The great metal doors gave a shuddering groan as they swung open, clattering onto the stone walls and allowing the harsh wintry weather to rush inside the building. A strong breeze swept across the hall, sending papers scattering across the room and books falling to the ground. Servants yelped in alarm, scrambling to shield painstakingly stacked books from Skyrim’s natural brutality. Most of their efforts ended in crushing defeat.
Someone cursed loudly and bellowed: "Close the bloody door!" The order was obliged as guards quickly rushed to close the iron door, heaving with great effort against the strength of the wind. Once the door finally shut, it released an echoing boom that shivered across the hall. The blizzard continued to rage outside, leaving the inside of the building to sound hollow and silent, besides the grumbling of the servants.
Galmar glared at the lad who strut inside, plucking a sheet of parchment from his person, only to ungracefully toss it to the side and fold his beefy arms over his chest. He watched as the young warrior crossed the room in long, confident strides, a boastful sneer on his lips, as he twirled the Jagged Crown on one finger.
"I have the Jagged Crown!" he unhelpfully announced, shaking snow from his armor and hair.
Galmar rose his eyebrows in mock surprise, nodding slowly. "So I see," he rumbled in his deep, bear-like growl. He glowered at the Nord in front of him, eyes burning with irritation.
The warrior remained uncowed, and his grin grew wider as he wagged the Jagged Crown in front of Galmar, almost condescendingly. "I tore through draugr and skeletons to get this bony hat," he said, and the housecarl rose his eyes to the Sovngarde. The gall of this one.
"I think I deserve a reward," the boy added.
The Second-In-Command blinked, looking back at the young Nord in front of him. "Oh?" Galmar responded, displaying his own dark grin. He leaned closer to the boy, enough to allow his breath to swathe over him. He waited for a flash of uncomfortableness to cross the warrior's face before he plucked the Jagged Crown from his grasp and hissed, "How about I don't send your hide to Sovngarde after you did your bloody job? Does that sound agreeable to you?"
The self-proclaimed Dragonborn shuffled back a step. Coughing loudly--perhaps to regain his composure--he thrust his chest out proudly, but not as much as it had once been. A small miracle, that.
“I think that would be agreeable,” he said after a moment, still sounding as unfortunately cocky as he usually did.
Galmar’s eyebrows climbed. “Really? I think so too.”
He thought he heard a snicker slither its way out of a dutiful guard standing watch near the entrance of the hall. When he glared in that direction, the sound ceased, and a group of Nords stiffened their faces considerably. He eyed them for a moment longer before scowling at the boy in front of him.
“Now shove off,” he snarled rather irritably. The Nord responded with rebellious, nearly pompous, slowness, sticking his chin out far too hautily for his tastes.
Now, more rational creatures would have ignored the definitive self-importance this lone boy always expressed in public. Most would leave him be, scoffing and rolling their eyes as he passed by. But because Galmar was not as most people expected, least of all rational, and also because the knotted chin stuck out in the air like a bare branch in the breeze, nearly invitingly, he did the only pleasurable thing that crossed his mind.
Galmar’s knuckles smarted when he hit the boy, but the Dragonborn’s expression did more than enough to pay for any pain he felt. The boy’s eyes bulged widely, his snide expression transforming into ugly horror as a solid fist connected with his jaw. The Dragonborn’s head snapped up, and his body followed with it. He didn’t even have time to yelp before he tumbled to the ground with the grace of a drunken hound, his armor clattering noisily as it connected with the stone floor.
It almost felt as good as punching an Altmer.
Almost, but not quite.
For a moment, silence followed, heads turning to watch the spectacle. Then…
Nords were loud, everyone knew, but the laughter that exploded into the hall was exceptionally cacophonous, even to Galmar, which was a feat of itself. Practically every Stormcloak who served under Galmar had seen the Second-In-Command occasionally beat less respectable Nords into submission, and each occasion offered its own amused chuckles. There was simply something especially pleasant watching the middle-aged warrior throw the almighty Dragonborn onto his pompous backside.
Jubilating, really. The hall shook with guffaw.
