Writing Sideblog

Aiden doesn’t follow like he’s supposed to. Feet firm on the ground, shoulders squared, he stays put, glaring at their kidnapper. (It’s jarring just how short the armored wastelander is once they’re actually on the ground. Aiden could beat them in close combat, no doubt. At the same time, they’re clearly the type to play dirty.)

“Fuck this. Why should we follow him?”

Cave drafts grow colder. Wind brushes against the side of the mountain like a giant serpent, singing distantly in the entrance behind them. 

Petra is slow to respond. “Well... let’s look at our options: One is a frozen cliffside of despair, the other is a mysterious dark path. Which one seems marginally better?”

She has a point. 

If the stranger wanted them dead, they probably would be dead already, or be in the process of freezing. Unless- 

“What if they’re cannibals?” 

“We don’t even-” Finally, finally, their silent ‘guardian’ makes a sound. They scoff, glancing over their shoulder to glare at the accusation. 

The elation Aiden feels in that moment may just be a bit too much considering their situation, he’s had a rough day, dammit. He steps forward to pump Petra’s shoulder. “Hey, hear that? The pipsqueak’s got squeak!” 

As Aiden was hoping, that gets their kidnapper to turn around fully. They march right back up to the other wastelanders, growling frustratingly. They point down the pathway again, motioning to start walking. 

Aiden smiles just a bit more at the fact that they have to look up at him. 

“Come on, let’s just go. They’re not hurting us.” “No, but I think they want to.” Aiden doesn’t break his smirk or his gaze, locked onto the dusky dark eyes that are gradually filling with animosity. 

The next sound that the wastelander makes is more of a grumbly whine than anything else. Their shoulders slump with exhaustion, and it’s clear that they share feelings with Petra. Can we go already?

Unfortunately for them, Aiden doesn’t know when to stop. Isn’t stalling beneficial for stuff like this? Maybe the wastelander is trying to take them to some timed ritual, and if they run out the clock, he and Petra will have time to make an escape plan and act it out, or steal the bird, or find something even more powerful than the transmitter, or- 

Or their kidnapper is just gonna kill them if Aiden keeps this up. Their slender fingers hover over a sheath, filled with a short slender blade. 

“Alright, alright” Aiden raises his hands placatingly, to the apparent relief of their kidnapper. “I’ll go. You’ve got a funny way of telling us to do that, though.” Mutes aren’t unheard of, but ones that Aiden’s met don’t even bother with growling or shouting. This one is different. Expressiveness lends the wastelander charisma, though, Aiden can give them that at least. 

Still. 

Aiden always has to say something. The silence as they walk is too heavy, their steps on eons-old limestone too unnerving and lulling all at once. 

“Why don’t you talk?” 

Petra flinches. If she weren’t facing forward, Aiden knows he’d be getting a glare that says “Oh, why don’t they talk? Why do YOU have a metal arm?” 

It might not have been PAMA, but a lot of wounds in this world come down to something similar: Bad people. Monsters. Even then, other reasons wouldn’t be so odd. Feral children are rare, but known. Maybe it’s because of some kind oath to honor a new tradition. 

No matter the reason, it’s personal. 

The strange wastelander, maybe not so much a stranger anymore, stops in their tracks. A beat passes. Their shoulders slump with a defeated sigh, and they look down at the ground. 

“Ignore him.” Petra tries to salvage the wreck that’s only just beginning, but it’s too late for that. 

The wastelander shakes their head as they turn, insistent on answering a question that goes far deeper than a lack of words. Armored fingers meet the teeth of their helm’s upper jaw, and the bone helmet is carefully removed. Three wastelanders stare each other down, a new face to look at. 

Cold rushes up Aiden’s spine as he recognizes the person as a kid. 

Not a kid kid- Radiation and malnourishment has a funny way of changing people in this world. Stunting them, especially without “help” from PAMA or other powerful tools. He’s short, scrawny, and his complexion certainly isn’t without signs of stress… Still, Aiden estimates that he’s anywhere between fifteen and twenty-something. The wasteland forces you to grow up fast. 

The wastelander, seemingly male, gives a merciful amount of time for his “guests” to soak in that bit of information. Then, he motions for Aiden to come closer. Petra follows the order herself. 

Aiden takes one step forward. The wastelander motions again. 

(He’d better not be planning to stab Aiden in the gut for asking, but maybe he would have it coming)

Aiden only stops when he’s roughly a foot away, just as Petra is. They exchange a cautious glance. The wastelander makes no motion to attack, though perhaps what he does next is weirder. 

