"My jarl!"
The boom of the great iron doors opening resounded across the hall, echoing through the stone walls. They collided into the walls with a great shutter, and a lone soldier suddenly tore in, stumbling over his feet. Jarl Haren stood crouched over the massive oak table with the map of Skyrim displayed on top of it. His fatigued eyes met the soldier's steadily, thick eyebrows rising in an unspoken question. The soldier heaved great gasps of air, a sheen of sweat glazed over his face. His mouth moved, struggling to form words but halting in mid-syllable. The jarl's face twisted in annoyance and he growled, "Spit it out, boy!"
The soldier found his voice, however squeaky and high-pitched it might be: "W-we found something, sir!" Haren's attention intensified and he stared at the boy closely, his eyebrows narrowing, and nodded for him to continue. The soldier shuffled in his armor, stammering over himself. "Th-there are signs of a battle that we discovered a day ago. I-in the Eastmarch forests. We found a pile of provisions scattered about, along with a torn saddle with blood on it. The t-trees are scorched on some sides, and there are cloaks covered in blood resting in the snow. With...ash inside of them, curiously enough. The air smelt of burning wood and soot, a-along w-with the faint smell of...of..."
"Magic," Haren finished, his tone quiet and soft. The soldier nodded hastily.
"We discovered a trail of boot-prints and hooves, and on the trail was-" the boy stuffed his hand inside a pouch attached to his belt and pulled out a long strand of cloth "-this." Haren extended his arm and the soldier dropped the cloth in his massive hand. The jarl studied it closely, smoothing it between his fingers to test the texture, and inhaling deeply to take in its scent. It was a dirty white, with a smooth surface-very much unlike the Nordic cloth-and a faint sweet, pleasant scent that was overridden by days of sweat and grime. Curled around the cloth was a strand of blonde hair. Haren's hand curled around the cloth, bunching into a fist.
"This is elven cloth," he growled, his voice even and his eyes burning. The soldier swallowed, his eyes puzzled, and opened his mouth to ask something. Haren's deep, growling voice boomed over him, "Ready my horse! Send the scouts ahead, and tell them to remain on the trail." His heavy feet thundered against the stone floor as he rushed to grab his sword. "I swear by the glory of Talos, I'll find my boy, and I'll slaughter the bloody elf who took him."
The Skyrim air was cold and frigid, beating angrily against the white trees and disturbing the snow underneath. Tiny sharp balls of ice pelted against bark of trees and the surfaces of rocks, the wind howling eerily in the night. The leaves of trees shuddered, falling from their branches to be carried by the violent gusts of wind. Beneath the trees stood a group of armored men and their horses, their torches casting a wavering crimson glow onto the snow and trees around them. They remained unhindered by the furious blizzard raging around them, standing readily and silently, as if waiting for something. Dogs wandered around the group, sniffing at the snow while their paws sank into the deep snow. Suddenly, they raised their heads to stare into the darkness, and then began to bark furiously. The thundering of hooves emerged from within the blizzard, and soon after a flickering light grew brighter inside the torrent of ice. With the rustle of saddles and the clatter of armor, the men turned their hardened faces toward the sound, until a rider appeared, his black-pelted horse snorting powerful gusts of breath, leaving mist in the air. He lifted his torch higher and stared at the group of men, who waited with expectation.
"Jarl Haren orders us to follow the trail immediately! If we find them, we must capture the elf! But, whatever you do, don't hurt the boy!" the rider roared over the howling of the wind and the yelping of the dogs. The group of men nodded immediately, and the hounds barked in union. Leaping from their powerful legs, the dogs sped off with a single word from their master. The men mounted their horses and beckoned them forward with a shout. The horses tossed their heads and neighed loudly, their hooves echoing throughout the trees and disappearing in the sound of the blizzard.
Ulfric found himself shivering in the night, even as he sits in the arms of one of the cloaked men. His body did not radiate any heat to warm the boy, and only managed to shelter him from the harsh snowstorm wiping around them. Although Ulfric was a Nord and held a natural resistance to the cold, he hadn't eaten all day. Nords needed great deals of food to maintain their body heat, and usually ate every several hours in massive quantities. Ulfric found himself cold with the lack of food in his belly, which growled loudly. But Ulfric's shivering was not only due to the cold.
He was terrified. He was now in the clutches of who he assumed were very bad men, while feeling more far away home than he could ever imagine. The little Nord did not know if Mithllon was dead or alive, with the elf never managing to emerge from the trees to save him. That was what Ulfric was mostly horrified about. Was his savior truly dead? The elf with the long, silky black hair and shimmering green eyes who held such a smooth calming voice could be dead because of him. Ulfric's first Altmer friend could be lying in the snow, chest unmoving and blue skin covered in ice. Ulfric could imagine his dull green eyes dry, lifeless, and staring at nothing with his arms splayed out and still shimmering with the after effects of the magicka. Ulfric bit his lip as he felt the familiar swelling in his chest and the harsh itching in his throat; he could not cry anymore, for his eyes had dried out long ago and still stung profoundly. He did not wish to cry in front of his enemies, anyway.
Ulfric noticed something very odd from his captors, excluding the fact that they did not posses heat. The men had been running for at least nine hours without pause and without slowing their pace. He realized they did not even seem to breath heavily or laboriously after the many hours of sprinting. It seemed as if they held boundless energy that could not be halted or withheld. Ulfric also realized that several days ago he would have not come to this conclusion; in fact, he would not have thought to study his enemy anyway. It seemed that Mithllon's wisdom had rubbed off onto the young Nord. It took him several hours to even think of examining his enemy, but he still felt a tinge of pride for himself. But that soon diminished into sorrow when Ulfric wondered if Mithllon would have been proud.
Ulfric's musings were cut short when each hooded man halted immediately, their feet sliding onto the snow after the sudden halt. The young Nord blinked in confusion and looked up at his captor. "Where are we?" he asked in a meek voice. The man did not answer as he followed his companions forward, the snow crunching beneath each of their feet. Ulfric swallowed as he peered out in front of him, struggling to see any sort of silhouette through the darkness of the night. Where they at a house, or possibly a dungeon? Perhaps they were nearing a castle, where the lord of the building would keep Ulfric locked away so he could demand a ransom from his father. Ulfric had been warned of such things when he was younger, but he did not entirely understand it. Now he did.
But as he continued to listen, the air suddenly did not blow fiercely, its cold bite no longer gnashing at Ulfric's cheeks. He could no longer hear the crunch of snow as the men walked, their footsteps coming more as echoes than anything. A low, humming whistle resounded around them, sounding as if the earth was yawning around them. As Ulfric listened to the odd echoes and the low yawn, he slowly realized what the hooded men were taking him into.
They were bringing him into a cave.
