The voice was deep and raspy, and yet it thundered across the cave, a terrible rumble shaking the very foundations of the stone. The volume boomed against the rock, bouncing into Ulfric's eardrums, and he hastily covered his ears with his palms, grimacing at the intensity. The words were spoken in a dialect Ulfric could not comprehend, but he somehow knew they held power and authority. His stomach twisted into a tighter knot, and his skin prickled and crawled. He swallowed thickly, tongue-feeling thick and swollen-darted across his lips as the man continued to speak, the Words thrumming against his very bones.
Wordlessly, his carrier set Ulfric onto the ground. Weak-kneed and legs feeling like jelly, Ulfric gracelessly tumbled to the ground, his stiff cast granting him an awkward and painful landing. Biting his tongue to keep from yelping, his blue eyes remained fixated on the shriveled figure before him, heart trembling inside his ribcage, his chest seeming to shrink and dwindle, leaving no room for his lungs to fill with air. His tiny fingers curled around the floor's cracks, desperate to clutch onto something and move it between him and the old man, whose voice continued resound with such vigorous intensity. The poor child could not even think, his mind spinning so hastily in panic and terror to be able to grasp onto a single notion.
To his utter horror, the man stepped toward him, his blackened eyes boring into Ulfric's very soul. The young Nord tried to crawl away, but he traveled only a mere foot before his back met that of his captor's legs. He shoved himself against them, trying to create as much distance between him and the elder, his whimpers bubbling in his throat as the figure continued forward until he was but a stark foot from him. Although not incredibly tall, the form towered over Ulfric, shadows looming across his face, which seemed to only intensify those black orbs. They held no mirth, no anger or fear, no plans of death or lust of blood; not a scant pinch of emotions rested inside those soulless eyes, yet continued to burn into Ulfric, sending his own emotions in a frenzy of fear and alarm. He felt himself tremble as he stared at the robed figure, dreadfully awaiting something-anything that could possibly explain why he was here.
The old man, after a considerable amount of time simply standing there and staring Ulfric down, straightened and nodded, blinking slowly. He Spoke one last Word, one that stirred the ground with its power, and brought a curious quiver to Ulfric's stomach, casting a notion into the boy's mind that its meaning was significant, and its purpose even more so:
"Dovahkiin."
He did not know what it meant, but he felt something swell inside him, laced with curiosity and wonder. The Word seemed important, if not somehow vital, to something that Ulfric could not understand, but simply felt. He gaped at the old man in puzzlement, his mind practically tumbling down a great abyss of confusion.
But his curiosity melted into terror when his eyes caught glance of the polished metal reflecting the fire's orange hue, blood draining from his face. A sword, long and jagged and terrifying, had found itself in the old man's grip, humming eerily in a song of death and blood. The elder stared at him, stepping toward him, as he rose the weapon, cracked lips breaking out in the most harrowing smile Ulfric had ever laid eyes on.
The young Nord stumbled upward, but firm hands seized him and held him steady, unperturbed by Ulfric's struggles. His heart thrummed so loudly against his chest, it was the only thing he could hear, the BUDDUM-BUDDUM overwhelming his senses as he remained frozen in fear. A scream swelled in the child's chest, but it was suddenly caught in his throat, like a fly in a spider's web. His limbs felt weak, cold, and heavy, and all he could do was watch the sword sail downward in a death arch, singing its victorious hum.
And then, when Ulfric knew it was all over, when the death bells chimed in his ears and promised him his eternity in Sovngarde, a child too young to meet such a land, the mauve streak of lighting crackled into the air and struck the elder, ending with a rain of sparks and agonized screech.
And Ulfric knew, that for the rest of his days on Skyrim, he would never forget the raging elf that stormed inside, and the joy in the young Nord's heart.
He cursed them in Elvish.
He snarled at them in Bosmeri.
He swore to them death in their own native tongue.
'Fury' was but a scant understatement of what the Altmer felt churn inside him, boiling in his veins, and guiding the magicka through his palms with deadly precision. He focused only on the terrified, crumpled form on the floor, shimmering aqua orbs staring at Mithllon with such intense hope and relief, the elf felt something furious stir inside him.
The ancient man had intended death upon this child.
For what Mithllon planned for the elder, death would be but a merciful blessing.
The Altmer surged forward, shrieking balls of fire and ice raining down upon his enemies, bathing the hall in bursts of blues and reds. The cloaked forms staggered back at the force of magicka, allowing Mithllon to tear past them and seize Ulfric by the back of his shirt. The child responded with a surprised yelp before clutching firmly to Mithllon's torso, fingers locking around the folds of his robe. The elf skid to the end of the room, his boots sliding on the stone floor; his eyes-still burning with blood-lust-scanned across the expanse, lips tightened into a thin line.
The old man had regained his bearings, wrinkled face twisting into an ugly snarl as the skin at the left side sizzled and burned, blackened and bruised after Mithllon's surprise attack. To the Altmer's dismay, his magicka had done little damage, shimmering glows dancing over the man's form to reveal magic-resistant enchantments. Gurgling in a furious growl, the man motioned to his mages, whose heads snapped at attention and stepped forward, facing Mithllon, their hands shimmering with uncast magicka.
While they took a step forward, Mithllon took a step back, gaze darting about the room, mind spinning with plans of action. There stood at least fifteen of them, vastly outnumbering himself and Ulfric, and Mithllon only had one hand available for magicka. The room was far too small for greater destruction magic, and he feared he might strike the child should he put him down. There was only one choice, really, that assured Ulfric's survival, and possibly his own. It was a risky tactic, made only by great leaders who knew their armies were thwarted and their allies beaten, but Mithllon accepted it gratefully. And while the mages snarled at him and the magicka roared in their grasp, Mithllon adjusted his grip on Ulfric and tightened his jaw, staring fiercely at his enemy.
And then he ran.
