Ondolyn
Turdas, 27th Last Seed 4E 201
Thalmor Embassy
Skyrim was a foul place. If it was not covered in snow, it as being set upon by dragons from the skies. And if you were lucky to avoid either of those, you were either putting up with casual Nordic racism in an inn or trawling through caverns of the waking dead. Or bandits. All in all, for Ondolyn, Captain of the Protectors, Skyrim was the last place he wanted to be visiting. Unfortunately, it was precisely where his job had led him.
So here he was, due to be speaking with Elenwen in the Embassy, looking over the mountains as he waited to be called in to their meeting. It was snow-spattered, like most of Skyrim, but further down the flora of the North grew bountiful, a mix of reds, blues and purples adorning the roadside. It was beautiful, Ondolyn thought, but more importantly, one day it would be theirs.
“Captain, the Ambassador will see you now.”
With a snort, Ondolyn left the window and followed the guard through the Embassy. It was a foolish title for a person such as Elenwen, so military in word and deed that she lacked political subtlety. She was no ambassador, no more than he was an Orc.
“Captain, it’s good to have you here in Skyrim.”
Elenwen had a harsh voice and an even harsher face, and it was rare to hear such genuineness from her. Nonetheless, this was one of those moments.
“And you too, Elenwen,” Ondolyn replied, bowing his head slightly. “I take it you have need of the Protectors?”
“Just you, Captain,” she said, frowning slightly. “We have received word of the Dark Brotherhood reforming stronger than before. Whatever their plot may be, it’s big. Very big. Eliminate it.”
“A one-man job that big?” Ondolyn asked sceptically. “I want at least two others with me.”
“No.” Her voice was suddenly firm, and the temperature of the room rose ever so slightly, the magicka rolling off her body subconsciously. “This is a job for you alone, Captain. If I get word of another Protector with you, I’ll have your position.”
“You don’t have the authority.”
“Try me,” she said, glaring down at Ondolyn with what little height she had on him. “I can and will do what I have to to get this job done right. You have your orders. You may leave.”
A silence fell over the room, broken only by a knock on the door and the appearance of the guard with a sheepish look on his face.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but you have a visitor from the Blue Palace. She says it’s urgent.”
Elenwen fixed her gaze on Ondolyn a moment longer before she turned away. “Send her in. Escort the captain to the gates and see him on his way.”
With a nod the two were out the door, Ondolyn walking a few paces behind the guard.
“What’s up her arse?” Ondolyn asked lightly, wondering what had come over the woman. He’d known her for many years, and she had never been this curt with him. Sure, she’d always rubbed just about everybody the wrong way, but she wasn’t a total bitch – she was a person of rational thought.
“Only the Divines would know,” the guard responded. “She’s been in a right state since we’ve been in Skyrim. I reckon the climate’s gotten to her – fire-user in a cold place and all that. Can’t be good for her.”
They were at the gates now, where a soft layer of snowing was falling on to the wrought iron, and was ice cold to the touch, as if trying to prove the guard’s point.
“I guess,” Ondolyn replied, thought silently thinking there was something else going on. “Sorry, I never did catch your name.”
“Vilys, Captain,” came the answer from the guard.
“Vilys, that’s a Dunmer name, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir, my father was a Dunmer. Grew up down in the Grey Quarter of Windhelm. You should investigate it if you get the chance. Beautiful place.”
“I may,” Ondolyn said with a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Hunting the Brotherhood? Get up to Solitude, to the Winking Skeever. You hear all sorts in a tavern. ‘Specially a Nord one.”
Ondolyn smirked with a nod.
“Will do. Thanks Vilys. May the Divines watch over you.”
“And you, brother.” They shook hands briefly before Ondolyn took to the road.
As he descended the mountain the eternally snow-covered grass tapered off, and a clearly defined dirt path started to emerge with Solitude now visible to the east. Adjusting his great-sword, he set off towards the city, but before long encountered a small problem; bandits. Six of them, all surrounding him with swords and axes at the ready. One to his left, decked head to toe in iron armour, stepped forwards identifying himself as the leader.
“Hand over your gold if you want to live,” the man said, a harsh guttural voice indicating a Dunmer hid behind that mask. Ondolyn sighed.
