you to help entertain when I have important company. Food included.”

A humorous brow rose at the suggestion.

“This meal alone is almost bribe enough for me to accept.”

And they both chuckled.

As they ate, they talked, or rather Loriel felt that it was Ulfric’s turn to do the talking since he had already spilled quite a bit about himself as it was, and Ulfric was content to oblige.

He told Loriel a bit about his duties as a Jarl, most of which was public knowledge, and a few of them were lesser known facts, however he did not expose all of his tasks to the bard. He explained what it was like in his years in High Hrothgar before he decided to join the Great War. He admitted that the first handful of years that he was Jarl were not his best, likely from not having much guidance from his father before he lost him.

And then he brought up the state of the city, about in the recent months how they had experienced murders that had eventually been stopped by realization that the owner of the local museum had been trying to bring his sister back from the dead, about a storm that had blown in off the sea that had done quite a bit of damage to the city. And then, Loriel interrupted him.

“And what of the Grey Quarter? Any progress on that?”

Still concerned about the Dunmer. Ulfric sighed and he rifled through his papers before finding the letters on the topic.

“Because of the war effort, most of our spare gold is going towards that, however I have spoken to craftsmen in the local area about being able to make fixes to the outside of the Grey Quarter. I will also make an offer to the Argonians to allow them into the city for work. Should they accept, their first job would be to get the exterior of the Grey Quarter cleaned up,” he explained, allowing him to read the letters that had come from the craftsmen who had agreed to lend their labors to the city for half the price and would receive the rest of it once all the work was done.

Loriel seemed incredibly satisfied about the progress that had been made on his request.

After a while, Loriel asked if he minded him looking around and Ulfric gave him permission, and they spoke in absence as Loriel walked about the room, the plates already stacked to be taken by the maids later, and for a while, Ulfric only watched the elf before he went to organize his papers again. There was a new letter from the Jarl of Dawnstar that he would need to read after Loriel left.

“Ulfric? Why do you have an Altmer engagement band?”

What?

The Jarl looked over his shoulder to see Loriel standing at one of his display cases, leaned over it to peer through the glass.

“What are you talking about?”

“You have an Altmer engagement ring in this case.”

In his confusion, Ulfric approached to see what Loriel was referring to.

The ring in question was an old thing of twisted metal, gold and corroded copper spun tightly together. It was worn and battered and neglected and a deep groove ran over a thin edge.

“I found it when I was just a lad,” Ulfric recalled thoughtfully. “At the riverside, near the mill to the east of the city.”

Now that he was looking at the ring, he remembered that day even more clearly.

He had been very young, a boy of only six, when his father took him to his favorite spot to go fishing for what ended up being the last time before he became the student of the Greybeards. The wind had been cold but the sun had been warm on that last day before the frost came.

His father and he were sitting together at the stones, those big hands holding his small hands, one of his small hands on the knife and the other on the fish as Hoag taught him how to clean and gut. And as young Ulfric laughed about how gross the guts were, like most little boys did, his father noticed something curious.

He pointed at one of the organs and told him to take that one and separate it from the rest. Cut it open.

Ulfric didn’t understand why until he did as he was told.

At first, Ulfric didn’t notice it among the rest of whatever the salmon had eaten, until he had shifted some of the stuff around. Then he saw what his father had seen through the wall of the stomach.

The solid shape of that ring, green wrapped with yellow. It was a spun band of copper and gold, Hoag told him.

Ulfric thought it was oddly pretty for something that had been sitting in a fish’s guts and said so.

His statement made his father laugh.

Ulfric kept the ring, and when they got home, before they went to enjoy the evening’s supper of salmon the young Jarl-to-be had helped his father catch, the boy had tucked it away in a box full of collected junk items and miscellaneous things he had found.

And when Ulfric returned from the war, all those years after, that ring had been one of the few treasures he had found as a boy that he had decided to keep as a man.

The ring had reminded him of better times, back when he was blissfully unaware of the world, and his father was making memories with him.

He didn’t tell the story to Loriel though.

“You are sure this is a wedding ring?”

“An engagement band, and yes I’m sure. Altmer and Bosmer cultures make our engagements of love known to the public with rings. This one is of Altmer make,” he explained, looking to the Jarl. “A second and much plainer band is worn together with this after the ceremony.”

Ulfric was enlightened vaguely. Because of the Thalmor, he had never really cared much to know Altmer culture, but knowing that one of his pretty childhood treasures was a benign if not happy memento of their kind, it made him more willing to absently tuck away that knowledge rather than forget.

“Why a second ring?” he found himself asking.

“Because if the Altmer is widowed and does not wish to remarry, they remove their engagement band only. A sign of the strength of their devotion to their love.”

Ulfric lifted his eyes to Loriel, a soft smile on the bard’s lips as he explained his culture. Eyes still on that ring.

“Your culture is different than ours,” Ulfric admitted and shook his head, finding himself smiling a little with a laugh.

“We are, but Mara looks upon both of our kinds. Nords notice and ask based on interest all because the presence of an amulet shows that person is available. Altmer… because we live much longer lives, we take more time with developing our relationships, and when one feels that they truly wish to marry that person, they will ask. The set of bands are custom made for the pair upon the announcement of the engagement.”

The entire affair of Altmer engagements sounded especially personal in comparison to Nords.

Ulfric had witnessed a few attempts of courtship in his life. Some had ended in marriage, while many poor sods were left in disappointment when their interest was not returned.

“It sounds nice.”

Loriel looked to him and simply smiled, something soft and fond.

“I did not think I would stumble across a reminder of something good from the Isle. Thank you.”

That smile left a feeling in his chest that lingered until well after Loriel had left for the evening to go sing at the New Gnisis Cornerclub, and Ulfric pondered over that feeling for a long time without any luck of finding any answers.

#Heart of Arson #HoA #Ulfric Stormcloak #Loriel Elsinlock

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