He opens his mouth, index finger pushing down on his bottom-front teeth to keep his jaw comfortably widened. 

It almost makes Aiden withdrawl, but he stays put. “Uh…” 

Aiden didn’t think it was possible for someone to look pleading and annoyed at the same time, but here they are.  

“...I think he wants you to look in his mouth?” Petra’s already nudging Aiden over to the side before he can make some quip about lacking any proper dental experience. She looks in first, genuinely curious but then- “What’s ...Oh. OH.”

Petra gets a lot quieter. 

“You, uh.. Aiden, just look.” She absently tugs Aiden by his arm back into place, doing as he’s told. 

At first, nothing about this wastelander’s maw seems out of the ordinary. At worst, some dark marks on his teeth, but Aiden realizes that something is missing. 

There’s no tongue. At the most, a small lump of muscle far back, but nothing more. 

Aiden makes some small noise, half a hum, which the wastelander mirrors as he closes his mouth. None of them are quite sure what to say. Whatever did that, it better not have been PAMA. 

There are a million complications to the loss of any parts, Aiden knows it, but losing taste and reliable communication? 

It’s a dangerous mixed bag. 

“That’s rough.” 

The wastelander nods in what seems to be agreement. Unexpectedly, he reaches for Aiden. 

“Uh- Well, it’s nice to meet you-” 

Rather than the handshake Aiden expects, the wastelander pushed up his sleeve, revealing the cool metal underneath. Curiously, the wastelander stares, cocking his head to the side as Aiden hesitantly allows him to toy with his metal fingers. Tapping produces the tiniest ping, ping noise, which seems to surprise him. 

Petra, in the meantime, laughs. 

Aiden supposes a tongue for an arm is fair. 

Curiosity satisfied, the wastelander pulls Aiden’s sleeve back down. He nods, pats down at the cloth in what seems to be some form of encouragement, and finally continues down the cave path. 

Just like a few minutes before, Aiden and Petra are left staring between themselves and their captor as the cave’s soft moss light seems to brighten. 

This time, Aiden motions first. 

Radar knows better. He knows Radar knows better than this. 

Lukas holds him down with his full weight, panting loudly as the struggle continues behind them. Large, leathery wings resound in the air followed by cicada-like shrieks that bounce off the canyon walls. 

They never should have brought Radar here. Never should have agreed to field work at all. As the screeches grow louder, Lukas’s hands automatically reach up to cover Radar’s ears. 

Just in time for the gunshots to ring out, louder shrieks confirming strikes on the massive mutant. 

The earth shakes. With one final shriek, the mothman is gone, hopefully for good. Lukas leans in more heavily, huddling Radar tighter just to be sure, letting beats of time pass them by. Smart predators wait for prey to let their guard down. 

Jessie’s sigh of exhaustion behind them is a clear signal that the threat is gone. 

Where would they be without her, huh? Mauled? Dead? Already eaten? 

Cautious fear steps aside for bubbling rage. Lukas barely recognizes the harsh tone of his voice, but he can’t keep it back, not when every rapid thought of what just occurred comes rushing back, when the sheer danger of what could have just happened hits at full force. Lukas sits up, holding Radar down by the shoulders. 

“What the fuck were you THINKING!? I COULD HAVE LOST YOU!”

And where the fuck would he be then?

The next thought manages not to slip off the tongue. Lukas barely swallows it. I can’t be alone again. Their world is as vicious as it is cruel, destroying and devouring whatever it can get its gnarly claws on. There are a lot of things Lukas is willing to give up to this place, so many things he’s already dropped into the throes of rot and reckless abandon. 

Radar isn’t one of them, and he never will be. 

His tongue is bitten as the next thought almost slips. 

You’re all I’ve got, bud. 

The subject of his love and ire squirms under his weight, terrified. Thanks to the dark, the only real clue that Radar is crying is a higher tone of his voice. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I don’t know what happened,” Radar’s eyes dart up, checking the skies for a return of the monster’s glow. No sign. “It was just- hypnotic! So big and glowy!”

Hypnotic? Glowy?

Weeks of rigorous Brotherhood tests and training, oaths swearing preparedness for the field, and the thing that stopped him was a light?

If they weren’t recovering from a brush with death, Lukas would have laughed. Instead he pushes down harder on Radar’s shoulders. 

