The hounds howled fiercely in the Skyrim air as they sprinted through the thick sheets of snow, sending clouds of ice billowing in their wake as their shouts echoed into the expanse of the forest. Their barks were dwarfed by the thundering boom of twenty galloping horses trailing from behind, their coats so thick and rough, not even the great bears hailing from the tallest of Skyrim's mountains could pierce such a skin. Their eyes, unblinking and dark, contained the strong will to obey their riders, who bowed low to their neck and urgently pressed them onward, their hardened faces pelted by the harsh blizzard winds of their native wintry land. The beasts could sense their masters' stress, and so they drove onward at a stronger pace, their muscles tensing with each massive leap.
The party had seen nothing to raise their spirits-just an endless trail of Elven hooves, which was swiftly fading in the fierce blizzard. Any self-respecting tracker knew that, in only mere minutes, the trail would disappear, fresh snow showering over it. Frequently the party halted, certain that they had lost the trail. Due to their dogs' strong nose and sharp eyes, they would find the still-fading tracks once again and hastily follow them. It was a painful struggle of time, and the Nords (and Elves) were losing the struggle.
If anything, their spirits had been dampened since they started this journey. Tracking an Altmer had been more difficult than they expected, and it had cost them greatly.
But Jarl Haren, a true, proud Nord at heart, refused to allow his drive to waver. With Ulfric in the Altmer's grip, who knew what evil would befall his child? What dark magic would this mage cast upon the young Nord? The possibilities were boundless, and the first several assumptions his mind conjured up brought him ill comfort. The grave expressions the Thalmor held on their angular faces gave no further aid to Haren's plight. And so, to keep himself from spinning in an abyss of despair, he preoccupied himself with fantasizing how he would kill the Altmer once he was in his grasp, which lifted the weight in Haren's chest somewhat.
But suddenly, his thoughts were deterred once his party skid to a halt, the horses' hooves sliding across the white flakes, casting a cloud of snow around them. They shifted in distress, confused of yet another interruption, snorting and tossing their manes apprehensively. The hounds circled the area, noses buried into the snow and dark eyes flashing across the expanse, and for ten minutes, they paced restlessly over the land. Haren's stomach twisted once they whined, glancing back to their masters as they shivered in the cold. Haren's main officer glanced behind him to stare at the jarl, his gaze filled with dejection, and Haren felt his organs plummet to the soles of his feet.
The trail was completely gone.
They had lost Ulfric.
Their shrieks echoed grotesquely behind them, the sound bounding off the cave walls to screech in his ears. Mithllon grit his teeth and sent a half-hearted streak of ice in his wake to slow the mages down, but to no avail. The Altmer knew his spell had failed when the mages screamed again, a dry, hollow wail that grated at his bones. Ulfric shuddered and buried his face in Mithllon's cloak, whimpering in fear. The action brought a burning energy to Mithllon's stomach, and he ran faster, aching legs sailing across the stone floor, his robes billowing behind him. He cantered down the seemingly-endless hallway, a magical orb trailing with him to light the way, bathing the rock walls in a dull white glow. He forced himself to only focus on the expanse ahead, certain that if he looked behind himself, he would feel disheartened at the sheer numbers of mages at his heels.
Then he felt the heat. Eyes snapping wide in alarm, he ducked, and for good measure, threw himself to the side. A loud hiss and the dull sound of blazing fire entered his pointed ears, and he watched as a sweltering ball of fire streaked past him, illuminating the hallway in a deathly crimson glow. It landed harmlessly into the ground, hissing out of existence to fill the air with the stench of magicka and heated rock. The mages cried out in fury once they discovered their spell had missed its target, and Mithllon was again reminded of the urgency to escape the cave and onto open ground. He began running again, holding Ulfric in a tighter grasp to shield him from the oncoming barrage of magicka.
He cursed in Elvish as the spells rained down upon him, shaking the very foundation of the cave with its force and volume. To hold whatever protection he contained, he casted wards to weaken the onslaught's vitality. Down the cavern he tore, ears ringing and blood rushing through his body at such haste, Mithllon was certain his veins would burst. His magical orb shimmered in front of him, as if to be some mockery assurance that he would escape from this deathly chasm alive. His legs burned with exhaustion, and his chest heaved with gasps of air, eyes streaming with painful tears. His wards wavered and he could feel the enemy close in on him. And still he could not see the end of this bleak corridor, the promise of safety and survival feeling so far away. He knew he could not hold out for much longer, the results of days without sleep or food finally catching up to him.
The cloaked forms drew closer, the pounding of their feet deafening, sounding like a death drum, screaming out to Mithllon for his blood and flesh.
Keep running...don't stop...
Ulfric had become incredibly heavy in his grasp, and it became a laborious task just to hold the child to his chest. It hurt to breathe, sending shocks of sharp heat to his lungs and a great throbbing to his sides. He stumbled once, and then twice, after a few more paces. His mouth ran dry and his stomach turned to lead once he realized his luck ran out. The mages had enough room to catch onto the elf's hair and drag him into the darkness, and Mithllon waited for the inevitable.
