» Sat Dec 01, 2012 4:40 pm The moon was at its highest peak in the night’s sky when the great wooden doors to the Palace of Kings crashed open. The always frigid air of The Eastmarch poured into the vast reception hall causing the dying embers in the hearths to hiss and spark and reawaken to the night’s icy kiss. Amidst the flurry of snow and howling wind a lone figure emerged from the dark. With great horns sprouting from his helm the figure strode into the hall clad in plate mail that was made from pale bone that it clicked and rattled with a hollow echo at every stride. Under each arm the figure held a body, one of which was groaning at every jostle and toss while the other was as limp as a gutted slaughterfish. Blood was running down one of the body’s arms and bone could be clearly seen in the pale moonlight as it jutted out from the skin at an awkward angle.
Jorleif, the Palace’s steward, awoke from his bed roll near the kitchen’s hearth with a startle and was immediately assaulted by a throbbing headache; courtesy of the Black Briar Reserves Jarl Ulfric has so graciously gifted his guests with at the night’s celebration. Quickly he threw on his night robes to cover his lewdness and emerged from the kitchen’s down step to see the hulking horned outline of a man against the waning red moon. Great clouds of smoke pulsed from the figure in rhythmic breaths. At first Jorleif felt his dinner turn sour in his stomach as his heart tried to beat its way from his briast. Between the horns, the bodies, and the way the snow seemed to swirl from the figure as opposed to coming in from the biting air Jorleif believed he was staring into the eyes of a frost demon sent straight from Oblivion itself. But the fog in his mind cleared quickly and his eyes grew sharp to the flickering light and he knew the man that stood before him. Iorik Ierhime, The Frosthammer, or as the world had come to know him: Dragonborn.
Be it a steward’s quality to have hasty intuition and awareness or the fact that a Dova had burst into Jarl Ulfric’s hall the night of a victorious celebration, Jorleif knew Iorik wasn’t here for mead and meat. Anger burned in the Nord’s eyes that Jorlief had never seen. Usually Iorik was a kind hearted man who always held a thorn of sadness behind his deep blue eyes, “His honor is as large as his arms.” Ulfric would jest in good company about The Frosthammer. Tonight was ever so wrong though. The hair on the back of Jorleif’s neck stood on end, and it was not due to the cold.
Slowly and casually Iorik stepped further into the hall until he was only a few passes in front of the Steward. A quick glance passed the Dova showed three Stormcloak guards sluggishly rising from a wine and beef induced slumber. “They were on duty to watch the gate but Ulfric poured drinks down their throats and threw woman at their heels. I will have to bring this lack of security and discipline to Ulfric in the morning.” Jorleif thought to himself. Even in the face of a heavily armored warrior in a situation that appeared less than friendly Jorleif’s duties were to be a steward first, and he did that very well.
The Dragonborn stared at the steward for a few moments. In comparison Jorlief seemed to be nothing more than Bosmer in stature, and a rather short Bosmer at that.
“Jorleif” Iorik almost whispered his name, but the weight of the word hung heavy in the air. The Dragonborn was a man of few words, but when he spoke it was as if the whole world stopped and listened to his voice. “I must speak with Ulfric.” A quiet rage was laced into his tone “Now.”
Iorik dropped the bodies to the floor with a crash that woke the rest of the sleeping guests and guards around the room. Jorleif swallowed hard, the ease and carelessness that the Dragonborn was able to throw the two fully mailed bodies around was unsettling. What was even worse however, was the fact that one was limp and the other moaned in pain, and that they were both wearing the blue of Stormcloak infantry men; men that fought for Ulfric, and under Iorik, men who should be enjoying a night of song and dance and victory. Not a brutal maiming.
Quickly Jorleif knelt next to the men to remove their helmets; he snapped his finger at the closest and soberest guard for water. “What happened? Was there an attack? Were these men on patrol?” Jorlief’s head was racing, he had no familiarity with the two wounded men at his feet, but unless this was a matter of war it would be most unwise to interrupt Ulfric at this hour, especially since he was entertaining in his bedchamber this night.
“Jorleif. Ulfric. Now.” slowly the Steward looked up from the men to see Iorik’s eyes leering at him from under his great Dragonbone helm, and he now knew why his voice felt physical. He was using his Voice. Not speaking in the language of Dova no, not with words of power, but with the Voice none the less.
Many of the guests who had been asleep at their chairs and on the floor were beginning to silently slip away into the castle and out of the hall; their fear overpowering their curiosity. A piece of Jorlief wished he could do the same. But it was his duty to precept all guests and relay all messages of importance to Ulfric, and duty came first.