“You aren’t a freaking moth!” 

“But it was!”

In our travels on the Outskirts, we’ve been watched. 

Not by any party that genuinely concerns me. Most living things in this place either loudly make themselves known or shriek and scurry for dark confines as quickly as their legs (Sometimes gastropodic feet) can carry them. The closer you get to the Steppes, the more lifeless and desolate it becomes. 

Or so you’d think. There are things out here, they just aren’t alive. At least I don’t think so. They- these things aren’t alive in the traditional sense. 

There are lights at the corners of our vision. When you look, they disappear. These ones are more formless, blinking in and out of existence as they please. All things considered, they could probably be figments of my imagination, but the fact that Espen’s horse keeps whining at ‘nothing’ says otherwise. 

The lights are the cowardly ones, but others are bolder. 

One particular anomaly frequently manifests at nightfall. They remind me of old Earth stories in the Archives, tales of frightened farmers who believed the local wolf population to be that of shapeshifting witches. For a lack of better description, the bolder anomalies are like wolves, too large to be dogs. Their ‘fur’, comprised of waning and waxing waves of blackness, is thick, with bluish lights interweaved. 

They don’t hunt. Their existence is not a physical one, as the surfaces they touch, even heaps of ash and dust, show no signs of a former presence. By all means, the residents of New Victoriam would consider them to be ghosts or lost souls. 

I guess that could be one way to explain it. To my understanding, these beings are fragments of what Aeon-El is: Nonphysical entities which exist as echoes of what was once biological, reduced to a form of raw energy and unexplained consciousness. 

The wolves are mostly made of light and energy matter. They are destroyed by bursts of moonlight which occasionally shine through the pillowing ash clouds of the Steppes. For the sake of simplicity, I’m choosing to call them Ghostlight Wolves, as ghostlights of the earth were similarly destroyed by the presence of another light. 

I would not consider them conscious were it not for their goal-oriented behavior. They trail behind living beings, managing a delicate balance of clinging to shadows and keeping sights on their targets. Nothing has ever come of being stalked by these ethereal canids, though their packs grow in number as they zero in on living beings. I counted at least fifty one night. They refuse to come any closer then 10 meters, and will make a hasty retreat if their targets start towards them. 

If Victoriam has never been destroyed, it is undoubtable that the ghostlight wolves would not exist. Yet, if the endless supply of sharp minds and research tools were still here, there is also no doubt that the science behind their existence would be explained away in a minimum of hours. 

Yet, as it stands, I can’t explain their presence or motivations.. Neither can the others. To us, they are ghosts of an old world, the last remaining pieces of a tragedy that the known universe has likely forgotten. There’s no telling how long they’ve been around, or how long they’ll stay, or even if light truly destroys them. 

Maybe its better that way. 

A hand reaches over the sheer edge of a cavern. Claws meet the edges, violently embedding themselves in the stone, pulling what wields them higher. 

How long has it been? 

Not too long, at least- moonlight feels all the same, shining down from a broken seal at the roof of the tomb. Locals probably think it’s a tomb. This is a prison, but no longer. All things fade in time. Magics are no different. 

Pale light washes over Embergris. Her hair glows a dull yellow, imbued with the magic already thrumming through her. 

The worst they could take away was her freedom, and now even that has been returned to her. 

Jesse slouches on her knees, struggling against the ropes that bind her hands like coarse serpents. Her head hangs forward, hair mussed, forming a disheveled frame for the face staring up at Aiden.

“You bastard!” She lets him know it loud and clear, voice rising above the rumblings of dragons. “You son of a Bitch!” 

Aiden frowns. He stands above her as barely more than a silhouette against the night. 

He’s never heard her curse like that before. 

A scorpion- the same one used to keep the other members of Brightstone sedated -leisurely approaches, red telson bobbing on its gangly tail. In one quick flick from Aiden’s fingers, the insect halts. 

Another tiny motion is made, this time for Gill. The order is received. Pierre, their fire wyvern, snakes his head towards the evacuated house. Behind them, Maugre takes flight. 

The fire wyvern’t throat glows. Then, from his throat, erupts a harsh orange plume of fire. Heat rushes upon the house like a tsunami, splattering against planks and dry stone. Flame-spit sticks like mortar, effortlessly burning through the first wall it meets. The dragon huffs again, dragging flame across the wall until the face of the house is entirely aflame. 