And then, with a cold, sinking ground at his feet and a gust of air, the world opened out to him, and he stepped out of the cave.
"What was that?"
The Nords stared at each other in puzzlement, muttering amongst themselves once the noise had erupted miles away. It sounded of...harsh screaming and eerie howls, though no one wanted to explain it. It was chilling on such a dark, starless night, and they all felt like youths cowering beneath a tent as an elderly widow told them stories of ghosts and Deadra that feasted on disobedient children.
The Thalmor, however, seemed to have no qualms in describing it:
"It resembles screaming, does it not?" Ancano murmured in a conversational tone, as if he were asking about the weather. His face was still set in its irritating nonchalance, an air of disciplined calm surrounding him and his colleagues. The Nords cast steely glares at them, annoyed by their lack of emotion.
"Yes," Haren replied curtly, grip tight on the reigns of his horse. Only a mere day had passed, and the Altmer was grinding on his nerves. He hoped they found the renegade elf soon, else Haren bloody his axe with Thalmor blood.
His brow furrowed as he struggled to peer into the darkness, eyes wrinkling. He grunted, motioning to his soldiers. "Come on," he growled in his gravelly voice, his horse shifting beneath him. "Let's find out what the trouble is, aye?"
Hesitantly, the Nords took up their reigns and beckoned their steeds forward, the party weaving through the trees, toward the unearthly sounds. The shrieks grew louder and more uncanny as they pressed onward, several of the soldiers gripping their weapons tighter, their faces set in stone. Haren's grip had found itself fastened to the hilt of his sword, and it brought a small comfort to him-emphasis on small.
And then came the boom. The sound of it was so massive and forceful, it shook at the ground and seized the trunks of trees, sending the leaves into a quivering frenzy. The land was bathed in a blaze of green, so bright it blinded the onlookers, before it suddenly faded from existence. The horses cried out in terror, rearing backward as they tossed their head anxiously, gusts of heavy pants billowing from their nostrils. Their riders shouted out in surprise, struggling to calm the beasts while remaining half-blinded.
And after, the distant screaming was cut short, rising to a high-pitched peak before snuffing out, like that of a candle in a storm. There was a deafening pause of silence, the party gaping at each other in wonder and surprise. The night turned oddly still with the blizzard winds suddenly halted, as if acknowledging the thundering crash's might.
Then the hollow wails began again.
Gritting his teeth, he urged his steed forward, barking an order to his men to follow, whether they held the courage or not. Another clamorous clap resounded, followed yet by another burst of emerald light. But the shrieks were not cut short this time; they simply grew louder and more fierce. As Haren drew closer, he could finally catch a smell other than wet, icy bark and the stench of horses. Sharp and bitter, it overwhelmed his senses and burned at his nostrils. Haren wrinkled his nose, eyes blazing with familiarity and pure, utter fury.
He knew that scent. The scent of magicka.
His head snapped up to take in the scene, already unsheathing his sword as the hunger for battle ravaged his mind.
Just outside the gaping mouth of some nameless cave, there stood a group of cloaked figures, their hoods thrown back to expose sickly grey skin that looked like soot, eyes a burning crimson glow. Magicka flowed from their palms, a dancing flurry of colors across their tattered and burnt fabrics. The landscape around them was a battlefield; snow had melted to expose patches of scorched plants, the magical green fires still crackling angrily, devouring the last of the dead grass. Trees had toppled over, snapped in half by the brute force of a spell, some sweltering with fire.
And there, facing the cloaked men in a gruesome display of awesome power and raging destruction, stood the Altmer, whom Haren had searched for a blighted week. He was thin and tall, head a sleek river of black hair. His clothes-a simpler robe than the jarl had expected-were in tatters as well, charred and burnt around the edges.
In his slimy grasp was Ulfric, the boy looking beaten, bruised, and exhausted, cheek bleeding profoundly from an open wound. He clutched onto his captor in fear, as pale as a ghost, with his silver-blue eyes wide with fright. He looked as if he hadn't eaten in days, and hadn't had a moment's respite. He looked like death turned over, something a child should never have to endure.
Anger boiled in Haren's stomach, so ferocious his horse paced in anxiety. A deep, dark growl bubbled out of his throat as he rose his sword, its metal piercing the air as it screamed for Altmer blood. The elf blinked at the sound, turned, and looked directly at him.
His angular eyes were green, a stark contrast to the blackened night, filled with determination and a certain fierceness that Haren could not quite name. The emerald orbs sharpened once they met the Nordic jarl, coated in something so dark and sinister, they were unreadable. The Altmer's face hardened, lips tightening into a grim line. His grip on Ulfric tightened, and he rose his hand. A flicker of green mist swarmed around the palm, before it suddenly exploded.
Screams echoed around him as Haren's world took the form of a thick, jade cloud, and he roared in fury, the sound echoing throughout the trees.
He would make known to the elf his bloodlust, and thus set the Altmer's fate in stone.