“Do you see these robes?” he asked, tugging lightly at his shoulder. The yellow trimming shone in the bright sunlight, a stark contrast to the dark material that would stand out even in the dead of night. As he stalled for time, Ondolyn felt the familiar pulse of magic over his tattoo just under his right ear. “These are the robes of the Thalmor. If you actually manage to kill me, you’ll have the Ambassador herself hunting you down. You can walk away now if you want, or risk facing death right now.” A pulse came back, and his body was now ready for combat.
“That’s nothing but talk,” a Khajiit said somewhere to his right. “This one thinks you look too weak to lift that sword on your back.”
“Yeah, a prissy elf like him relies on magic,” An Orcish voice behind him said, before moving in.
As if communicating mentally, all six of the bandits attacked, yelling at the top of their voices. Ondolyn tightened his legs in anticipation, and leapt forwards when the chief was close enough. A foot on the shoulder and a swift push, he was down on the floor, tripping up the others as they tried to get to him. In a fluid motion, the sword was off his back and sweeping across to a guard. Sending another pulse of magicka through his body, Ondolyn took quick stock of the situation. Two left, three right, one standing up in the back. Sidestepping right, he brought his sword swinging in a wide arc, catching two bandits on their arms. A spin and a downwards cleave, one was now disarmed, left with a bloody stump instead. Using his momentum he brought the great-sword overhead to let gravity do its job. Embedded in a skull, there were now four left. And all were backing away now.
“This is your last chance. You can leave. Or die.” Only the Khajiit seemed smart enough to leave, leaving two Nords and the Dunmer chief to face Ondolyn. He shrugged. “Your funeral.” He lunged, using his sword like a spear, slicing clear though the fur armour like butter. Not bothering to remove it, he shoved the body into the Chief, dodging the swing of an axe from the other one. The chief now wrestling with a corpse on top of him, Ondolyn quickly dispatched of the remaining Nord before turning to the Chief.
“I’m not without mercy, you know. But you forced my hand. Azura protect you wherever you may go from here.” He thrust the sword between the helmet and the breastplate, into the fleshy neck it exposed.
It was bizarrely quiet after the fight, he thought idly as he wiped his sword on a scrap of fur cut off in the fray. Not even the sound of birds filled the air, no howls of wolves in the distance, not even a fox to be heard snuffling amidst the snowberries. Just a calm breeze rushing past his scalp and the stench of blood accompanied the solitary High Elf as he looked across the view.
He was right – Skyrim was beautiful. Just cold. And snowy. Even then, the snow wasn’t exactly bad, just not what he was used to, not back home in Alinor, where the sun shone bright every day, and the heart was sweltering if you weren’t accustomed to such temperatures. But his training as a Protector helped to counter much of those problems.
Originally a group of gladiators, they had changed their form in the years to become guardsmen. After that, a schism led two-thirds of the group to become mercenaries, and the remaining ones became the elite warriors for the glory of the Altmer. That had happened shortly after the Oblivion Crisis, and Ondolyn had to step up to the role of Captain, and had been tracking down the former members ever since to prevent their tattoo magic runes getting out.
That had led him to High Rock, and had finished tracking and putting down an Orcish apprentice when the courier caught him, and ended up sending him in the very direction he needed to go; only one man remained of the mercenaries – a pretender by the name of Norenor with a penchant for petty thievery. It was most likely that he had changed his name, and it felt like he’d been trying to a catch a fish with his bare hands. But the summons were immediate, and it seemed like they were not without due cause – a single region’s Dark Brotherhood were more than enough to cause major harm to any other guild, when they were united as one, at least.
His musings continued as he followed the path down to the main road and turned slightly north, up a rising slope where the city of Solitude lay ahead, a mass of grey stone against the blue skies. Overhead a few seabirds circled ships in the harbour, and a faint waft of roasted mudcrab hit his nostrils, which served only to remind him how hungry he was. Picking up his pace, he soon found himself at the entrance of Solitude.
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” he said casually to the gate guards, who looked at him suspiciously as he approached them. One of them gave a smirk, hidden somewhat by his helmet.
“You’re just in time to say hello to Roggvir.”
“Who’s Roggvir?” Ondolyn couldn’t help but ask.
“He’s the one who opened the gates, let Ulfric Stormcloak in to murder the High King,” the other answered. “Bastard’s got what’s coming to him, I reckon.”
Deciding against responding to this comment, the Altmer only nodded noncommittally before pushing open the gates and entering the city.
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