“Iorik,” Jorlief began shakily but quickly recovered his professional tones “I’m afraid that unless this is a matter of war it can wait till morning. As for now these men need medical attention. If it pleases you, could you……pick them back up and we’ll take them to Wuunferth’s care. Surely as court wizard he may know of some remedies or poltice-”
“NOW JORLEIF!” The air in the room shook and some of the guards glanced around at each other nervously, their hands at the hilts of their swords. Jorleif noted the rune engraved handle of a one handed sword strapped to Iorik’s back as well, made from the same pale bone as his armor. A kite shield the size of a child was also thatched to his back in a riding position. Iorik must have just arrived to Windhelm from Whiterun, and if he had come straight to the Palace at such an hour rather than go to his home and his wife, it must be important news he carried.
“As you wish Master Ierhime. Please help yourself to any mead that may be strewn about the hall. Reserve if my memory serves me proper, quiet the vintage I would say.”
Jorleif knew to say this as he was walking towards the war room that led to Ulfric’s personal living quarters, best not to test a mountain’s patience, especially when it could shout the world to its bidding.
Waking Ulfric was just as stressful as dealing with Iorik, both men were passionate and both knew how to wield their Voice like weapons, Jorleif only wished that Ulfric was in brighter spirits than the Dova. He found the Jarl snoring amidst a pile of furs and fair haired maidens with smiles on their faces. “My Jarl?” Jorlief spoke quietly; it was one thing to wake a man of war, but an entirely different thing to wake a sleeping maiden, or at least a women who may have been a maiden not that long ago.
Ulfric rose quickly and sharply. He eyes glimmered in the pale light that shone through his window. “Yes Jorlief?” Ulfric asked. He truly was an incredible man. Not mere seconds from being awoken he is able to regain his kingly composures and tones.
“Excuse me my Jarl, but Iorik Frosthammer has arrived to Windhelm and seeks an audience at your pleasure.”
Ulfric mulled his steward’s words over like he was tasting a finer wine. Unfortunately, he found the quality to be poor and the taste sour. “It’s a night of victory and celebration. And at that the hour is late and my stamina spent. You may tell the Dragonborn that I will seek an audience with him on the morrow.”
A lump of furs stirred to the Jarl’s left and a flash of gold was seen as a beautiful young girl poked her head out from underneath the sheets; her eyes were green with gold and full of excitement and youthful ignorance. How Ulfric was able to keep up with such vibrant examples of young life surpassed Jorleif’s intellect, but then again it wasn’t his place to question.
“The Dragonborn? Here!? Oh I would so much like to meet him! Can I Ulf-” the young girl spoke in a high and elegant tone that suggested that she was more than that of common birth. Ulfric had placed a finger to her lips and was now holding her chin softly and smiling. “When I seek his council tomorrow I will tell him I have an admirer of his to introduce.” Ulfric turned his glance to Jorlief but still held onto the woman’s cheek “But not right now.”
The Steward swallowed hard again, his throat dry from the night’s mead and the prospect of having to shoo away the Dragonborn, but it was not his place to question, so he bowed out and closed the Jarl’s door silently. The woman let out a squeal and a laugh but the sounds were smothered with the clicking of the latch.
The stairs grew longer than Jorlief had remembered as he made his descent back to the great hall. He emerged from the war room to see Iorik standing still as stone where Jorleif had left him, save for now the horned helm was at his feet. The wounded guards had been taken away, the great doors closed behind him, and the hearths rekindled. The popping and snapping of the flames brought some comfort to the Steward, but the quick and darting shadows they threw about the hall dashed that comfort to pieces. At least the guards were awake and at their posts. “The little good they would do if things turned south.” Jorleif thought grimly. Ulfric loves to tell the tale of how Iorik single handedly slaughtered an Imperial weapons convoy single handedly. The soldiers that had shared in the mission say they came upon a roadway strewn with twenty or more hacked and brutalized bodies, some still smoldering from the might of a Thu’um.
Jorlief kept a little more distance between him and the Dova than before when he stopped to speak. With a steady breath he composed himself and granted a brief moment of reassurance. “This is Iorik Ierhime, a hero, a kind and honest man. He will understand.” The Steward nodded and smiled as he reminded himself of these things. “Although something does seem to be amiss tonight with the full moon.” His smile faded.
“It is my regret to inform you sir that Ulfric is indisposed for the remainder of the evening, and that he is happy you arrived to his city safely. He wishes for me to convey the deepest of apologies and ensures me that he will seek your counsel come morning.” Jorlief svckedin another warm breath of air, and for a moment everything seems calm. Then the Dova spoke.
It felt as if a horse had ran straight into him as Jorleif was flung to the ground. His vision grew fuzzy and his ears began to ring from the tremendous power of the Dragonborn’s Thu’um.
“ULFRIC!!” Iorik bellowed as the very stones that held the Palace of Kings together began to shake and shift. “ULFRIC!” The Dova shouted again, but this time undertones of clanging steel and shifting mail was heard underneath the terrible roar.