Galmar would have smiled, but the sudden appearance of Ulfric Stormcloak sobered him immediately. His leader exited the War Room, looking both noble and rugged in his fur-lined robes, and his proud face was creased with determination. His eyes wandered around the hall curiously, glancing first at Galmar then at the backside of the Dragonborn, who struggled to peel himself from the ground. The edge of Ulfric’s lips twitched--his equivalent to a smile--before his two mountains of eyebrows shifted upwards.
Your handiwork? they translated.
Galmar could have shrugged and muttered that he wasn’t proud to produce such a melon-sized bruise on the boy’s face, but he didn’t want to outright lie to Ulfric. Instead, he faced the boy, who was now upright, and cast him a steely glare. This time, the boy didn’t bother to puff out his chest; he was too busy cradling his jaw. Once he looked into Galmar’s eyes, the message was easily passed to him, and the Dragonborn hurriedly fled the hall, casting venomous looks to those who chuckled albeit too loudly. Once the doors swung shut, and the curses of the servants subsidised once more as they clawed for papers, the Nords still present noticed Ulfric beside Galmar, and swiftly swallowed down their chuckles, returning back to their duties.
Galmar, feeling remarkably cheerful, turned to Ulfric with a completely neutral expression. Ulfric snorted and motioned Galmar into the War Room with a jerk of his head.
“Careful, Galmar,” he rumbled deeply. Galmar could almost feel the Thu’um rumble with him. “More episodes like that and we may not have a Dragonborn anymore.”
“A pity that would be,” the housecarl muttered. “I am certain all of Skyrim would mourn his loss.”
Ulfric did not smile; instead, he grunted, “But at least he gets the job done when it benefits him.” He arched his brow in a way to pose a question that needn’t be spoken. Galmar, remembering the bones in his hand, quickly passed the Jagged Crown to Ulfric.
“Unscathed,” he answered. Ulfric didn’t need Galmar to say it, as he examined it carefully, but the Second-in-Command wanted to assure himself more than anyone that the Dragonborn hadn’t tampered with it. There would be no reason for him to, but Galmar disliked the boy enough to think lowly of him. Maybe it was his ever-present insolence that gave Galmar an ill taste in his mouth.
“Yes,” Ulfric. “Good. This is very good.” Ulfric looked relieved, a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He had stressed to Galmar how important it was for the Imperials never to possess the Crown. It was vital. Of course, it was Galmar who suggested they retrieve it, but the details were irrelevant.
“Are you going to wear it?” Galmar inquired as the leader of the Stormcloaks fondled the headpiece thoughtfully.
Ulfric nodded. “Yes,” he muttered. He did not don it. Perhaps it was respect for those kings of old that wore it. Or it was hesitation, a small stumbling point in Ulfric’s own sight of his leadership--
--No, no, it was definitely respect. Ulfric Stormcloak was too old for self-doubt.
Regardless, Ulfric pushed the crown aside for the moment, instead studying the table-sized map of Skyrim before them. He leaned over the edge, his thick hands curling over the corners of the table, fingers drumming at the wood. “We need to move forward soon,” he grumbled to Galmar, who rose his eyes to the ceiling.
The man never relished his victories, no matter how large they were. It grew occasionally annoying. He secretly longed to join his brothers in the mead halls, guzzling… well, mead after a harsh, but victorious battle (maybe a few barrels more in the face of defeat). The Nord felt very depraved of his drink. Which was the same likeness of a fish deprived of air, but again, details; completely irrelevant.
“Of course,” Galmar answered after a length, banishing the thought of ale for a while longer. He did that a lot now.
He tapped at the map. “I should say Whiterun is a massive priority” He really didn’t need to say why. All of Skyrim knew that Whiterun was one of the major trade links from within the province, besides Riverwood. Ulfric nodded, raising one hand to stroke his beard thoughtfully.
“Yes, that would be most prefered.”
“Really? I think so too.”
The way Ulfric stared at him, he could tell he was not as amused as Galmar.
I'm not accustomed to writing humorous pieces in a story, so I post this in trepidation. I leave the overall opinion of it in the hands of my readers.
Comments
Very descriptive. I look forward to more.