A high-pitched shriek sounds further on the plateau. A similar firelight, this time born of a lightning wyvern’s plasma, cuts through reinforced stables as if they’re built from tissue paper. The wails of woken tames are heard deep into the forest. 

From the corner of her eye, Jesse spots a wolf running for cover, its pelt smothered with glowing blue. Aiden’s thylacoleo tackles it to the ground, the way it once did when their tames would play together. 

This time, teeth come bearing down on the wolf’s neck until it falls limp. 

Jesse looks over her shoulder back to the burning home. Debris fall within it, creating a plume of sparks as planks and belongings clatter to the ground to be further scorched. She pants in the growing heat. 

With the light of their burning home, Jesse can finally see the look in Aiden’s eyes. 

Horror. 

He looks down at her, eyes shifting while the rest of his face stays stiff as stone. 

“You’d best start prayin’, Aiden.” She says it like a threat, because it is. “I won’t be.” 

“I know.” the Raider’s voice stays low. “I didn’t want to do this.” 

Jesse’s jaw goes slack. Her words are obvious- But why? -yet the words don’t come. 

When knocking receives no response, Petra slowly pushes the door open, leaning her head in. 

The room is dark. Light barely squeezes in through the edges of the window, an unwelcome guest forcing its way past thick curtains that have been tightly closed for more than a week. People without their family’s gene’s would be more concerned, but at this time of year, closed curtains are a necessary provision. 

Necessary as a preventative measure for crankiness, at least, but it doesn’t solve everything. 

Some light, despite measures to keep it closed out, is welcome. The TV flickers with various scenes from a video game Petra doesn’t know the name of. Obscure images are dim in their own right, the TV’s brightness undoubtedly at its lowest setting. 

Not far from the TV, a cluster of blankets and pillows rests nestled on the bed. 

“There you are.” 

Just where she left him. Radar peeks from his blanket cocoon, blinking without his glasses. 

Petra glances to the night table, making sure they aren’t lost in the sheets. She plucks them from where they rest beneath a dark lamp, twirling them in her fingers as she leans over her little brother. 

“C’mon, kid” She shakes him a little, receiving a groan in return. “You gotta get checked out today, remember?” 

Radar settles further. 

“Can’t we do it later?” Total exhausted hangs in his voice, weak and croaky. “I just… wanna finish watching this.” 

Her huffed laugh is as genuine as the pity in her chest. 

Most people would consider it easy to be a hibernator, with the months-long nap and all, but it isn’t all blankets and cupcakes. There are health exams to be concerned about, extreme fatigue, extreme hunger, and dreaded times where the schedule is willing but the body isn’t. 

He looks as tired as he sounds. Getting up for these was hard for her, too. 

“I know.” He gets up anyway and she helps him, peeling back layers of blanket. “But you aren’t really watching much of anything- here, glasses.” 

Glasses are slid over eyes that aren’t even properly open. He responds by holding her arm, letting himself be guided out of bed. The opened cocoon reveals a much, much chubbier Radar than she remembers from a few weeks ago, when his hibernation prep symptoms first started showing up. His flesh is warm. 

“Thank you. It won’t take too long, okay? Just a quick car trip. You can sleep during it, too.” Petra pats his back, helping him settle on the edge of the bed. 

“Mhmm.” He speaks again, a bit less slurred. “You’ll come too, right?” 

This is a test. Dunelurker’s testing him, scouting him out physically, learning, because what else are they supposed to do? Who are they supposed to trust? 

For all this person knows, Lukas could be doing the same, scouting out the weaknesses of a smaller, weaker survivor. 

The sky over Windhelm is black. Flurries consume the slag-laden streets, white powder dusting the furs and shoulder pads of the hundreds gathered at the doors of The Palace of Kings. They crowd like horkers upon a rocky shore, children pushing through the legs of their elders to get a better look, dunmer and argonian packed behind as stormcloak soldiers crowd the frontmost rows. 

Ulfric Stormcloak stands on the highest step to the palace. His right hand, Gunmar, stands with him. 

He is silent, face as dark and stony as Windhelm itself. The crowd is restless. 

What’s going on?- mom I’m cold- must be a special occasion to let the swamp lizards in- is he throwing the dark elves out?- better hurry it up, I’ve got soup boiling. 

The jarl of Windhelm takes a deep breath. This day would come eventually. 

Gunmar leans in, whispering just above the winds. “Are you sure about this, Ulfric?” 

He isn’t, but what difference does that make? 