Jorlief placed a shaky hand to his brow and it came away wet and warm and crimson. When he finally regained his composure he saw that all the guards were on the floor. Some crawled towards their weapons and others laid their motionless. Iorik was standing stoically in front of Ulfric’s stone chair, his shield drawn but his sword still rested in its scabbard.
“FUS RO DAH!” power of the Thu’um smashed into the castle walls so forcefully that Jorleif was pulled towards the Dova just as a great and powerful storm draws in the world to its chaos. The great stain glass windows that had adorned the great hall since its walls had been raised shattered and beautiful razor sharp fragments rained down into the hall. The night had grown colder and hail drummed into the palace setting a gruesome beat to the horrors unfolding before Jorleif.
Iorik turned to the great banners that had been strung above the hall. They bore the sigil of Windhelm, a great roaring bear against a beautiful blue silken banner.
“Yol.” This time Iorik only had to whisper as his breath became a tangible inferno of yellows and reds as they spiraled towards the banners, lighting them instantly. The door to the war room burst open, and in poured Ulfric and five of his elite guards. Jorleif must have been getting dizzy from his wounds as he caught himself giggling at the idea of what Ulfroc must be going through. Not moments ago he was fat and happy with a beautiful maiden half his age and now he enters he hall to find it displaced and destroyed. His victory banners alight, and he best friend, his general, standing amidst the fray. The steward closed his eyes and lost consciousness.
“Are you MAD!? What is the MEANING OF THIS!?” Ulfric’s voice was filled with wonder and rage, sorrow and curiosity.
Iorik turned to him, the fires above them reflecting in his dark eyes as ash fell lazily about them. “What did I tell you Ulfric? WHAT DID I TELL YOU!?”
Ulfric blinked and shook his head unable to wrap his mind about the situation. “Wha-what are you talking about!?”
“They Grey Quarter Ulfric! THE DARK ELVES! You promised me they would receive kinder treatment! A fair life!” Iorik retorted immediately with a razors edge.
Ulfric could do nothing but stare at his closest friend, mouth agape. The Jarl took quick easy strides to his stone chair and sat down gracefully as the guards he had in toe circled around Iorik.
“I have placed ordinances in writing to expand the Grey Quarter and a missive has been sent around the land claiming fair treatment to ALL of Skyrim’s children be them Nord, Breton, or Elf.” Ulfric spat out the last word as if it tasted bitter on his tongue. “Is that what this is all about Iorik? Do you think I haven’t done enough? Because may I remind you that I give commands not you!”
“Your men Ulfric! I saw them! I stopped them from violating a Dunmar maiden. Imagine my hatred as I’m greated triumphantly by such a despicable sight in my city!”
Iorik was breathing heavy and something about his eyes had changed. It wasn’t the cloak of night that made them seem dark as Ulfric had guessed when he first laid eyes on his friend. No, they had actually turned the slick dark color of ink and with every breath The Frosthammer took a deep rumble seemed to growl from his chest.
“This is not YOUR CITY!” Ulfric bellowed. “Until the moot takes place it is MY city. And I swear Iorik if this is why you’ve razed my halls and woke me from my sleep I will see you in irons!”
The Dova inhaled deeply and puffed up his chest. So different was this man before Ulfric then the one he knew as Iorik Ierhime. Something was very wrong indeed.
“Do not presume to threaten me Ulfric Stormcloak! I may not sit on a throne of rock and command a legion, but I command a weapon that you will never understand!”
“Are you threatening me? You burn my hall an injure men who would call you a hero because two of them misbehaved? You place their fault on my head? On thiers?” Ulfric gestured to the wounded men strewn about the hall. One had been tossed so high into the air that he was strung up in the rafters as if a giant had just casually placed him there. The guard gave Ulfric a wave to show he was alright but quickly passed out.
Ulfric returned his stare to Iorik. “Because I didn’t make it clear on the treatment of those pointy eared naves you would destroy my hall!?” The two great men shouted at each other quickly. Ulfric’s words would still be echoing off the walls as Iorik would begin shouting back.
“Silence!!!!” Iorik commanded using the power of the Voice. Ulfric straightened in his throne. “You do not command me Dova.” Ulfric replied in a kingly tone. “How I chose to treat the weak and cowardly races of Skyrim is my own will, and by my grace should I choose to offer them reprieve it will be BY MY OWN WILL! Not by the ranting and ravings of a soft hearted fool.”
Iorik was on Ulfric before anyone could react. The Dragonborn moved too quickly to be by human means. The Dova’s blade was drawn and resting delicately enough against Ulfric’s rough and unshaven neck to draw a thin thread of crimson that ran down his chest and stained his undershirt. It was only after the sight could process in the eyes of the guards that the Thu’um was heard. “Wuld Nah!”
The shout eerily silenced itself against the howling wind that was driving through the broken windows as the guards pulled in close to the Dragonborn, all swords resting against his bone armor in all the right places for a kill.
“Tell them to withdraw, or I will kill them.” Iorik whispered to Ulfric, his breath was rank with the smell of iron and blood. His teeth were sharp and jagged, much like that of a wolf’s. It was something in Iorik’s tone that was different that let Ulfric know he was now speaking to his friend again. Tears poured from Iorik’s eyes like fire and his sword fell to the ground. With a howl the Dova buried his face into his dear friend’s shirt that was now stained with his blood and began to sob.
The jarl placed a loving hand over his newly promoted general and waved off his guard who left reluctantly. The two men stayed there for quite some time after Iorik’s sobs has stopped. By then Jorlief had regained consciousness, dressed his wound, and had draqed a blanket over them with promises of roasted chicken and mulled wine to help fend from the cold.
“Your beast’s blood boils on a night that should have been spent in merriment.” Ulfric’s deep velvet voice finally broke through the silence of the moment. “When you told me of your choice to forsake Sovnguard you said ‘I can control it, this is my path to take.’ But now I see it affects you at a cost you did not expect.”
Iorik pulled from away from his future king and sat facing him a step lower than the stone chair. “I’m sorry.”
The true Iorik had returned to reality. “Krosis.” He whispered. Another silence invaded the hall. “I hurt those men.”
Ulfric placed a bear sized hand upwards, a kind way of asking for a turn to speak. “Those men broke an order given to them not only from you, their general, but from me as well. So long as they live and aren’t permanently disfigured then they have served their punishment well.”
“I almost ate them Ulfric, I….I…..” The Dova buried his face into his gauntlet clad hands and ran them through his dirty blonde hair.
Jorleif returned with two cups of steaming wine and a whole roasted chicken. The smells overwhelmed the two men and awakened their gut. Cinnamon, Jazbay graqes and Snowberries provided an ambrosial bouquet from the wine. Ulfric handed Iorik and iron chalice. “Here, drink my friend.” And drink he did. Finishing his goblet on three smooth gulps Ulfric poured him another, and then another, only to stop after the third cup. His steely eyes peered into his friend, searching.
“I see you are still stricken with melancholy as well. My heart breaks to see the man I’ve called brother weep when he should laugh.” The Jarl said this through a choked voice. Ever since Ulfric had known the Dragonborn he knew something had been wrong with him. He rarely saw the Dova laugh, and the last time he saw Iorik smile was at his wedding. The Frosthammer was able to run in plate armor that would wind most men within a few strides, but Ulfric knew it was the world and sorrows and weighed the Dova down. “Krosis.”
Iorik ran a hand across his lips, grabbed a haunch of chicken, and greedily tore into it. Fat and juices rolled down his cheeks as he chewed loudly. He refused to meet Ulfric’s eyes as he ate.
“I’m sorry.” Iorik repeated. “I said things and did things…..” Ulfric saw tears begin to break against the blue ocean that was his friend’s eyes and spoke quickly in attempts to stop them. They may be as close as brothers, but seeing a grown man the size of Iorik weep was troubling.
“And I have regret too my brother. I too said things in anger,” Ulfric glanced around his broken hall and pulled his robes tighter about his neck to guard against the invading chill “granted that anger might have been more warranted.” Iorik had returned to sulking at the floor as if he would find the right words to say in the stone tile.
The Jarl of Windhelm rose from his stone chair just as the light of morning poured into the hall. It shone at his back and outlined him in gold and tinted everything the color of honey tinged with blood.
“I, Ulfric Stormcloak, hereby do swear, in front of all of Skyrim, that fair and equal treatment shall be granted to all sons and daughters of Skyrim. Just as her lands are unique so are her people. And as such, they deserve to be treated with the honor we have fought to preserve in Skyrim’s lands. Let this be written, so that none may question. Be them Nord, Orc, Breton, Elf, or any other race. This I do decree.”
Iorik stood and faced the man that would soon be his king only to then kneel at his feet. “All hail Ulfric! Future King of Skyrim! All Hail!!” the Frosthammer called against the morning sun’s glare and through the deftly falling snow. Two strong hands lifted the Dova from his knees and drew him into an embrace.
“Get some restful sleep my brother. See your wife. And repose. I shall see you once I have fixed my halls. You are forgiven.”
And with that Ulfric left Iorik without so much as a glance back. Iorik Ierhime squinted through the new morning’s light and had to shield his eyes with his hand. The light warmed him from his bones out and shone off his armor. For a moment he was the golden knight he wished to be so desperately.
“A restful sleep on a new day.” He said to himself quietly. “I do believe that is what we all need my dear friend. Something all of Skyrim needs.”