“And what, send my people home? After packing them in the streets like horker meat and promising answers? It's much too late for that, Gunmar.” 

“Very well.” 

His lips pulled into a brooding frown, Ulfric clears his throat. His people deserve answers. They deserve to know the true weight of their service, their destinies, the path that they travel with him. 

The hard part about legends is that they’re rather unclear. Truths are harder to stomach than ideals. 

“Sons and Daughters of Skyrim,” he starts as he always does. “For as proud as we are to fight for this home, our home, war does not come without its costs. You have much to weigh on your hearts, beyond freedom from those who wish to take Skyrim away from us. I know this. I’ve lived with it since I was a boy. 

“But when I was a boy, there were no dragons. Legends were only stories for our fathers to reminisce. In this age, the legends have come true. They are as true for me as they are for you, and all men that hold the Stormcloak banner. 

“In our pride, we forget the very stones we stand on, placed by our ancestors. Built to honor Ysgromor, bolstered to honor avatars of the gods: Dragons.” 

Murmurs break out among the crowd, men and women whispering to one another in confusion. Some nod in excitement, absorbing every word, perplexed. Far behind the nords, elves shift uncomfortable on their heels. 

Wuunferth, just beside Galmar, whispers accusingly “What exactly is the meaning of this?” 

Whether or not they know their destiny, they’d best accept it. 

All of them. 

“Dragons do not have to be our enemy.” Ulfric squares his shoulders. “For we and they are one in the same: We seek freedom, to take back what is rightfully ours! We are more than legends! The stormcloaks are here, now, and the season unending ends TONIGHT.”

The jarl of Windhelm clashes the hilt of his battleaxe to the ground. A signal to Gunmar, who hesitates as he brings the battle horn to his lips. 

Brassy echoes ring through the ancient city, dancing in empty streets. The haughtiest of men raise their weapons with vigor, unknowing of shadows lurking in the mountains, and the women nervously glance between soldiers and their children. 

Silence falls. A sleeping city waits. 

In the distant night, wings beat against the wind. Wings as black as the night, joined by others. 

LOK  - VAH - KOOR 

The sky erupts with ancient words, clouds splitting and bursting like the eruption of the Red Mountain. Moonlight pours onto the land, winds blown far in a single burst as dresses and capes flutter in the force of the blast. A little girl, Sofia, latches onto the leg of a beggar. 

Roars fill the night. Two dragons emerge from what remains over the clouds, flying down into the city. Their shadows obscure the moonglow, twisting over the faces of horrified townspeople, some screaming, others running. The tremble of dragon landfall brings them to their knees. 

Two dragons land upon roofs parallel to the palace doors, hanging their wings over the walls. Each are as large as they are spiny, scales ridden with ancient battle scars. Survivors of the dragon war. 

Guards stand terrified, weapons frozen in their hands. Bowmen draw arrows with trembling fingers. 

The voice of Ulfric Stormcloak rings out among the people, “STAY YOUR WEAPONS.” 

Such a command fails to reach all; arrows fly from archers too far into their shot. The dragons flinch at the volley, merely annoyed with arrows that fail to pierce a single scale.

One scoffs. “Nikriin joor. Drog-ill bo! Your true High King arrives!” 

The other dragon, horns as curved as the crescent moon, shakes his head. Thu’um thunders from his maw. 

ZUN - HAAL - VIIK

A chorus of weapons clatters to the ground. Ulfric stares into a sea of white faces, frightened into submission. Some of the warriors wear expressions as stone as the Jarl’s own, their steel resting in the snow.. 

The shouting dragon returns attention to his brother, voice smug. “Tinvaak rel,  Golznokliz.” 

Dragons brothers aren’t unlike human brothers, it seems. It would be more amusing had they not reduced his people to playthings. The sons and daughters of skyrim are still, and those from other lands yet remain, stilled by fear and awe. 

‘Victory’ doesn’t last; the dragons silence, bowing their heads for the arrival of their king. 

A heavy shadow glides through the night. Larger than the others, it briefly overtakes the city, witnesses swallowed in the darkness. The massive black dragon flies low, allowing the moon to return. With several forceful wingbeats, he comes to a rest atop the Palace of Kings, gazing down upon the Stormcloaks with gleaming red eyes. 

The black dragon’s scales shine like polished blades in the moonlight, ornamental spires decorating the beast from his head to his tail. His wings, armored as the rest of him, stretch out comfortably against the roof, shingles and snow falling from the disturbance 

Alduin the World-Eater rests before them.

Golnokliz crawls gracefully along the wall, dropping like a bat at the palace gates. His maw forces the fleeing people back in, threatening their necks with his teeth. 

With a voice as deep as the rumbling of mountains, rough as blade-sharpening stones, the Lord of Dragons speaks. 

“Zu’u, faal thur se lein, daal! Krosis fahdon, speak first. Tell your people the truth.” 

His people are terrified, more now than they’ve been since the war started. Ulfric looks back to them from the World Eater, sure to keep his chin high. Their leader doesn’t cower. Their leader doesn’t lie. 

Ulfric puts his axe blade to the ground, resting his palms on the end of the hilt. 

“Helgen was not an accident.” 

Utter silence falls among the fearful chatter. Only the cries of babes permeate the shock, too young to understand. 

This is all for them, isn’t it? 

“Geh. Indeed my fire burns in favor of the ancient ways. Silence now, Midjoor.” 

Babes stop crying. Not a single peep sounds from the courtyard, only the heavy breathing of dragons and nervous feet shifting in the snow. Alduin raises his neck, horns jagged as peaks against the moon. He sits as distinguished as a jarl in his throne. A growl clears his throat. 

“Sons and daughters of Skyrim... This is what you call yourselves, vahzen? It seems the years of my absence have stretched beyond your fragile memories. I am Alduin, First Born of Akatosh, rightful ruler of the place you call Mundus. Zu’u rel! I am not a myth!” 

“So the legends are true?” A brave soldier says from the crowd, louder as he draws the great dragon’s attention. “You’ve come back to end the world?” 

Alduin glares. 

“Nahlot Joor! Your ancient heroes are liars. Ages ago, atop the Monahven, I battled with the Tongues. They postponed fate with an Elder Scroll, only to sing songs of my felling! Lo Nikriin!” The world eater adjusts himself, raising his head higher. “Zu’u los unslaad! I am real.” 

“Well, we can see that-” Ulfric’s elbow meets Galmar’s gut before his housecarl can say any more. 

In the night, more massive figures twist beyond the boundaries of the courtyard. Dragons gather for their master’s speech, nesting on rooftops like great eagles, eyes upon the largest, darkest dragon. 

“Nunon. I am the means to end your… season unending, as the ancient joor call it. With the beat of my great wings, I bring the beginning of a new era! This land rots and the hand of elves and human empires, does it not? Paak! The Dov and the Stormcloak seek one simple thing, that of which I offer you: Freedom from the ulse liz that have taken OUR ancient home!” 

Against all odds, all expectations, heads raise in interest and awe at the words of the wyrm. The hearts of his soldiers are no longer chilled. Some raise their fists and cry out in agreement. 

Those furthest in the crowd step back into the shadows. 

Dragon wings raise up, moonbeam’s shining through the filament in muted, glowing colors as the beasts raise themselves in power. Alduin himself rests on two legs, wings gesturing outward like painter’s hands at the world she shapes with words. 

“No longer are we enemies! Kein oblann- The Dragon War is long over. Together, my Rage and your people shall set a fire that will drive our enemies to destruction, and take back what is rightfully ours!” 

“Together, we are DOVAH. We ARE the rightful rulers of Tamriel, and I am THE FIRST BORN OF AKATOSH!” 

Alduin spreads his wings to their fullest, shadow swallowing the people of Windhelm, wings grayish red in the light. He roars his words, the other dragons following suit. None are great enough to overpower his own. 

The bravest of the nords cheer, clapping their heads and clamoring their weapons together. Undoubtedly, the world eater is thinking of what fine servants they’ll be. 

The voice of Ulfric Stormcloak rings out among the people, “STAY YOUR WEAPONS.” 

Such a command fails to reach all; arrows fly from archers too far into their shot. The dragons flinch at the volley, merely annoyed with arrows that fail to pierce a single scale.

One scoffs. “Nikriin joor. Drog-ill bo! Your true High King arrives!” 

The other dragon, horns as curved as the crescent moon, shakes his head. Thu’um thunders from his maw. 

ZUN - HAAL - VIIK

A chorus of weapons clatters to the ground. Ulfric stares into a sea of white faces, frightened into submission. Some of the warriors wear expressions as stone as the Jarl’s own, their steel resting in the snow.. 

The shouting dragon returns attention to his brother, voice smug. “Tinvaak rel,  Golznokliz.”